Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  11:00 a.m. — Take off. LAX here we come. I enjoyed free food, watched This Means War, and I may have napped. Maybe I slept more than I realize because I can’t remember anything else happening on the flight.

  1:49 p.m. — We land in LAX and I am happy to be in California but sad that I still have another flight home. When will this end? I have been awake for 29 1/2 hours and that is just insane, I can barely stay awake for 10 hours before requiring a lengthy nap.

  2:24 p.m. — I decide to get something to eat. The only restaurant open happens to be Burger King so I stand in line, order a greasy Junior Whopper, and sit down in the corner of the restaurant for a quick lunch. I have to be back at the gate at 3:35 p.m. so I take my time with lunch. This never happens.

  3:00 p.m. — After finishing my lunch I head over to the gate area and find myself sitting among hipster LA douchebags. Disgusting. My lunch wants to come up but I force it back down. Instead of looking at my surroundings I pull up the Facebook app on my phone and stare at that. Anything’s better than having to witness one more Ed Hardy t-shirt on some twenty-something asshole. Not much time passes before I act on an impulse that nobody should act on when they are tired or angry, I blow up Facebook with emotional and negative comments about my day. What the fuck was I thinking? This is worse than drunk texting. At least with drunk texting only the individual on the other end of the phone gets the emotionally awkward tasteless drunk text. When you erupt all your emotions on Facebook everyone experiences the madness. What started out as an innocent bitchfest (is there such a thing?) complaining about my commute turned into a verbal assault against Joe. I start receiving unpleasant comments and my first reaction is to blast these fuckers right off my Facebook page. A few “friends” tell me to “chill out,” and “stop bitching.” I restrain myself from commenting. The ego stroke I was searching for turns into a bitch slapping event. I hate my life. I hate my job. I hate LA. I hate everyone. I just want to be home. At least I am sober and still have a shred of dignity not to respond.

  3:33 p.m. — I walk up to the gate and the gate agent barks at me to come back at 3:35 p.m.. Is this bitch serious?

  3:35 p.m. — Two minutes later, I return back at the gate. Two fucking minutes! Why are so many gate agents nasty to me? Like seriously, why? I smile. I say thank you. I usually bring treats. Are they forced to take How to Be Cunty 101 in gate agent school? This makes me miss Angel. My seat assignment is the same as my last flight. I proceed to the gate and stand in line watching the gate agent checking to be sure each and every passenger places their carry on bag into the sizer next to the podium. Love the efficiency but I don’t have time for this diligence. It’s a time waste. At least five bags get pulled to be checked while I am standing there waiting in line. These passengers are furious. A few of them recite, “It fit the last time,” but the gate agent could care less. My boarding pass is scanned and my bags are overlooked. Thankfuckinggod! I knew it was a smart idea to keep my uniform on. I board a smaller airplane so even though my seat assignment is the same, it is sadly not an exit row. I take the window seat and my legs are crushed against the tray table. Fun. I happily sigh for a moment thinking boarding has concluded but then some last minute passenger runs onto the airplane and takes the aisle seat in my row. I hate Tuesdays.

  5:30 p.m. — Land in SFO and I literally throw myself off the plane. I am happy to be home but my face resembles someone who has won the lottery but their toddler ate the winning ticket. That kind of miserable. My uniform smells. I stink so bad the lady in front of me looks back with a raised lip as if I am trying to smuggle skunks into California. I run into the restroom and change into shorts, a polo shirt, and my sneakers. I smear some deodorant under my pits leaving the restroom like a new man. I need to find the Airtran so I stop and ask an airport employee for directions, again. I’ve reached the point of requiring constant supervision at the airport. Why do I fall apart and act like I have never been inside an airport before? Something to talk to my therapist about. Hopefully, she’ll take my calls after my Facebook rants. If not, there’s always Angel. The airport employee is helpful but he takes 20 minutes to explain. English is not his first language. It’s not his second, either. All I need is a pointed finger and a smile, not a dissertation in a foreign language.

  5:45 p.m. — Through his broken English I find the train station and take the Airtrain to the BART and finally make it to the CalTrain. It’s prime traffic time in the Bay Area so I didn’t even bother asking Matt to pick me up from the airport. I swipe my Clipper card at the CalTrain station and it deducts $10.50 for a $5.00 train ride. I lose it.

  6:02 p.m. — I texted Matt: “I’m having the worst fucking day ever.”

  6:05 p.m. — He calls me while I’m waiting at the track for the train to arrive. My speech is incoherent when I answer the telephone. A stranger looks over at me probably questioning if English is my first language. I deserve that. Attempt to break down my entire day to Matt in 11 minutes before the train arrives. Tell him I am ready to throw myself on the train track. He calmly tells me to take a deep breath and then reassures me that I really won’t throw myself on the track. True. I’m a drama queen and right now I am going for best lead actor in a drama. Totally Meryl Streeping the fuck out of this experience.

  6:16 p.m. — I push my way onto the train and drag my bags with me. I can barely get on the train before the door closes. Nobody will move out of my way so I am forced to yell, “Move out of my fucking way. I’ve got a suitcase here.” They all look at me like I am on drugs and go back to reading their books and texting their friends. Most are Asian so they don’t even understand me. Nothing worse than being on a tirade and nobody even understanding how pissed off you are. Assholes.

  6:20 p.m. — There are no seats on the train; it’s standing room only when I board. It’s crowded to the point that your breathing may annoy the person standing next to you. My suitcase goes between my legs and I hold position in the middle of the train. Fuck it. If a passenger wants to get off at the next stop they will have to fling themselves over me because I am not moving. It’s that jam-packed. There’s nowhere to go unless I crawl up inside someone’s asshole. That doesn’t sound too bad as long as there’s extra leg room. I’m officially fried. Not fried like chicken because that sounds great—fried like a sunburn on your first day of vacation. My cell phone is dead so I have no communication with the outside world. If Matt’s texting me with no response he might be watching the local news to see if I went through with my train track threat.

  6:28 p.m. — At our third stop a shitload of passengers disembark. I scan the train car and see a single seat available. Place my suitcase onto the luggage rack and race to snag the seat. I won’t deny that an old lady might have been pushed out of the way or not. Let’s just say I didn’t and that I haven’t lost all my self-respect. I take the seat next to some Chinese lady playing sudoku who covers her nose when I sit down next to her. I think it’s illegal to treat white people this way; I will check that out online when I get home.

  6:48 p.m. — I get off the train a few blocks from my apartment and walk the short distance to my building. I am spent. As much as I love a healthy confrontation, I don’t have the energy to push a toddler off their tricycle. If a Scientologist approached me I’d give them all my money even though I’m not awaiting Xenu’s arrival. I’d even hand over my luggage so I wouldn’t have to pull it anymore.

  7:05 p.m. — I walk into the apartment, look at my watch, and realize it has been over 14 hours and 45 minutes since I made my first attempt to get on a flight home. I could have flown to fucking London and back. I’ve also been awake since 8 a.m. yesterday which is over 36 hours ago. Giraffes running from lions on the African savanna get more sleep than me. I say outloud to Matt that I can never do this again. I quit. I quit. I QUIT!

  7:20 p.m. — I don’t even bother unpacking, I will do it in the morning. Plug my cell phone into the charger, peel off my uniform, and start running the shower water. The decision has been made.
I need to transfer to a West Coast base as soon as humanly possible. Fuck. This. Commute!

  The F-Bomb

  The rain pelting against my hotel window woke me up before my 5:30 a.m. alarm. That’s painful. Extremely painful. Nobody should be required to wake up at that blasphemous hour. Waking up even 30 seconds before the alarm buzzes sets me down the path for a cantankerous morning. It’s like an explosion to my mood. Wake up calls from the hotel staff have the same type of effect. This morning it wasn’t a mere 30 seconds of crucial sleep deprived from me but a solid eight minutes. Do you know how important eight minutes of sleep means to someone when they have to wake up at 5:30 in the morning.? It changes your entire day. I should have taken this as an omen, picked up my cell phone, and called in sick to Crew Scheduling. Why don’t I follow my gut? I really should. It’s big enough to lead a gay pride parade.

  While the wind howled outside my window, I recoiled under the sheets of my king-size bed. I felt safe wrapped in its fluffy arms sheltering me from what sounded like armageddon only five feet from where I lay. The bed and only a few inches of glass protected me from being swept out 20 stories above San Francisco. I didn’t have to get up from the safety of the bed to know it was a harsh environment outside. The gusts echoed through the glass and surrounded my entire room sounding like two Tyrannosaurus Rex fighting over who was going to get to devour me first. While concentrating on the wind I was startled when my alarm finally went off. That was a quick eight minutes. My cell phone chimed, jingled, and jangled forcing me to throw my soft down comforter to the other side of the bed. I heaved the blanket over in one motion to not feel it’s comfort any longer. If I don’t immediately pull myself out from under the blanket I’ll be forced to let the sandman drag me back down into a blissful slumber.

  I am so easily persuaded to sleep that while writing this I am fighting off the urge to lay down and take a quick catnap. As much as my heart, mind, and body tell me to, I can’t because—goddamn it—I have to finish this book.

  Grabbing my cell phone and shutting off the alarm, I slide my legs over the side of the bed. While sitting there with my feet firmly on the carpet I wondered how my day was going to play out. I often do this on work trips. I run through the entire day; from catching the hotel shuttle van to the airport to eventually driving home in my car. My day never turns out how I anticipate it will. Stopping this practice all together might be helpful, but now it borders on an obsession.

  I stood up tall, stretched my fingers to the sky, and proceeded to the floor-to-ceiling red curtains that hung in front of the vertical window. With a swift tug I pulled them open to reveal absolutely nothing. I knew the sun had started to rise but the entire San Francisco skyline was cloaked in a white fog. If my room had been equipped with a deck I could have stood outside allowing the marshmallow clouds to prevent me from seeing my hand three inches from my face. Placing my hands on my hips and staring out into the void for a few moments I tried making out any sign of life. A building? A bridge? Nada. The view was void as if a large eraser swept away the city.

  I took my shower as quickly as possible. From the second I shut off the water I noticed the wind had stopped howling aggressively outside. That was reassuring. There was no way to tell if it was raining so I figured I’d find out when I stepped outside. The van to the airport was scheduled at 6:15 a.m. so I needed to move fast. When I wake up that early I never give myself much wiggle room. Everything happens fast: shower, shave, teeth brushed, luggage packed (which I always do the night before), and then down to the hotel lobby. In that precise order. I don’t falter from my routine. I also never factor in a morning shit, which if that situation unfolds, all hell breaks loose.

  With my luggage dragging behind me I exited my hotel room and proceeded to the bank of elevators to take me down to the lobby. I rode the elevator alone wishing I could go back to sleep, even if I had to defend myself from the dinosaurs should they return. The elevator stopped on the lobby floor and I shuffled out of it with sleep still encrusted in my eyes. This exhaustion would last until I was well on my way home. That was a guarantee. We were finishing up a four day pairing with only one flight left back to Cleveland. One-leg days at the end of a pairing are equivalent to laying by the pool after a rigorous workout. It’s a reward. Flight attendants can handle anything the universe throws at them for one leg. When so many pairings have two, three, and four legs in a day, one leg on your last day is the buttercream frosting on a three-tier cake. I shouldn’t have said that because now I am craving cake.

  I made my way around the elevators and briskly walked to the oversized water fountain in the center of the lobby. That was the designated location where all crews met to wait for the hotel van. I didn’t see any flight attendants waiting so I figured I was the first one downstairs. After arriving at the fountain, I noticed my entire crew, pilots included, seated at the restaurant to the right of the fountain. It was an open seating area inside the hotel lobby with a buffet style continental breakfast spread. Did I miss the invitation for an early morning breakfast rendezvous? Could it be possible that I wasn’t invited? I shook the thought out of my head. Impossible. I simply missed the memo. They probably forgot to slide it under my door last night. Why was I even entertaining the idea? I would have never made it downstairs for breakfast.

  The two flight attendants working this pairing with me were Misty Grant and Ursula Lie. Working with Misty was delightful. I relished just being in her presence. She had a warm and compassionate vibe that drew you towards her. It was a mom vibe. A hot cougar mom vibe. Let’s just say she was hot enough for me to question my decades long vagina free diet. Ursula, on the other hand, was a back stabbing whore who deserved a swift kick in her lady parts.

  I should stop there. I’m getting ahead of myself. There will be plenty of Ursula-bashing to come later. Trust me on that; I hated that bitch. But just for the record, and before you protest in support of my castration, I never kicked Ursula in her lady parts. Even though I fantasized about someone doing it while I watched from the sidelines drinking a glass of Pinot noir. Pinot noir? What am I thinking? If kicking Ursula in her lady parts was on the menu I’d need something bold and strong—like a bottle of Merlot.

  Misty, Ursula, and the two pilots were paying their checks when I made eye contact with Misty and she happily waved at me. I smiled and faintly waved back but decided not to walk over. It was too early for me to be that nice, so I just stood by the water fountain playing on my cell phone.

  Within seconds they swarmed around me with excitement in their eyes and drama on their lips, “Our airplane never landed in SFO last night. It diverted to San Jose because of weather.” Ursula blurted out placing her luggage next to mine. I stared at her while she chattered on, “We have to take a van to San Jose. This is so ridiculous.”

  Her makeup was ridiculous but I kept that thought to myself, "What about the passengers?"

  Captain Emerson spoke up, "They’re all being bussed."

  It was too early in the fucking morning to be this unhappy.

  The five of us boarded a large black Escalade bound for San Jose International Airport with another crew of five. Six flight attendants and four pilots packed into what would normally be a comfortable ride for seven people. Eight, if two were bulimic. If only one of us idolized Karen Carpenter enough so I might have avoided traveling with my knees on my chin—like a set of hairy balls—my mood might have been a little less bitchy. There were ten of us packed into the Escalade and if I was Jewish I’d have sworn we were on our way to Auschwitz.

  I tried timing my climb into the SUV to sit by Misty but I ended up crushed between the window and a flight attendant I had never met. She smelt like cigarettes and cheap perfume. A floral headache-inducing fragrance created by some slutty pop star and sold at Walmart. I wanted to eject her from the van as we drove down the highway. She was lucky we were seated far from the door. When the van door slid shut I fished out the earbuds and started listening to Madonna. It was too early in th
e morning to even entertain the thought of listening to the four pilots complain about whatever it was they were complaining about. To be honest, I couldn’t even tell you if they were complaining. They might have been silent. I don’t even remember but from my experience, pilots are always moaning and groaning. If they get the chance, they will bellyache about something and trust me—many of them have big bellies. Virtually every single pilot I have worked with will cry and grumble on more than a gay 17 year old taking it up the ass for the first time. That’s exactly what pilots do in van rides to the airport—not take it up the ass (although I wouldn’t be surprised)—but complain. They complain about the airline. They complain about politics, religion, and anything else that will get a conversation in motion. It doesn’t even matter if the occupants in the van are paying attention. If the flight attendants don’t add fuel to their fire they will strike up conversation with the van driver and bitch to them. I had no time for that bullshit. There were bigger fish to fry, like fighting off the cancer stench coming from the flight attendant seated next to me. And the fact that my day was already starting off badly. This couldn’t be good. I sat with my head against the glass, closed my eyes, and silently lip-synced the entire way to the airport.

  When we arrived at the airport the van door slid open and we all fell out like circus clowns. It must have been quite a sight for anyone standing curbside to witness this madness. Without worrying about anyone else I quickly grabbed my bags from the driver, gave him a dollar tip, and dodged the raindrops briskly walking towards the terminal. Once inside and out of the rain, I made a beeline for the employee TSA line. The security checkpoint was buzzing with passengers trying to recover from their previously canceled flights. It was pandemonium. All of our passengers shuttled over on buses were most likely in one of these chaotic security lines. I figured I lost Misty, Ursula, and our pilots as I rushed to the TSA agent to show my crew ID but when I turned around they miraculously found their spots behind me.