by Joe Thomas
“Don’t worry,” Ursula said, “We’re right here.”
My attempt at smirking wasn’t convincing, “Oh good. I wasn’t trying to lose you guys, just get ahead of everyone else.” She knew I was lying but I didn’t give a fuck. Nothing could put me in a pleasant mood, especially after that hideous van ride. The entire right side of my uniform smelled like a pack of Newport Menthols.
I flung my suitcase onto the conveyor belt and flashed my ID to another TSA agent while he yelled out commands to passengers like a drill sergeant; a drill sergeant who only two weeks prior worked as a roast beef slicer at Arby’s. The five of us zipped through security theatre and then walked over to the departures board to find our departure gate was 20. It was at that moment I realized I had not eaten breakfast. What the hell was I thinking? Never mind about breakfast, I hadn’t had any coffee. If you’ve met me then you know that’s dangerous. Not a sip of caffeine had touched my lips since waking up and I was already ankle deep in a shitty assmunching day. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for me to get breakfast or even a tiny cup of coffee. While my coworkers walked ahead of me through the terminal with their heads held high and bellies full, I fought the urge to sift through trash cans searching for half-eaten glazed donuts and coffee grounds. I don’t know how likely this is but if you happen to stumble upon me eating garbage out of an airport trash can and it’s not the apocalypse—please be kind and report me to airport security so I can receive the mental health care I need.
When we arrived at the gate there was no airplane. Shocked? Not really. We weren’t alarmed, rarely do things work out as you’d expect them to in the airline industry. A genuine smile crept across my face after realizing I might have time to squeeze in a cup of coffee, and an even bigger grin when I realized I might even get a scone. A scone and a coffee before departure may be more rewarding than masturbating at the hotel after a long day on the airplane.
When the gate agent spotted us lining up our luggage against the wall she threw her hands up in the air and announced, “Oh, thank God you guys are here. We didn’t know where the crew was?”
I looked over at Misty, “I’m gonna get some coffee. Can you watch my bags?”
“Of course,” she answered, “take your time.”
I turned to walk away and overheard the gate agent inform Captain Emerson, “The airplane is at a hard stand and we are already running late. We need to get you guys out there and start boarding as soon as possible.”
I spun back around crushed. It was the equivalent of having my pants down around my ankles, a hotel towel within reach, good porn on the laptop, and hearing a weak tap on the door with a faint accented, “Housekeeping.”
We grabbed our bags and followed behind the gate agent like little ducklings as she led us down the jet bridge. Once we were all piled up at the end she pushed in the secret code and opened the door leading down to the tarmac. The five of us lifted up our bags and slowly descended down the unstable and slippery metal stairs. So fucking dangerous. Was the airline looking to fill out five on-the-job injury claims? It seemed that way. Even though I wasn’t in the mood to deal with any injuries, I secretly wished Ursula slipped and fell to the tarmac. I didn’t want her to die or anything dramatic like that. Maybe just a little whiplash to knock the slut out of her.
The airport shuttle was waiting and immediately whisked us off to the airplane. It was still overcast as we left the terminal for an unknown location somewhere on the tarmac. Although pleased there were no passengers on the shuttle, the dense fog and drizzle hanging over the airport made me question whether we’d depart safely.
“It’s so depressing here today.” Misty said while riding towards our airplane. I nodded my head in agreement. We had no knowledge of the number of airplanes that diverted to the airport or how many were lined up along the runway awaiting their crews. We couldn’t see anything out the window but I knew the airplanes were out there. It was as if the blanket of fog that greeted me earlier in the morning followed us to the airport. A few minutes went by before a break in the fog revealed the outline of an airplane and then a hint of color before it came into view. Our airplane was parked alongside two other airplanes with the airstairs truck parked a few feet away. For safety measures the airstairs are moved away from the airplane when it’s out on a hard stand overnight. The shuttle pulled up to the side of the airplane and we filed out, grabbed our luggage, and waited for the gate agent to pull the stairs closer to the airplane. She walked up the stairs first, opening the airplane door, and then we all climbed up in a single file behind Captain Emerson. I immediately felt like a movie star walking up the shaky stairs. Even though we had a rocky start to the morning, strutting up those stairs and onto the airplane put me in a better mood. I’m not saying that I was completely cured of being a curmudgeon old bitch, but I was on my way. One more flight. One more flight. One more fucking flight. If I kept telling myself that for the next five hours I was sure I’d make it through the rest of the day. I stopped in the middle of the airplane, hoisted up my suitcase into the overhead bin, clicked my black size 11 Dockers from JCPenney together three times, and whispered to myself, “One more flight.”
“One long leg and we will be done, Joe.” Misty stated as I caught up to her in back of the airplane. Was she psychic? Could she read my mind? I hope not or she probably already knew I had undressed her with my eyes. I may be gay but I am not stupid.
“Yes. I need this trip to be over. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” I blamed my mood on sleep but in reality it was Ursula that I was tired of. I kept that information to myself. Misty and Ursula were friends and I’ve learned that when working with flight attendants who happen to be friends you don’t offer your opinion if it’s a negative one. You keep your mouth shut. Too bad Ursula didn’t live by that rule. I opened and closed overhead bins verifying the emergency equipment was present and secured when I heard the PA come alive throughout the cabin.
Ursula’s voice boomed from my right eardrum to my left, “Do you guys want to come up here and brief? They want to start boarding right away.”
“Of course they do,” I mumbled while smiling at Misty. She followed me up the aisle to the front of the airplane where Captain Emerson, Ursula, and the gate agent patiently waited.
The second Captain Emerson finished briefing us on our flight time and weather to Cleveland the gate agent rudely interrupted, “Are you guys ready to board?” She stood on the top of the airstairs looking into the airplane with her walkie talkie in hand anxious to push the talk button.
“Are you guys ready in the back?” Ursula asked pushing her mismanaged hair out of her face.
Starting towards the back of the airplane I answered without turning to face her, “Yes. Send them up. I need to get out of here.” I continued to the middle of the airplane and took my position in the exit row. Misty raced to the back galley to finish her security checks and Ursula stood up front with her half crooked smile and smeared on lipstick.
The buses carrying all our passengers arrived quickly and it took only a few minutes before they were awkwardly climbing the airstairs and walking onto the airplane. The drizzle had turned to full blown rain by this point and I assumed these passengers were miserable. I couldn’t blame them. I later found out that the airline never contacted any of them to advise on the status of the airplane and that it never landed in San Francisco. These passengers woke up at the asscrack of dawn and drove all the way to the airport to find out that they were being bused an hour away to another airport. By the time the first passenger approached me in the exit row I had my game face on. Which at this point was faker than Ursula’s eyelashes. My cheeks were ready to crack from the Joker smile I painted on. And just to confirm, Heath Ledger’s Joker—not Jack Nicholson’s.
“Good morning.” Smile. “Welcome.” Nod. I alternated greetings and gestures to each passenger stumbling passed me down the aisle. I don’t want to brag but I am a certified bullshit artist when it comes to greeting
people on the airplane. My greetings are perfected to the point where no passenger could ever guess I hated them all. Without thinking, and probably because I was caffeine deprived, I added, “How are you?” to one guy who looked like the only thing he wanted to do was punch the grin right off my face. What was I thinking asking one of these passengers an open ended question?
Right on cue he spit out, “I love being delayed.” He paused for a moment when I didn’t instantly respond. Then he added, “Just glad to finally be on the airplane and out of the rain.”
My smile grew bigger. “Yes, sir. This weather is terrible today. We were bused over from San Francisco, too.” I can’t begin to wonder why I added that to the conversation. It brought nothing but an avenue for him to continue talking with me. He didn’t give a damn if I walked the entire way in my bare feet over broken glass. Luckily for me, the line began flowing so he continued past me while I smiled the entire time. It’s all so exhausting.
Keeping on my toes and not letting these passengers know I was just as disappointed as they were about our morning was front and center in my mind. Besides the one guy who stopped to talk to me, most of the passengers—even with the hassle of a bus ride from San Francisco—had a positive attitude.
Travel delays suck. I understand. Honestly, I am not innocent of having my share of meltdowns due to an extended airport delay. I’ve been known to get crazy with the best of them (did you read the last chapter), but I’d rather get to my final destination late than have the airline cancel the flight. Do you agree? I assume most people agree. There are probably a select few who’d rather have the flight cancelled to start fresh the next morning but fuck that.
Whenever I have waited at the airport because of a rolling delay, all I focused on was getting home. Spending another night away from home was never an option. I’d find a nice quiet carpeted corner of the airport, get on my knees, and pray to God that the flight wouldn’t get cancelled. It never got cancelled. Why? Because God always answers the prayers of a gay guy on his knees. Don’t believe me? Do you think it’s a coincidence that porn is available online for free? What about our friend Barack Obama. How do you think he became president? The gays. There were more cocksuckers on their knees praying during those two Presidential campaigns then all the gay pride parades combined.
As more passengers boarded I was displaced and forced to move from the exit row towards the rear of the airplane. I made it to row 19 when an older female passenger asked me to lift her bag up into the overhead bin. Normally, we are not required to lift a passenger bag without their assistance, but this decrepit lady was tiny and I was being nice. She looked like an older Jessica Tandy. Why was she traveling alone? I had no idea but my generous attention and kindness towards her proved that I can still be nice even when I haven’t had my morning coffee.
Stepping halfway into the row to place her bag in the overhead bin I heard a faint voice in my left ear. Was someone talking to me? It was a female voice, that I could tell, but whoever was delivering the message couldn’t possibly be talking to me. They must have been talking to someone else because I had a large piece of luggage hanging over me and Jessica Tandy’s head. The option of lending a hand to another passenger at that moment was out of the question. Dropping the bag on my head, or even worse, on Jessica Tandy’s doppelganger was not part of my morning plan. I had enough paperwork to complete due to our airplane diverting the night before. Filling out any further incident reports would have to wait for the next time I worked. The female voice swam inside my head for a fleeting moment and then it was gone. My focus was on placing the bag into the overhead bin and stepping out of the way. I turned the bag around so the wheels were facing out and looked down at Jessica’s warm face. “There you go.”
Without thinking I stepped back into row 19 and began greeting passengers. Then it happened.
The same female voice blasted, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!”
Allow me to paint a clearer picture with brighter colors so you fully understand the situation. The area of the airplane we were standing in was a total cluster fuck with passengers getting themselves settled. Luggage was being tossed into any open space available in the overhead bins while children screamed from their car seats after being strapped in by their parents. Controlled anarchy should always be expected on an airplane. It was hard focusing on any one person while everyone in the surrounding area thought they were more important than the person standing next to them. As turbulent as it was, I never expected an explosion of that magnitude to go off right next to me. That bitch might as well have been a suicide bomber because the moment her sentence detonated out of her mouth—row 19 became ground fucking zero.
My neck swung around so fast it still hurts. I became possessed with Willow Smith. If I had hair I’d have whipped it back and forth and knocked her fucking lights out. I turned to face this unknown villainous creature (not knowing what I’d find) and immediately stopped after coming face-to-face with a petite-sized woman. The power projecting from her deep voice had me expecting to throw down with Xena. Or a woman who doesn’t fuck around, like Hillary Clinton. Someone who starts a fight and can finish it. This bitch couldn’t finish a cup of coffee without assistance. She sported short brown hair, black framed glasses, and if I passed her on the street I’d assume she was on her way to volunteer at a soup kitchen. She looked innocent until we made eye contact. Then she scowled so angrily I instantly wished her mother had aborted her.
The kicker was she had a baby in her arms. She actually produced an offspring? Are you kidding me? Can you imagine the level of demonic forces flowing through those little veins? I’ve probably been two feet from the Antichrist and I was too shocked to snap a picture. I was dumbfounded that she spoke to me in that tone. I’m the flight attendant. The male flight attendant. The male flight attendant with a beard, bald head, and thick neck. Was nobody afraid of me? If I sported a few tattoos on my arms I might look like I had recently been released from prison, not asking you if you’d like cream and sugar in your coffee. My neck immediately turned red which is something that happens when I'm ready to attack. This lady was a fluffy white poodle who ventured too close to the water’s edge and I was the hungry alligator who was moments away from devouring her. My adrenaline kicked into high gear. Think of it as that moment you are walking along a desert trail and hear the warning sound from a rattlesnake a few feet away. Has that happened to you? Me neither. But if it did I’d expect my heart to gallop just as fast as it was while standing at row 19 facing off with this demon.
It may seem from my yammering on that minutes—or even hours—passed while we stood there staring at each other. That was not the case. Once I heard the word ‘fuck’ broadcasted louder than a touchdown during Monday night football, I yanked my glasses off my face and leaned in closer, "What did you just say to me?"
She ignored me which infuriated me. Completely forgetting I was a working professional, on an airplane, unable to get crazy, I leaned in again and stopped a mere five inches from her face, "You don't need to talk to me like that. Do you hear me?"
Her eyes flickered with an evil I hadn’t seen since the nuns at Our Lady of Sorrows. I backed away for a moment but didn’t break my eye contact with her. I usually refrain from talking to passengers like that, but what can I say, I am only human. She, on the other hand, was a horrid succubus who sucked the life out of anyone who spent more than five seconds with her. I concluded that she had come from the netherworld to steal my happiness and fuck up my morning more than the weather had already done.
I stepped out into the aisle but didn’t move past row 20. I hovered there waiting for her to respond but she gave me nothing. Nothing. She slide into row 19 and took her aisle seat as if I had vanished into the overhead bin. A second later the man behind her, a gray hair gentleman, walked up with multiple bags in his hands and said, "Don't get into it with her. It isn't worth it."
Was this her therapist? Maybe it was her priest, although I doubted that. No God-fearin
g man could withstand such close proximity with that level of evil without combusting. It had to be her father and if he was telling me to let the incident go, I should have taken that as a warning to stop poking my stick at this hornet’s nest. Coming down the aisle behind him was a well dressed older lady who I assumed gave birth to this serpent from the abyss. I’d hate to see the inside of her vagina; it’s probably got more claw marks than a cat’s scratching post. I defended my spot at row 20 while watching the entire family crowd around and take their seats at row 19. The mother and father sat across from my nemesis in seats 19 B and C. I kept my eye on the three of them, four if you included the Antichrist sitting on his mother’s lap, and then casually looked up to see her battered husband making his way towards me with the child’s car seat. If body language was processed through our ears I’d have needed ear plugs watching this guy warily stroll up the aisle. His darkened eyes, low hanging head, and somber expression gave the impression of someone who'd rather be put out of their misery than spend one more millisecond married to this lady. First impressions are powerful and it was clear that this guy didn’t get much sleep. How could he? He was sleeping with the enemy. I imagined most nights he laid awake with one eye opened resulting in his physically exhausted looking state. He made it to row 19 and glared at me with this gloom that mimicked how a human trafficking victim might make eye contact with you while they internally scream for help. He awkwardly secured the car seat against the window. His evil wife didn’t offer to help him; I wasn’t surprised. After he attached the seat belt through the car seat, she handed the baby over never once acknowledging him. She didn’t say one word. He was treated like the hired help. If I had a few matches, some gasoline, and a DVD copy of the The Burning Bed, I’d have slipped it to him whenever he got up to use the lavatory and wished him luck when he got to the hotel. He most likely had a copy in his checked bag.
