by Joe Thomas
By the time the credits rolled I felt different. Maybe it really was the wine. The flight attendant came by smiling and picking up trays, “Coffee?”
“I’m good. Can I have another glass of wine?”
“Coming right up.”
When she pushed the cart passed my row I got up from my seat to use the lavatory. Confidence ran through my veins while wine ran through my bladder. The release of the fear was thrilling. If knowledge was power than this knowledge made me Wonder Woman. The only outcome to ruin my euphoria would be to end up like the FedEx airplane in Castaway. I quickly flushed that thought down the toilet. I came out of the lavatory and stopped at Matt’s row and sat down in the aisle seat. My excitement was electrifying, “Hey Schmoopie. What’s up?” I didn’t let him answer, “I just watched this awesome show about airplanes. The guy talked about all these different sounds and what they mean. I feel great.” The flight attendant found me and handed me my glass of wine. “I’m not afraid to fly anymore.”
Matt took a sip of beer, “Really? That’s great babe.” He probably thought I was on my seventh glass of white instead of my third. He took another sip, “Good for you.”
“I’m serious, Schmoopie. I’m over my fear.” The freedom to fly was an added bonus I never expected to receive with my purchased ticket. Death, that’s what I expected.
A week later, on our flight back home, the airplane was full with no option to move and stretch out in our own rows. Matt noticed I was calmer during take off. No screaming. No crying out for help from the flight attendants. No rocking back and forth.
He looked over at me after the wheels went up, “You did great. Are you scared?”
Flipping through the onboard magazine I smiled. “Not really. I’m good.” No sooner did I say that did we hit slight turbulence and I grabbed his leg. He smiled.
Laughing out loud I added, “I said I’m good. I didn’t say I was cured.”
Eight months later I started training to become a flight attendant.
Fat Boy|Skinny Airplane
If you have ever questioned your weight and wondered about curbing your calories, my suggestion is to apply, interview, and get hired as a flight attendant, then report for training. Your excitement over being hired and making it through the strenuous interview process will quickly vanish the moment you arrive at the training center. I know that female flight attendants from the 1960’s and 1970’s followed strict guidelines when they took jobs as flight attendants. They had to weigh in, be a certain height, were not allowed to get married, and hell—if they got pregnant—they better have an extra hanger in their suitcase.
I figured things had changed. As long as my hips didn’t get stuck between the row of seats while I walked down the aisle everything would work out. My size wouldn’t matter with my fellow trainees as long as I was friendly. I was incorrect. After watching all the skinny, anorexic, gay flight attendants sashay into the auditorium on the first day of training I prayed ipecac was one of my required items. And fen-phen.
In my defense, I wasn’t a sea cow when I started training. I had a decent sized gut and tits big enough for toddlers to grab onto as flotation devices, but I wasn’t fat. I was a husky bear—loved by many. In this group of queens it was different. I was the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. This was nothing new to me. Keeping my weight down has always been challenging. Up. Down. Up. Down. Like a boy scout in the backseat of his pack leader’s pre-owned minivan. When I was growing up in Hartford, Connecticut, in a middle class neighborhood, my classmates tormented me with every kind of name. After these assholes ran out of names, they created new ones. Their favorite, which happened to be my least favorite, was Joebosity.
The moment a bully uttered that insult, usually in front of a large group in the lunchroom, it sent me into a tearful frenzy.
“Joebosity. Joebosity.”
“Leave me alone!” I’d yell while eating my tasteless school lunch, “Why do you call me that? I’m not fat.”
“You are too, Joebosity. You’re a fat fuck.” They all started in at the circular lunch table across from me, “Joebosity. Joebosity. Joebosity!” These bullies chanted and laughed until I ran out of the cafeteria and straight to the nurse’s office to fake an illness.
The nurse was no help, “You don’t have a fever. I can’t send you home.”
“I feel terrible. Just call my mom, she’ll come get me. Please.”
Wiping my saliva off the thermometer and placing it back in her desk, “Why don’t you just lay down in the back room on one of the cots for 15 minutes and see how you feel.”
I hated her. I doubt she was a real nurse anyway. To me she was just a bitch who was in cahoots with the bullies. The moment I lay down on the cot I knew what to do. My fingers were down my throat quicker than Karen Carpenter. It was rare anything erupted out of me and most of the time the nurse sent me back to class to finish the day being taunted. Somedays I found myself hiding in the restroom sobbing in a stall until one of the teachers discovered me. During my entire junior high experience I probably finished three lunches. I had no idea their bullying and ridicule was an early phase of Jenny Craig.
These asshole kids were brutal and had no qualms about telling me that I was fat, ugly, and should go outside in the school yard and kill myself. When I was in the eighth grade my friend Lacy enjoyed drawing whales on the blackboard and writing my name next to it. With friends like that you can imagine my enemies. After being found and thrown out of the restroom, I’d walk back into the classroom with my head hung low while my classmates pointed at the outline of Moby Dick on the blackboard while bursting into uncontrollable laughter. It was a wonder I never hung myself in the closet. Probably because it had low ceilings and wasn’t a walk-in. I also never wanted to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were upsetting me. I’d try and ignore their words because, as we all know, words are simply that—words—and they only hurt us if we allow them to. I handled all words flung at me. I was strong and tough. These childhood bullies are the reason I dislike children today. Kids are assholes and have been ever since I was one of them. If you can’t trust your own kind, you are really shit out of luck.
Flight attendant training was no different. It was like junior high school but with alcoholic adults. I was quickly transported back to 1985, but instead of parachute pants and big hair, I was surrounded by skinny jeans and dirty looks. I fought back the urge to run home to Matt, eat a bag of Doritos, and damn them all to gay hell—which is just like normal hell but with no PrEP and endless football on Logo.
I knew I had to slim down but it was a struggle. I will not put all the blame on my husband but he did make it difficult whenever I decided to lose weight. When I hinted the need to drop a few pounds he instantly whipped up a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies that would put Great American Cookies out of business. This happened at least once a day.
Determined to go for a run, I’d be ready to leave the house until I stepped into the kitchen to find Matt standing there with freshly baked cookies,“When did you make cookies?”
“Last night while you were sleeping.”
“You made cookies while I was sleeping?” I asked.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
Who had time for a run when there were moist chewy chocolate chip cookies the size of your hand waiting to be devoured. “I’m gonna have one for breakfast.”
“Enjoy.”
It worked in his favor almost every time. I know what you are thinking and you can stop right there—Matt is not a feeder. He enjoys feeding himself before anyone else. This sly chocolate cookie move was his way of keeping me stocky enough so he could continue rubbing my belly like his personal stuffed teddy bear. I gave in easily. That’s love. I am no gainer. I am just a chubby bitch who enjoys the occasional chocolate chip cookie for breakfast over running three miles in the Florida heat.
During our first day orientation the instructors scheduled mini breaks throughout the day so we could stretch our legs. Mo
st of us ran to the lobby to make phone calls or use the restroom. The smokers made a mad dash outside to inhale cancer. I scanned the auditorium for body types equivalent to mine. There had to be someone in the group my size, or if I was really lucky, bigger. My first scan proved successful as my eyes settled on Paul Foley leaning against the wall talking to a fellow new hire. Paul was put together and carried himself well. He projected a confidence that I wished was sold on a shelf at Target. You could tell from across the room that Paul did not give a damn what people thought of him. Paul was hefty and accepted it. He owned his weight, something I could never see myself doing. I put all my weight on credit, with the expectation to eventually pay it off in full. Paul and I had to be friends, but what was the best way to approach him without hurting his feelings? I decided honesty was the best way to see this through—break the ice the way I normally do with strangers—rip off the Band-Aid and see how it goes.
I scooted down the row, squeezing passed a few of people, and popped out at the other end. Paul continued chatting with this skinny nerdy trainee when I interrupted, “Hey. My name is Joe.”
“Hey brother, I’m Paul. This is Victor.”
I shook Victor’s hand and went right back to Paul. “I think we are the biggest guys in this group. What do you think?”
“I think you may be right.”
Victor bowed out at that time. Honestly, it was for the best. He was hired to work ground operations and any future friendship between the two of them was doomed from the start. Stick with your own kind, Victor, and let me establish friendships with the large future flight attendants of this airline. These were not proud moments but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I swayed from side to side, “These skinny bitches. I don’t like any of them.” Paul let out a thunderous laugh. He got me, better yet—he got my humor. “You know, Paul, I think we need to be friends.”
“Really? Why?”
This was the moment of truth. Did I lie or just rip the Band-Aid off? “You’re bigger than me and make me look skinny.”
Another thunderous laugh, “Is that how you make new friends?”
“No. But these are some skinny bitches.”
Another round of rowdy laughter from both of us and I noticed break time was coming to an end. The new hires sauntered into the auditorium returning to their seats. “Sweet. We can be friends. I’m cool with gay guys.”
“How do you know I’m gay?” I asked while walking down the aisle towards my row.
“You keep staring at me like I’m a piece of meat.”
We erupted into laughter, again. I squeezed back down my row and found my seat, happy with how easy it was to make a friend. Paul had a cuteness about him that reminded me of an adult Dennis the Menace.
That night I called Matt to update him on my first day of orientation, “We haven’t even started flight attendant training yet and I made a new friend. His name is Paul. He’s a straight bear.”
“Is he cute?”
“He’s alright. Chubby and cute. You’d like him.”
“Nice. Can you invite him over?”
“Goodnight Matthew. I have to study.”
On the third day of orientation we started flight attendant training. There were over 90 of us in our class, the biggest class the airline ever had. The only space large enough to accommodate us for three weeks of training was the auditorium. After new hire orientation wrapped up we remained seated while the other departments filed out and began their own journey as airline employees. It was the beginning of January and we were the first flight attendent class of the new year. Every flight attendant hired after our class would be junior to us. In a world where seniority rules everything, this was huge. I was thrilled to be there; I was also thrilled that I didn’t send the Unknown Caller call to voicemail when the airline called to offer me the job.
The auditorium was large enough for everyone to spread out comfortably. It also allowed for everyone to break into cliques. We were overrun with cliques. We had the geeks, the busty blonds, the smokers, the borderline bisexual male Puerto Ricans, the English as a second language female Puerto Ricans, the former flight attendants, the skinny gay guys, and my clique—the guy who drove his Jeep to training and drives people around. There were only four people in my clique: Tasia, Richard, Derek, and me. I drove the four of us back and forth between the hotel and training center on a daily basis. It was almost like Driving Miss Daisy. It was more like Driving Miss Tasia and the Queens.
The four of us sat on the left hand side of the auditorium and stuck together like glue. Paul sat with the geeks on the other side of the room a few rows down from the skinny gay guys; the clique I should have been part of but at no time felt welcomed. Occasionally I made conversation with a few of the cliquey gays but never strayed far from my clique. I received most of my attention from my outrageously loud laugh that bounced off the walls at the most inappropriate times. I think I am still known for that laugh when people see me in the crew lounge.
At the end of our first week it was time to hand in our travel benefit documents. Living in Florida, I didn’t know how to differentiate between significant other and domestic partner. I was legally married in the state of Connecticut but in Florida, where bigots and evangelic Christians hunker down, I was as single as a knocked up teenager. Was Matt my domestic partner? Was he my significant other? Confused and stressed about filling out the forms correctly I searched for answers from my fellow classmates. My first instinct was to go straight to Paul but I abandoned that thought quick. He didn’t know the first thing about gay problems. I asked Richard, Derek, and Tasia but they just stared at me like I told them my Jeep broke down. Assistance was needed before the end of the day and I knew where to find it. The answers to my questions came directly from the skinny gay clique. I required one of those skinny queens with perfect hair, a chiseled face that belonged on the cover of Instinct magazine, and pants so tight you could make out his joystick. I found that gay in Evan.
Evan never paid much attention to me during the first week of training. He split his time between fixing his hair and making googly eyes at Sean Larson—the biggest smoker in our class. When I approached Evan he was standing by the double door entry into the auditorium, “Do you know if I should put my partner on as a domestic partner or significant other?”
He stared blankly at me processing my question. I asked again, “Should I put my partner Matt on as a significant other or domestic partner?”
Smiling he answered, “I don’t know. Probably domestic partner, right?”
“Do you think?” I took the form out of the folder tucked underneath my armpit, “I want to make sure I choose the right one so I don’t fuck up my benefits.”
“If you have the documents to prove he’s your domestic partner then do that.”
“Yeah. I got them. Sounds good to me.” I put the form back into the folder, “Thanks.” I turned to walk back to my seat.
“Sure thing. You should come hang out at Chili’s with us tonight.”
How nice I thought, “I’ll try.”
That was as far as our conversations went for the next few weeks. I found out months later he was thrown off by my question. In his own words he confessed, “I thought you were a straight Christian Republican who was married with three kids.”
When this revelation came to light it brought me back to that exact moment standing in the auditorium entryway. I concluded he was calling me fat. Every crazy Christian Republican straight family man I had ever seen on television was fat. That was his way of politely telling me I was fat. Whether or not that was the message he was delivering—I will never know—but that was my interpretation. When we believe something deeply enough, nobody can change our minds.
I slowly let my guard down and became friendlier with a few more classmates. Some of them appreciated my distasteful humor and contagious laugh. We continued to sit in our secluded groups but the feeling of separation had vanished. All any of us wanted was to make
it through training in one piece, and by one piece I meant hired and not handed a one-way ticket back home as a failure. On average we were losing two trainees per day. We walked around on eggshells. Our numbers were dropping like a case of chlamydia overtook the auditorium. One by one we were being taken out with no Z-pack prescription in sight. Now that I think about it there was a pilot initial class going on at the same time, so it was highly possible it really was chlamydia. We’ll never really know thanks to HIPAA.
Every time we stepped out of the testing room with a passing score we’d remind ourselves there was another test tomorrow. We were never off the hook and never had the opportunity to feel confident. We were all one failed test away from being sent home. In junior high school, unless you really fucked up, you were guaranteed to move on to high school. In flight attendant training, one failed test meant your wings were ripped away before you had a chance to try them on. There were not many second chances, but when a trainee did get a second chance, they usually failed that too. The fear of failure kept the cliquish attitudes grounded. This brought us together as a group and stopped us from worrying about what other people looked like or what clique they were initiated into.
With each passing week training became slightly easier to manage… socially. The knowledge checks and tests gave us a constant headache that Tylenol could not cure. There were still moments when I felt completely out of place and questioned if I could survive in a world filled with skinny gay flight attendants.
My lowest point was on our third day of training. I reviewed our schedule of events and read that the last two hours of the day was dedicated to flight attendant uniform fittings. Everyone was getting to know each other and new friendships were forming like an evolutionary video on fast forward. I got nervous when the uniform ladies came into the auditorium and started lining us up for fittings.
“Are they going to do this behind a curtain?” I asked Derek while we inched our way up the line towards the racks of uniforms against the wall. Quitting was more of an option than taking off my shirt. I refused to take my shirt off at the beach so I damn sure wasn’t prepared to let my man tits hang out in an auditorium filled with other future flight attendants. I’d literally have the shortest flight attendant career ever.
