by Joe Thomas
Derek turned to me, “They’re only measuring us right now. We will try on pieces later.”
“Ok. Then why do they have all the uniform pieces here?”
“I don’t know,” he turned back to look at me, “Calm down.”
“Alright,” now I was talking outloud to myself, “You’ll be alright.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you rocking back and forth like a serial killer?”
Derek was completely fucking wrong! The Puerto Ricans and skinny gay guys were dropping their pants, taking off their shirts, and showing off more ribs than served during lunch at Sonny's BBQ. Sweat permeated through my shirt and my eyeglasses began slipping off my nose. Damn being bald and not having hair to collect the waterfall of sweat cascading down my forehead.
I was snapped out of my trance. “Next.”
I didn’t move.
“Wake up over there.” The seamstress yelled from the front of the line that I was not standing in.
“Oh, sorry. Are you talking to me?”
“Yes,” she summoned me with her finger, “Come over to this lane and get your fitting done.”
I made my way over to her while everyone buzzed around the auditorium chatting about their fittings. I was positive nobody paid attention to me. I called this the binge-and-purge portion of the day because that’s what I felt like doing once the seamstress started yelling out my measurements.
She flung the yellow measuring tape around my waist like she was roping cattle, “42 waist”
“42? Are you sure?,” I questioned while looking down at her as she moved to measure my pant length, “I’m a 38.”
“It’s 42. Trust me. Did you get that Mary? Joe Thomas is a 42 inch waist”
“Do you really have to say all this out loud?”
She ignored me, “19 and a half inch neck. Jacket size is a three extra large.” Mary jotted down my thickness on a sheet of paper. She was lucky this was America because if we were in Britain I might have thrown my weight in stones at her head. I was confused as to why she carelessly announced my weight and size loud enough for everyone to hear; she was no Calista Flockhart.
Pedro Malo was behind me in line and sarcastically announced, “Do they even make jackets that big?”
He didn’t whisper which led me to believe his plan was to humiliate and embarrass me. It worked. I never liked Pedro after that. He might as well have jabbed me with a hot poker while I tanned on the beach. I wanted to cry; I probably did. It was junior high school all over again. The only thing missing was a whale drawing projected on the screen so the entire room could join in on the laugh. I was thirty five years old, had credit cards, a husband, two cats, and a house. I was a fucking adult but here I was being bullied by some Latino asshole who found it funny to pick on the fat kid in the group.
When I heard Pedro and his amigo, Carlos Sereno, laughing about my jacket size I wanted to take my fist and pound Pedro on the top of his heads like a Pez dispenser. Trying to ignore him I stood in the auditorium fully clothed but feeling completely naked. The uniform nazi worked quickly around my stomach like it was going to explode, spraying everyone with the ham and cheese sandwich I had for lunch. Would I be able to walk down the aisle of the airplane without knocking all the passengers out? I could walk sideways but that might lead to scoliosis. Fat with a new diagnosis of scoliosis—this was turning out to be a fucking nightmare.
A few years later I became Pedro’s flight attendant supervisor. I cringed every time I saw his name on the report sheet. I hated him more than Jehovah’s Witness knocking on my door during one of my many jerking off sessions. I wished bad things on him. Nothing too dramatic; just something like enough passenger complaint letters so I could fire him… or AIDS. These evil thoughts consumed me but I was professional and always helped him whenever he needed assistance. It was difficult. When he reported to the airport for a flight he’d stroll into the office greeting me like one of his long lost best friends. That always pissed me off. His conversations usually began with, “Hey Joe…” and my brain stopped processing. The rest of his babble came out as, “Do they even make jackets that big? Do they even make jackets that big? DO THEY EVEN MAKE JACKETS THAT BIG?” on a continuous loop like a broken record.
Pedro had forgotten how powerful his words were that day in the auditorium during our uniform fittings. Maybe he did remember but figured I had forgotten. I didn’t. Bullies tend to overlook their actions or their victims feelings. Victims never forget. We carry it around like an additional carry on. It’s true. We even have no problem paying the extra fee for it.
I never let go of my anger for Pedro. I try to live life with no regrets but I allowed him to poison my thoughts and confidence for years to come. I regret that but I am only human. My anger crushed my chest making it hard to breathe, kind of like my heavy man boobs. Within my first year as a flight attendant I lost enough weight to give the jacket away. I kept it. It hung in my closet as a reminder that even though the fitting was embarrassing, I was able to get through it. Like every difficult obstacle thrown at me. Eventually, Pedro was terminated. Not at my hands, unfortunately. I wanted to fire him more than I wanted to win Supervisor of the Year—but I never had the opportunity. I had gone back to the skies as a flight attendant long before he was sent packing.
Even though I eventually lost all the extra weight, I initially carried it around with me all through training, on my first flight to New York City after graduation, and right into my crash pad where I was challenged to sleep on bunk beds made for children, or people who weigh under 200 pounds.
The Bunk Bed Life
I was 16 years old the first time I slept in a bunk bed. Irene purchased a set of wooden bunk beds when we moved from East Hartford, Connecticut to Orlando, Florida. There was nothing wrong with buying bunk beds except that I was an only child. I could understand purchasing bunk beds if I had a brother, sister, foster brother, or large dog who lived with us, but it was just me in my room. Who did she expect me to share my bunk bed with, Casper the Friendly Ghost? That was insane. I hadn’t talked to Casper since I was eight years old.
Irene gave me no say in the matter; she just went out and bought these bunk beds. For the first few weeks we fought about where I’d sleep and she practically had to tie me down to the bottom bunk so I wouldn’t flee to the living room. It freaked me out sleeping in a bunk bed with nobody else in the room. Just rolling over and having the bed creak sent me running like the top half was on fire. I figured when I was 17 years old and moved out of Irene’s house, I would have said goodbye to bunk beds for the rest of my life. I was mistaken.
During our initial flight attendant training we had no knowledge of what base we’d be flown off to. This was an added stressor that none of us needed. A flight attendant’s base is the airport where we report, start, and end all our flights. It’s a hub for flight attendants and pilots. Our mothership. Flying for free gives us the opportunity to live thousands of miles from our base. That sounds wonderful, right? It is, but if we choose to live away from base we are still responsible for being at our assigned base, on time, and ready to fly as per our schedule. No excuses.
When I meet people with no knowledge of the airline industry this question always comes up, “How does this work? You can live in Orlando and be based in New York?”
“Yes. That’s how it works.”
“I don’t get it.”
“We can live anywhere we want. We just have to make sure we get to work on time.”
It boggles their mind. I carry around paper towels in case their heads explode so I can clean off my shirt. We are like traveling salesman but instead of vacuums and insurance we sell duty free goods and pillows.
Before we started digging into our flight attendant manuals, our instructors informed us which bases were taking new flight attendants: New York, Cleveland, and Jacksonville. Those were our three options. No more. No less. The instructors came right out and reminded everyone that if that didn’t work for us then may
be, “This isn’t the job for you.”
The thought of disagreeing never crossed our minds because for most of us this was our dream job. We dreamed of becoming flight attendants more than Sarah Palin did about becoming vice president. Thankfully, our dream became a reality. During interviews and training we agreed to everything. If the airline demanded us to work 23 hours a day, sleep on the floor in the airport, and pay them to fly (instead of the other way around) we would have concurred. For every space we occupied in that auditorium there were thousands of others waiting for us to fuck up so they could step in.
On the fifth day of training we bid for our desired base airport. At that time, my airline had only four bases. Even though our Los Angeles base was not accepting new flight attendants, we still had the opportunity to request it as a base. It was a tease that gave some trainees false hope, like my friend Richard who lived in Los Angeles. He was determined to be based there, “I’m still going to bid for LA. Do you think I’ll get it?”
Looking up from my sheet of paper with the list of bases, “They said nobody is getting Los Angeles.”
“Then why are they allowing us to bid it?”
“Because they want to fuck with you? I don’t know.”
I really had no clue. After making it clear there were only three bases taking flight attendants it seemed absurd to even offer Los Angeles.
We were encouraged to list our base preference in order of most important. The chance of being awarded our first choice was slim but if there was a chance of getting my first choice, I didn’t want to lose it.
My preferences were as follows:
• John F. Kennedy International Airport (JFK)
• Cleveland Hopkins International Airport (CLE)
• Jacksonville International Airport (JAX)
It felt like graduating college. Having the opportunity to pick a new city to start our exciting careers had us buzzing around the auditorium like trapped mosquitoes. As the excitement went viral throughout the auditorium, we were quickly sprayed with Off! and reminded that all base assignments were awarded in seniority order. No matter how badly we wanted a certain base it depended on when we were born. It was a great time to be old in a class full of young wannabe flight attendants. The older trainees would most likely be granted their first choice. Their insolence shined through as they walked past younger trainees who were already crying over what to do if their first choice was not awarded. Not 15 minutes after our instructors informed us how it would all play out, people were already complaining. Typical flight attendants: complaining before they knew the outcome.
One week before graduation our instructors lined up military style in the front of the auditorium to read off the base assignments. Most of us were a nervous wreck, except for the senior citizens in class.
I wanted the list to be posted on a bulletin board. I imagined running and pushing my way to the front of the group to catch a glimpse of what everyone was given like in an episode of Glee. Instead, our instructors decided to read off the list in front of the entire class.
They should have had therapists set up at tables outside the auditorium before they started rattling off names, “Attention everyone.” The entire room stopped what they were doing, including the blond chick who was putting her hair up in a pony tail. “Please listen for your name to be called: Bigby, Gienapp, Hillion, Alence, Raviola, Thomas, Malo, Sereno, Yates…” The list seemed to go on forever. “You are all going to JFK.” There was a moment of deafening silence before, “Aaaaaaand the rest of you will be going to Cleveland.”
What happened next looked like a scene from the movie Airplane. The cheers echoed off the high walls surrounding the auditorium. Some gave powerful high-fives to each other while others quickly started discussing options on where to live. The youngest in our class were caterwauling in their seats. Most of them lived in New York City but were assigned Cleveland. I couldn’t blame them. I might have cried too. My friend Richard was stressed because he was assigned Cleveland and had no intentions on moving from Los Angeles.
I had no time to worry about other people. I was sad Paul, who lived outside of New York City, and the other members of my clique wouldn’t be joining me on this adventure but I had to focus on me. The moment I heard my last name called I knew my life had officially changed. I’d be commuting from Orlando to New York City.
What had I gotten myself into?
Being 35 years old worked out well, it gave me a spot in the seniority bracket where I was awarded my first choice. I fantasized about living in New York City my entire life and now I was being handed my chance and with a paycheck. Fuck Willy Wonka—this was the true golden ticket.
When you live in Orlando and believe New York City is the prize at the end of the yellow brick road, you want to click your ruby slippers together faster than Dorothy did to get out of Oz. Instead of listening to lectures or interacting in group assignments, I caught myself daydreaming about strolling through Times Square, buying tickets to every Broadway show, and living a glamorous big city life. The life I was meant to live.
Then I found out JFK was in Queens and I wanted to throw my ruby slippers at the instructor and go home. My journey from Park Avenue to Skid Row happened before lunch. This realization was equivalent to finding a dirty diaper in a seatback pocket and being bitch slapped with it. I am not saying that Queens was horrible but when you are a reserve flight attendant, waiting for Crew Scheduling to call, missing your family, and practically chained to your luggage—it was soul crushing.
After graduating from flight attendant training I had a few days to find a crash pad in New York. I should take a moment to define crash pad because even I was thrown off the first time I heard the term. To anyone not in the airline industry the word crash may be taboo. I don’t know how or why the term crash pad has stuck all these years but it has. A more realistic term would be ‘adults sleeping in bunk beds’ pad, but who am I to change tradition? Crash pads are homes, apartments, or any dwelling that is set up for airline employees to use as temporary housing while in their base. These crash pads are owned by all sorts of people and they have one main goal: to squeeze as many people into them as humanly possible. This allows the landlord to make the most money. Great for the owner, terrible for the occupants. If a landlord charges $200 a month and they have 20 residents in the house you can see how quickly that money adds up. That’s where the bunk beds come into play; the more bodies the more money. While you sleep in a bunk bed and share a room the size of a walk in closet with 10 other people, your landlord drives around town in his brand new black Mercedes.
The easiest way to find crash pads was through word of mouth. After getting a few tips from some classmates, Matt and I flew to JFK to lock down a crash pad. We had no sense of where we were going but found the Airtran, rode that to Jamaica Avenue, and then boarded the J train. We stepped off at 121 Street and after taking the stairs down from the platform, we found ourselves in the neighborhood of Richmond Hill.
“I'm nervous, Schmoopie. I don’t think I can live here.”
“Sure you can. It’s not so bad,” Matt cheerfully responded as we walked passed two homeless guys fighting over a slice of pizza. I was going to die on this street. Maybe not today, but I was convinced no later than spring.
Excitement was replaced with fear regarding my move to New York. Fear entered me with a vengeance and popped up like a cold sore before a first date. I needed to quit. I would never make it to my first flight. How was I going to survive living here without my husband and my cats? I had no social connection with anyone in New York City and the few people I did know were from my initial training class—and I barely liked them. Evan was coming to JFK, which was a silver lining, but the rest of my friends were younger and went to Cleveland.
Who says age is just a number? In the flight attendant world it can ruin your social life.
It was the beginning of February and I forgot to check the weather for our day trip to New York City. No jackets. No gloves. No
scarves. It was disgusting. The rain, wind, and dirty streets of Richmond Hill made me want to cry. I was experiencing an internal panic attack and Matt was with me. What was I going to do when I had to come here alone? We walked down Jamaica Avenue and then kept to the right and followed Myrtle Avenue until we reached 116th Street and made another right. I was relieved to see the apartment building that would be my future home away from home.
The four-story brick building loomed above us and, compared to the other properties in the surrounding area, had to be the newest on the block if not the entire borough. Each rowhouse had its own staircase. We quickly walked by two staircases and found the address for the first floor apartment where I hoped to be moving. The rain was hitting us hard so we found shelter underneath one of the staircases and waited for the landlord to arrive.
Kader Aziz pulled up and double parked his brand new black Mercedes in front of the apartment building. We had never met so I had no way of knowing it was him until he briskly walked towards us. I made eye contact with him and smiled, he did not. With his jet black hair and chiseled face he could easily make any woman or gay man swoon. I did not swoon; I barely blinked.
When he walked up he was all business, “Hello. Joe?”
“Hi,” I stepped out into the rain to shake his hand and it was as cold as I expected his heart to be.
He shook Matt’s hand and then opened the apartment door on the first floor, “The cost of the crash pad is two hundred and fifty dollars per month. I will need first and last month as a deposit. That will be five hundred dollars.”
At least he could do math, “That seems reasonable. I’d like to move in on Friday. Is that ok?”
