by Donald Bain
. . . Serve one hundred thirty meals. You ordered a kosher meal? Gee, the caterer didn’t put one on board. (Should we tell the next passenger who ordered a special meal that the airline never delivers on those orders? Should we simply make up our own kosher meal for the next passenger? We’ve done both.) We’re sorry the steak isn’t rare enough. It’s a shame you don’t like bacon crumbs on the salad. We’re sorry, we’re sorry, we’re sorry. Our legs are beginning to feel it now, the running up and down, the bending, the apologizing, the rat race.
. . . Coming up are one hundred thirty desserts. Don’t yell at us because the ice cream is too frozen to push your spoon through. I’ll bet your mother did make better apple pie.
. . . After-dinner drinks now. We’re still pouring wine from dinner. Some are getting drunk now. And some of those are getting obnoxious.
. . . You’re too cold? We’ll make you warmer. Too warm, now? We’ll make you cooler. Sorry, but we don’t carry Downbeat. No, I won’t go to bed with you. Yes, I will go to bed with you. We’re really tired now. We’ve run up and down getting you water, matches, cigarettes, magazines, Kleenex, pillows, blankets, writing paper, telegram blanks, postcards, the typewriter, the razor, and anything else you might want—within reason. No, even outside of reason.
. . . There’s San Francisco below us. And we know what you’re all thinking as you file off the airplane past us. Who, what, why, when, where are we going to swing tonight? Yes, sir, here we are, those swingers of the sky, about to tear up hilly old San Fran and have an orgy on a houseboat in Sausalito and drink ourselves silly and still show up tomorrow morning with our smiles, hair, and uniforms in place, sans wrinkles and ready to serve you in the best tradition of our airline.
Well, you know, you’re not altogether wrong.
We check out of the airport about five, reach downtown San Francisco at six, take a shower, put our hair up, think, boy, this is one night I’m going to do nothing but sleep. It’s shut-eye from now until I’m called for the 8:30 A.M. flight back tomorrow. Nothing will get me out of bed. Nothing.
The only trouble is that in about ten minutes the phone rings. It’s Susie or Grace or Mark or Phil—one of our pals from this flight or other flights. “Hi, Trudy, hi Rachel! C’mon, there’s a party in room 1026 and then we’re going down to the wharf.” I say I’m too tired. Rachel says she’s too tired. We’re both too tired. But while we’re protesting, we’re already pulling the rollers out of our hair and reaching for our shoes. “Come on, Rachel,” I say, “let’s go!” And we’re off to a big night in San Francisco.
Most of our layovers now are only eighteen to twenty-four hours. In the past when planes were slower we often stayed in a place for forty-eight hours or more. Then we have more time to sightsee and get to know a city. But even with lots of time, stewardesses aren’t much for visiting museums and trotting around to historic sights. The museum stuff that I tell Aunt Laconia I usually get from travel booklets. She likes so much to hear me talk about culture. I always play down the nightspots; she isn’t very big in that department. But stewardesses are.
Here, then, is a stew’s-eye view of some of the livelier towns in the U.S.A.
San Francisco: Just the simple act of taking a walk can be an enjoyable experience in San Francisco, with its hills and white buildings and cool-wet bay breeze. The night life is the best, although all the topless craze of late seems to have caused some confusion in the minds of San Fran’s eligible dates. We love dating there. We love a drink at the Top of the Mark. We love listening to jazz at the Matador or Jazz Workshop. But we don’t love going to watch some Iowa farm girl flop her silicone breasts around on the top of the bar. As they say at county fair girlie shows, “Ladies free ’cause there’s nothin’ inside you ain’t seen before.” But, topless or not, San Francisco will always reign supreme.
Boston: Boston is a nice city. And it has so many nice, eligible college men. It does help your cause if you’re at all conversant with urban renewal and local politics, two apparent running manias with Bostonians. We always manage to find time for a ride on the swan boats on the Common; beer, beans, and sandwiches in Harvard Square; and maybe even a little sailing on the Charles. Most stewardesses try for at least a year’s duty in Boston. All those educated, potential lifelong mates are a pretty potent motivation.
Miami: Never a dull moment in Miami, unless you’re looking for lazy, dull moments under the sun. The beach in Miami is relaxing, and you can squander away your time watching the beach boys flex or the bar girls outflex the beach boys. All that crystal-blue water and towering white cloud formations can make you wish you didn’t have to leave. You might even bump into Jackie Gleason on the golf course, which can be a massive experience.
Dallas: We’ll include Houston, too. That’s because this Texas haven for humidity holds a special spot in my heart. We were flying a Miami-New York trip when I started feeling stomach pains. They got worse, and pretty soon I was doubled over in the aisle, passengers and fellow stew hovering around me. It was my appendix—burst. We detoured quickly to Houston where an ambulance whisked me away to the hospital. Once the pain was gone, I began to wonder how mad all those passengers were about having to go to New York via Houston. But then the get-well cards started to pour in from over half the passengers and I stopped worrying. The traveling public does have a heart.
In Dallas, the stewardess sport is to cruise the streets in search of young oil tycoons. Once you’ve exhausted that possibility, you go after old oil tycoons. Failing all chance at an oil windfall, you can daydream over the Chinese junks or “his ’n’ her” bathtubs at Neiman Marcus and wish there was an oil tycoon to . . . Well, you know.
Chicago: The local gals seem unusually jealous of all the laying-over stewardesses in their windy city, and manage to keep prize males out of sight and reach. This is a shame because Chicago is such a ball to visit with all the pub crawling, especially in the winter when it’s too cold to do much else but pub crawl. Maybe our union can negotiate a truce with Chicago’s female population. On second thought, our union doesn’t seem to have any negotiator that hardfisted to pull off that trick. We’ll just have to keep pub crawling in search of some escaped males. Luck to us.
St. Louis: For some natural reason, winters are colder and summers hotter in St. Louis than anywhere else. But in the spring and fall, St. Louis offers a great deal to do and see. In your plaintive moments, you can sit and wait for some hotshot pilot to fly a 707 under the newly completed Gateway to the West arch.
Atlanta: Once you’ve found the inner circle, you can find a swinging time in Atlanta. For some reason, Atlanta likes stewardesses. A lot of bars cater to us, and one little favorite spot, Kitten’s Korner, is fast to put it on the house for us. It’s definitely our favorite house in Atlanta.
Cleveland: For all that smoke and water pollution, Cleveland has its charms. Besides, with a good crew, we can have fun anywhere, even in a steel mill.
Detroit: They make cars in Detroit, and men make cars. Detroit has an ample male population who know where the action is and who are willing to spend money to make it happen. We like Detroit.
Los Angeles: Los Angeles is a thing all to itself. It’s great and it’s horrible. Some of the greatest times we’ve had occurred in Los Angeles. When those memorable times weren’t happening, we hated LA. It’s just one of those places, we guess.
Memphis and Nashville: If you like Dixieland Jazz, and we do, you’ll like these two Southern cities.
Montreal: We date mounties in Montreal and have parties in cabins on the river. Sometimes our dates take us for rides in their canoes, which is fun and, due to the structural design of a canoe, provides relative protection from too vigorous advances. It’s also a drag if you’re looking for vigorous advances. Or wet.
Although we work for a domestic airline, we have plenty of chances to see the world. Through exchanges with other airlines, we can spend a weekend in London for $39. We can go to Paris for less than $50. Everywhere we get 75 p
ercent off at hotels and we pick up all kinds of free passes. I spent four days in Paris that I’ll never forget. I adore Hawaii. The stews there spend a lot of time in Don Ho’s famous nightclub. I once flew from Miami to Lima, Peru, for a weekend and still had change from a $20 bill when I returned.
Aunt Laconia doesn’t believe me when I tell her that I once took off from Atlanta, went to Chicago and on to Los Angeles to have a drink with some friends. I came back the same way, took a quick shower and was off on a working flight to New York. A couple of days later a friend called and said, “I was trying to get you Tuesday night. Where were you?”
“Tuesday . . . Tuesday,” I said, “let me think a moment. Was that the night I went to the movies? Oh, no. Tuesday I was having a drink in LA.”
CHAPTER VIII
“You Must Meet So Many Interesting Men, My Dear”
My same Aunt Laconia will occasionally interrupt my tales of travel to say, “You must meet so many interesting men, my dear.” This is her shy, sly way of prying into the sex in my life. I do not try to let her down when it comes to my romantic interests. But naturally, I don’t mention all the men in my life. I don’t think Aunt Laconia really wants to hear the gory details. Then again, maybe she does. Still I never take a chance with the whole truth. Even when I confine my tales to storybook young college men who share ice-cream sodas with me through two straws, she asks with a sweet and hopeful smile on her face, “Is he the one?”
“I don’t think so, Aunt Laconia, maybe next year.”
I’ve debated often whether to tell Aunt Laconia about Chuck. She’s a pretty shrewd old gal and if I started talking I’m sure she’d sense that this one is more serious than all the others. She’s bound then, one way or another, to tell my parents. And after that on every visit home they’d all be staring at the fourth finger on my left hand and making not-so-gentle hints. I’ve decided to leave that part of my life a closed book as far as my family is concerned.
I didn’t see Chuck for about four months after I got to New York. I thought about him a lot. A million different nights I said to Rachel, “What do you think? Will I hear from him?”
She had unshakable confidence that Chuck would reappear on the scene in a big way. “Give him time,” she assured me. “He’ll turn up.”
Several times I spotted his name on crew lists, so I knew he’d been in and out of New York. It was a crisp early fall day and I was alone in the apartment when the phone rang. “Are you wearing your jeans?” a man’s voice asked.
“Sure. Who is this?” I asked.
“Good. I’ll pick you up in half an hour. On my motorbike. We’ll go for a ride.”
“Who is it?”
“Why, Trudy, I’m surprised. I thought you Texans were friendlier. It’s Chuck.” And he hung up.
He must have called from around the corner because he was at the door in a couple of minutes. He was wearing boots, dungarees, an old orange flight jacket, and a crash helmet. He swept me into an enormous kiss that lasted nearly forever, but wasn’t half long enough, and then he dropped down onto the sofa. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded. “Pin a pair of wings on a girl like you and you disappear. Did you miss me?”
You must know by now that I’m not often at a loss for words, but I was tongue-tied. “Yes, I mean I was here . . . in New York . . . Where . . .”
“Forget it,” he said. “Let’s go.”
His motorbike was parked just outside our building. He handed me his helmet and showed me how to strap it on. “We’ll have to get you one of these things,” he said. “This time you’ll have to wear mine. You sit there.” He pointed to the small rear saddle. “And hold on here.” He arranged my hands around his waist. “Hold tight. We’re blasting off.” It wasn’t a very big scooter, but it made a takeoff sound like a 707.
“Where’re we going?” I shouted into his ear as the wind rushed by. The automobiles on both sides of us were much too close for comfort. We missed pedestrians by mere inches. But I could sense his sure command of the vehicle and a great feeling of exhilaration began to take hold of me. We sped up to Radio City, wove in and out of the shopping crowds on Fifth Avenue, zoomed over to the East River Drive, hurtled along the river to an ancient, decaying wooden wharf, way downtown among the skyscrapers where old men were fishing in the afternoon sun. We parked the bike, sat on a splintery log, and talked. That is to say Chuck talked. I was still too dazzled to find my tongue and every time I looked into those blue eyes of his I fell apart all over again.
He talked about his special assignment in California. He’d been on loan from the airline to a plane designer working on experimental new planes. That had been exciting but his real love was flying and he was happy now to be back on the line. He wanted to know everything that had happened to me since my first day as stewardess. I told him about that crazy first flight and the lady stuck in the john. I told him about other flights and about people I’d met, about Rachel and Betty and the others in our class. Once I got started talking, I could hardly stop. The words just poured out. We jabbered away on that dock until the wind rose and it turned cold.
“C’mon, I’ll take you home,” he said. “You can change your clothes and we’ll do the town tonight.”
Rachel was in the apartment when we got there. “Hi,” she said to Chuck, as casually as if she’d seen him the day before. “What’ll you drink?” She fed him bourbon while I went to dress. When I came out of the shower, Chuck was gone and Rachel was packing her overnight bag. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Chuck’s gone to change. He’s staying with a friend a couple of blocks away. He’ll be right back.”
“What are you doing with that bag?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Rachel asked, all innocence. “I’m going to Great Neck for a couple of days to visit the Morales’.” Rachel had an admirer who was a metallurgist from Colombia, South America. Through him she’d met a whole crowd of wealthy Latin Americans. She hadn’t said a word about going to see the Morales’. I was sure she didn’t really have a date with them.
Well, I didn’t tell Aunt Laconia about the next two days. Not that she wouldn’t have liked to hear. But there are some things a girl can’t tell—even to her best friend. I didn’t tell Rachel much either. Not when it’s so real and important, you don’t go yakking away.
“Is it the real thing?” Rachel asked two days later when Chuck had collected the last of his socks and shirts and Rachel had unpacked her overnight bag.
“Well, yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s big with us all right, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But we’re not going to do anything about it. Not now, anyway.”
“What do you mean? You meet Mr. Right. Then you kiss him good-bye. Why? He isn’t married or anything, is he?”
“No, but he’s been married and that’s the problem.”
It was kind of hard to explain because it wasn’t altogether clear in my mind. But one thing was sure. Chuck believed in marriage more fully and intensely than any man I’d ever met. He had a kind of holy feeling about marriage. It had to be right and it had to be forever. He’d married several years earlier a girl from his hometown who couldn’t take the life of a flyer’s wife. Marian couldn’t stand the separations and the worry. After six months she’d given him an ultimatum. He’d have to give up flying or she’d leave. He couldn’t stop flying. It was all the world to him. Marian got a divorce.
Chuck wasn’t going to let that happen to him again, ever. For a couple of years, ever since his divorce, he’d avoided entanglements, refused to get serious with any girl. He was still avoiding entanglements. “Trudy,” he’d said, “I have a feeling it may be us someday, you and me. But if it is, it has to last as long as we do. I won’t settle for anything less. You’re just beginning. You’ve got a million places to go and a zillion guys to meet before you’re ready to settle down. You may not be ready for years. I’m not going to hurry you. Take your
time. Get all your living done. I’ll be around. You’ll be hearing from me.” He ruffled my hair once more. Kissed me again, picked up his bag, and a few minutes later I heard the zoom of his bike.
So I didn’t tell Aunt Laconia about Chuck.
Instead I told her about handcuffed prisoners we’ve had on board, political bigwigs, Don Juans, men who say funny things. There was the Catholic priest and the Seventh-Day Adventist minister sitting together on one flight. The priest ordered a Scotch and water. The minister said, “I’d rather commit adultery than drink.”
The priest looked up at me and said, “I didn’t know I had a choice today.” That was a fun trip.
With some hesitation I told about the stewardess who dated a photographer and began posing in the nude for him. On one of her flights the captain buzzed for her. He pointed to the centerfold photograph in a cheap men’s magazine where she saw herself displayed in all her natural skin. “Anyone you know?” the captain asked jovially. The poor girl gave the photographer the gate.
I gave Aunt Laconia an edited version of my encounter with Mr. Relick. I met him during my one and only flight to Mexico City. I was on reserve and pulled this flight when one of the regular girls became ill. I was pleased with the prospect; I hadn’t the needed seniority to bid successfully for the Mexico City run, and Rachel’s envy enhanced the windfall.
It was a wonderful trip down. The airline created a Mexican fiesta mood for the passengers, and everyone seemed exceptionally cheerful. We spent the night in Mexico City. The thrill of being in a foreign country buoyed me after the long flight. The crew, regulars on the Mexico run, took me everywhere, showed me everything, and I fell into bed at three in the morning with a head full of magnifico, bueno si-si, and buenas noches. The first officer made a mild overture about spending the night, but took my polite negative response calmly.
