by Donald Bain
She nervously pranced up the aisle, fluffing her dark hair and straightening her skirt. The flight engineer patted her fanny as she slid by him, a gesture Rachel assumed was normal cockpit procedure. Besides, she wasn’t about to be labeled a square so early in the game. She stood silently, in back of the captain’s right ear, his head just reaching her chest.
“Rachel,” the captain said with a smile as he turned to show his wrinkled profile, a must for all captains, “we seem to be having trouble with the flushing apparatus in the lavs.”
What could she say.
“Yes, sir.”
“It looks as though we’ll have to go to manual flushing techniques this trip,” he continued, frowning to indicate the gravity of the situation.
Rachel quickly flipped back through her mental file of procedures and could remember nothing of a manual flushing problem. But that didn’t prove a thing. Would a captain lie about something like this?
“We’re very busy up forward here, as you can well imagine, Rachel. I’m placing you in complete charge of the manual flushing procedure. That little button in front of me, the one farthest away, activates the manual flushing operation. Every twenty minutes, I want you to come forward to the cockpit and flip that button. You’ll flip it and hold it for forty-five seconds. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better give it a try now, Rachel.”
The only way Rachel could reach the button was to lean over the top of the captain’s head. She strained to get her finger to the switch, her breasts melting comfortably around the captain’s ears. Finally, after much squirming, she managed to reach the button and flip it.
“Hold it steady for forty-five seconds,” the captain commanded, his head rigid back against her bosom.
Rachel started to sweat as she kept her finger on the switch. She kept shifting her weight from foot to foot, each movement rearranging her breasts on the captain’s head and neck.
“Manual flushing completed,” snapped the copilot in crisp military tones.
“Roger,” the captain confirmed.
“Whew,” Rachel sighed.
“See you in twenty minutes, Rachel.”
Most new stewardesses are put through the manual flushing routine. Some come back to the galley cursing the captain. Some, embarrassed, say nothing. Some can’t wait for the twenty minutes to pass. Good thing all Rachel’s attitude was that it could have been worse.
Another favorite trick is to hoist a new stewardess up into the overhead coatrack before passengers have begun to come aboard. The crew then sits and watches the girl try valiantly to get down, tight skirt and all.
We give it back at times to the cockpit crew. A copilot (commonly called a first officer on most airlines) or flight engineer making his first flight as a crew member with the airline can look forward to having his sleeves sewn shut, his cap insignia turned upside down, and his coffee served in one of those dime-store dribble cups.
Captain Smyth was a fine pilot, one of the airlines best. He was also a religious fanatic. When he wasn’t pushing a 707 around at thirty thousand feet, he was guiding his own congregation of six hundred people in a church he founded about ten years ago. It had no affiliation with any recognized religious order.
Captain Smyth was a nice guy to fly with. He was always polite to his stewardesses and would tolerate no dirty talk in his cockpit. Many cockpit crew members refused to fly with him. They took offense at his pious approach to flying. But there were always a few first officers and flight engineers who held similarly strong religious beliefs, and when they’d get together on a particular flight, we’d term the cockpit “Boeing’s Basilica.”
If you flew often enough with Smyth, you soon found yourself turning to him for fatherly advice. In effect, he’d set up his own flying confessional. And it’s amazing how many girls took advantage of his religious leanings.
One night in the crew motel in New Orleans, a pretty brunette took her tale of woe to Captain Smyth’s room. It seems she’d become deeply involved with a married passenger and his marriage was threatened as a result. She told our self-ordained captain the entire story and waited for his words of wisdom.
“I want you to take off your clothing and lie on the floor,” were his initial words of advice. “You must lie there awake all night and pray to the spiritual bodies of the universe that they may wipe you clean of this sin.”
“You’re joking?”
“Joking? Hardly. Do as I say and I’ll remain at your side for the entire night, if need be. You can gain through my strength.”
Naturally, the story got around. And that ended any evangelism as far as Captain Smyth and his girls were concerned. He’s still a fine pilot, but the stewardesses working his flights now confine their problem-telling to a psychiatrist boyfriend or roommate.
At times captains can be trouble for a stewardess, even though their intentions are honorable.
Marge Bascom was a striking blonde girl who had been with the airline for over two years. She had a particular friendship with a veteran captain that, she claimed, never went beyond the platonic stage. She was a pretty open gal, and there was no reason to disbelieve her.
Her trouble with this captain came after a delayed flight into Kennedy from El Paso. They finally arrived in New York at 1:30 A.M., and the captain offered to see Marge home to her apartment in Manhattan. His wife was away and he thought he’d stay in town rather than trek home to Westchester.
They took a cab into the city and went up to Marge’s apartment. Her roommates were out of town on layovers. When she offered to make him a drink, he accepted, and settled down on the couch as she prepared martinis in the kitchen.
“Mind if I change into civies?” he yelled through the archway.
“Be my guest,” she answered.
“Give me a minute out here before you pop out,” he warned. (It was platonic.)
“Take your time.”
This captain, with the honorable intentions, was down to his shorts and T-shirt when a key turned in the front door and a tall, young man stepped into the foyer.
“What the hell?” he gasped.
“Who are you?” the captain asked, a little dismayed by his state of undress.
“Marge,” the young man shouted, storming past the captain into the kitchen.
Zap, smack, whop came from the kitchen and the young man tore out of the room.
“You bastard,” he hissed at the captain who was racing to get dressed. “You dirty bastard.” With that, the young man made his exit with a flair of slammed doors and profanity.
Marge emerged from the kitchen holding her mouth. A thin line of blood trickled from its corner and her eye was beginning to puff.
“What is this?” the captain asked as he went to help her.
“That was my fiancé,” she said. They never did make up, and Marge is still flying the line looking for another intended.
There was a time when a crew could stay together as a working unit. The airline allowed the captain, first officer, flight engineer, navigator, and stewardesses to bid as a unit for various trips, and it wasn’t uncommon to find a congenial group flying together for a year or more.
But those days are over. And ironically, the change was brought about by ex-stewardesses who married captains as the result of this cozy situation.
Every airline has an organization of ex-stewardesses who band together to rehash old stories and aid their former airline in matters of policy and publicity. In reality, the girls primarily use the organization to maintain the illusion of still being glamorous stewardesses. It’s an organization Rachel and I have pledged to each other to avoid at all costs when our flying days are over.
But they’re an influential group of women, and when they decide to put the pressure on a given airline, their collective voices are listened to. That’s what happened to the permanent crew situation. Many, or perhaps most, of these ex-stewardesses married crew members whom they got to know quite well when they were flying a
s a team. Many of them managed to steal captains from spouses of long standing.
Once they won their Flash Gordon from the other gal, they were put in her shoes. And they didn’t like it. So, using the power they had, they convinced their airline that crews should not be allowed to fly together for any extended period of time. They won. Their victory spread to other airlines and pretty soon you couldn’t fly with that great crew any longer. The silly thing is that this maneuver didn’t really accomplish a thing. If a husband is going to stray, he’ll do it no matter how new his crew is to him. But the girls feel more certain in their own hearts that they’ve ensured a long and happy marriage. Maybe we’ll react the same way when we’re married, grounded, and scared of losing our hero. We hope not.
Of course, even with the breakup of permanent crews, it’s still possible to fly with a particular favorite pilot. Every crew member works on a bid system when it comes to receiving monthly assignments. The stewardess bid results come out before the cockpit crew results. If a captain has something going with you, he can usually, if he has the needed years of seniority, bid for those trips you’ve been awarded. But this situation can lead to great sadness.
A stewardess with another airline was madly in love with a handsome captain. They’d carried on an affair for six months, and he’d always bid for and receive most of her trips.
The sadness came one day in flight operations. She hurried up to him with the glad news, “I got San Francisco again, Harry. You’ll have no trouble getting it, too.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, Lucia, but I got stuck with Buffalo and Toronto. What a rotten break.”
“Buffalo and Toronto? You’ve got enough seniority to get any trip you want. I can’t believe you’d lose out and end up with those dog runs.”
“I tried, Lucia, I really tried. I’m sorry.” With those words of apology, Harry walked away to the hellish fate of a Buffalo nonstop.
But Lucia wasn’t about to take this turn of events without a little checking. She slithered down to the departure gate and watched Harry climb on board with a new stewardess, who was sort of a cross between Sophia Loren and Gidget. It was obvious that Harry decided to fly the milk runs because they were the only ones the new gal could bid and win. Lucia learned there and then that a sure tip-off of a dying romance between senior captain and stew is when he suddenly becomes junior again, both in seniority and outlook.
Most crews will get together after a flight for a dip in the motel pool. It makes no difference what the hour is, and 2 or 3 A.M. swims are common. We all splashed into the pool this particular night in Miami with the exception of our captain, who begged off without any specific reason. We were having a wonderful time in the cool water when he finally did appear and ran up on the edge of the high board. He perched there, minus blue serge uniform and wings, and sprang up and down in readiness for a swan dive. Oh, yes—he was also minus his swim trunks.
There he was, our leader, posed proudly like an out-of-shape statue in all his natural glory. Occasional spotlights around the pool perimeter reflected off the water to illuminate his splendor. Then, with a healthy Tarzan scream, he leaped into the water to join us.
We all paddled around for an hour. Our captain wasn’t drunk from all we could ascertain. It was a simple matter of flying fatigue.
“Roll me in the clover and do it again,” he sang as he lazily paddled back and forth across the pool. His singing brought a few complaints from sleeping guests at the motel, and the manager, as understanding as he was with airline crews, came out and asked us to leave the pool. We did, forming a circle around our nude captain.
We asked him about it the next morning at breakfast and he mumbled something about the threat of the H-bomb and starving children and other vague references. We didn’t press the issue, and his subsequent dips in the many pools we frequent were always with trunks.
There are so many stories about captains. Some are true, some are almost true. Many are simply too grotesque and sordid to write about. In their professional role of commander of a giant commercial aircraft, they’re fine, expert professionals performing a very responsible job. Passengers seldom have to worry about their captain. Stewardesses are the ones who sometimes worry.
Rachel has a favorite captain story. One wintry night there were about ten stews sitting on the floor in our apartment drinking red wine, listening to Oscar Peterson records, and swapping girl talk. We went through quite a bit of wine that night and the competitive spirit became keen. Each girl tried to top the others. The stories became more and more personal and, I suspect now as I look back, less and less truthful. After a while there was a kind of lull. I turned to Rachel, “You’ve been very quiet over there. Haven’t you been raped lately or anything?”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .”
All Rachel needs is one prod and there’s no guessing what’ll come next.
“C’mon, tell us. What happened?” the girls begged
“I never told you about Louis Lamb, did I?” Rachel settled herself against a pile of cushions. “You know, the big-deal captain who thinks he’s God’s gift? I wasn’t going to tell anybody, I mean, it’s kind of sick. Pour me another glass.” I did.
“Well, I was working some trips with him couple of months ago and we laid over in Detroit. I kind of liked him. He’s a good-looking guy, you have to admit that. So he took me out and we drank a lot and pretty soon he had me talked into staying with him. We went back to his room and after a while he went into the john and I got undressed and waited under the sheets. It took him forever to do whatever he was doing. And then . . . Oh, pour me another wine, huh?”
“C’mon, get to the point,” I said.
“Yeah, let’s hear it,” the others chorused.
“OK. So I’m in bed and all of a sudden the john door opens and out he comes, not a stitch on, and he’s got his arms out at his side, like wings on an airplane. And he starts running around the room and dipping from side to side and making motor sounds, like Rrrrrrrrrrrr. I swear he was nuts, really nuts. All over that damn room and I sat up and boy, I was scared. Then all of a sudden he zoomed at the bed, Rrrrrrrrrrrr, and he said, ‘OK, baby! Maybe you’ve had it from the best. But you’ve never been screwed by a 707.’ I’m not kidding, girls. That’s what he said. Boy, did I get out of there fast. I hate to look like a kid, but I’d just as soon have it like I’ve always had it. I guess I’m just a country girl at heart.”
We all laughed for at least twenty minutes. There were girls sprawled all over the floor, laughing like crazy. The next morning I said to Rachel, “Come clean. That Louis Lamb story. Did it really happen?”
Rachel looked at me, her brown eyes round as searchlights. “Why, Trudy, would I lie to you? Ever?”
“I don’t think you’d lie to me. But you could have been putting those girls on last night. Did it happen?”
“Like I said.” She put her arms out and went, “Rrrrrrrrrr.”
I started laughing all over again. There’s no telling with Rachel. But this I do know: captains can be a strange breed.
CHAPTER VII
“You Must See So Many Interesting Places, My Dear”
My visits back to Amarillo always take a particularly pleasant turn when I stop to see my Aunt Laconia, a fascinating person, and the only family member pleased with my stewardess career. Aunt Laconia is a librarian and naturally reads a lot, mostly about places she’s never been. Aunt Laconia should have been a stewardess. She was a beautiful girl in her youth.
When I visit her, we usually pass the first ten minutes with general chitchat about Amarillo, the family, and local gossip. Then, when it’s time for tales of my travels, Aunt Laconia begins with, “You must see so many interesting places, my dear.”
Before I begin my travelogues for Aunt Laconia I have to give her a careful rundown of a day in the life of a stewardess. Otherwise, she’d think we’re fresh as a daisy and raring to go the minute we hit a new town. We like to go all right. Stewardesses are young and swing
ers and we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on our sleep when we’re older and grounded. But even with all the enthusiasm in the world on our side, there are times when we’re simply too bushed to do the hot spots.
You, the carefree passenger, may snooze your way from New York to San Francisco or dip into a light novel or watch a shoot-’em-up movie. Meanwhile, here are a couple of things that we’re doing:
Our flight leaves at two in the afternoon. We check in at operations at one and hustle down to the airplane. We go through all the setting up and you, our paying customers, come on board. There are one hundred thirty of you.
Flight time is about five hours. And here’s how we spend it.
. . . We prepare and serve two hundred sixty diverse drinks, all from the liquor cart that was designed to fit in the aisle, not to function as an effective bar-on-wheels. One of you becomes irate because we don’t serve mint juleps. It’s not our fault. Nor is it when the premixed martini isn’t dry enough. And we’re sorry we hit that turbulence that caused us to spill ginger ale on your only suit.
. . . Now come one hundred thirty hot towels. We explain to eighty passengers what to do with them. And our hands become TV-rough and red from handling them.
. . . Collect the towels. Set up one hundred thirty trays. No, we don’t have special trays for children. No, we don’t have peanut butter and jelly on board. No, you don’t have to eat. Yes, if you’re going to eat, you have to do it now. No, you can’t have another drink. No, we do not have Playboy on board (men always ask that and wait for our reaction. It’s our least favorite line and we wish they’d stop).
