Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  My eyes fixated on this tall, attractive, Italian guy making his way towards my row. He sported a black baseball cap—placed backwards for extra hotness—tight white plain t-shirt, black Adidas gym shorts, and good-looking five o’clock shadow. It may have been hours away but it was five o’clock somewhere and that somewhere was right in front of me. This guy projected manliness. It oozed out of his body from every visible pore. If he was smart he’d bottle his essence, sell it at every gay pride parade in America, and make millions. He was that gorgeous. Goddamn he was hot. My mouth watered just looking at him fully dressed; I’d probably bust a water main if I saw him full monty. He was a mature sexy man and if things went well he’d take the seat next to me for the next few hours. This Italian stallion was a beautiful stranger and I fantasized about us holding hands, tongue wrestling, him feeding me peanuts, and us sharing my ginger ale during the flight. What? I may be married but my ashes aren’t blowing in the wind. When a fine ass hunk of Italian sausage walks your way, you better get your buns ready just in case. My fantasy was at full throttle until he stopped at my row and stepped out of the way. A repulsive sound rang through the entire airplane and broke my focus on his handsomely structured face. I jerked my head away and quickly looked out the window.

  What snapped me out of my mid-morning wet dream was the high-pitched New York accent projecting from behind him, “Where we sittin’? I ain’t sittin’ all da way back hea!”

  I looked back at them to watch the disaster unfold, “Shut up, aight,” he barked while taking her bag, “Give me ya bag and sit down.”

  “We gotta sit back hea? Oh my fuckin gawd, this is horrible.” She eyeballed my row with a look on her face as if she just shit her pants. Then she looked at me for a brief second to acknowledge that someone was actually sitting in the window and went right back to her man, “I ain’t sittin in no middle seat, babe.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end while they argued back and forth about who was going to sit in the middle seat.

  “No. I ain’t. You ain’t making me.”

  He flung her bag into the overhead bin, “Reeta, sit da hell down. Why you gotta make everything so damn difficult, eh?”

  “Babe, Don’t tawk like dat.” She screeched, “I need to be on the end so I can get up to pee.” Her chipped painted fingernails flew around in his face in what seemed to be her way of getting her point across.

  He mumbled under his breath, “Sit da fuck down and shut up. I ain’t sittin in no middle.”

  I quietly wished that he had won the middle seat because sitting beside me was probably the best thing that would happen to him for the rest of his life. Or at least this flight. He won. I lost. She sat down in the aisle seat and scooted herself over into the middle pouting the entire time. We both pouted but for different reasons; my reason being I was left sitting next to a loud mouth. And that’s saying something coming from me.

  Reeta was an aged cut-out character from the since cancelled MTV television show Jersey Shore. Actually, she was more like a dilapidated cut out who had been bent in half, kicked a few times, and left in the attic for years only to be brought out again and placed next to me on this flight. I know, I am a lucky guy. Even after sitting down she continued talking—if that’s what you called it—but her words sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Not because she mumbled but because my mind was fixated on her husband’s muscular arms. Her voice became background noise while my mind focused on nothing else but swinging on his arms as if they were thick oak branches. I haven’t climbed a tree in over 25 years but I was willing to give it my best try. His limbs were powerful. I am not exaggerating either, these were no ordinary, run-of-the-mill kinda arms. Oh no. These were beefy tattooed arms that belonged in a museum, or around my neck, preferably the latter. Instead, his left arm was wrapped around Reeta’s shoulder while the right dangled playfully between his legs. I damned him for sitting in the aisle so far from me.

  Her shrill voice sounded like Chandler Bing’s girlfriend, Janice, from Friends, “Do you tink da girls are aight?” She didn’t let him answer, “Bobby, the weatha is so bad at home. I hope our babies are ok. If my babies aren’t okay I swea I’m gonna fuckin lose it.”

  Whatever she was going to lose I hoped it was lost before we took off so we could return to the gate and drop her off. Bobby could stay. Bobby could always stay.

  “Don’t worry, babe, da girls are cool. Just fuckin relax.”

  I silently agreed with Bobby and thought to myself, “Yes, please, just fucking relax. And shut up.” They noisily unwrapped McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches from a bag and the smell made my stomach bitch slap my esophagus for being late and not eating breakfast. The thought of pretzels and nuts for breakfast was unpleasing but a true reality. I pretended to watch television but kept glimpsing over at the two of them with envy. Reeta had the two things that I wanted more than anything at that exact moment: McDonald’s and the handsome stallion Bobby. The universe was paying me back for being such a cunty bitch to Rusty. I deserved this treatment but I didn’t have to like it.

  My earbuds were tightly in place but nothing blocked her annoying voice only a foot from my right ear. She was a human megaphone getting louder and louder with each word she uttered from her cracked lips. She attacked her Egg McMuffin sandwich, with bits and pieces spraying all over her tray table and shirt, and I thought for a moment that if she started choking on the rubbery English muffin, I’d lay my head against the window and watch the drama unfold.

  The airplane pulled away from the gate and during the flight attendant safety demonstration, Bobby texted someone which made her howl. “You gonna crash the fuckin plane. I’m tellin on you, babe.” She reminded me of a monkey who was trained to speak. I wanted to give her a banana and see if she could peel it. They were full grown adults but their thick child-like accents reminded me of two toddlers who had escaped their playpen.

  “Calm down. My phone is off. Go to sleep, will ya,” He ordered her and I fell in love with him a little more each time he verbally abused her. I am not proud of that admission but his aggressive behavior fit in perfectly for the role he’d played in my sexual fantasy. For one thing, Bobby wasn’t blind to her ignorance. She was a big set of tits carrying around the brain of a turkey. Great to have around for Thanksgiving, but terrible to sit next to on a 2 1/2 hour flight. Clearly, he let the power of her tits and vagina guide him into this relationship. There was no other explanation. Nobody from the planet Earth would look at Reeta’s face and confess their love. Impossible. Her adult acne would put ProActive out of business.

  The flight to JFK was uneventful and they slept. She curled up in his armpit and I was relieved that she was hiding her face… and not talking. He held his head down and his eyes were closed with his big masculine left hand placed carefully on her leg proclaiming his property. A piece of property that lost value every second of the day.

  As we got closer to JFK the air became more turbulent. The Captain came alive on the PA, “Ladies and Gentlemen, due to the weather over JFK we’ve been put into a holding pattern while we wait for the weather to do it’s part so we can land safely. It will get a little bumpy so please remain seated while the seatbelt sign is on.” The seat belt instantly lit up as the airplane vibrated and bounced through the clouds.

  This was common and nothing to fear. Holding patterns are a part of life when you fly in and out of JFK. When the weather cockblocks airplanes from landing safely, Air Traffic Control contacts the pilots and arranges them in a holding pattern. I’m baffled by how airplanes can fly around in circles and not crash into each other. I can barely merge into the next lane without running someone off the road and here you have multiple 16 ton airplanes traveling at ridiculous speeds, dancing around the clouds waiting to land once the weather clears. Fuck that! It’s choreography that boggles my mind. Honestly, there’s really never a good time to land in JFK. The weather above New York City will make the most seasoned t
raveler weak in their bowels. I haven’t even taken into account that there are three major airports within 25 miles catering to the friendly and loving citizens of New York City. That’s a lot of mayhem flying above your head during a thunderstorm.

  It didn’t take long for the turbulence to wake Reeta and my Prince Charming from their naps. She became unhinged and spilled her hysteria all over our row, “We are gonna crash. I knew we shoulda like drove back from Orlando. Why do I fuckin’ listen to you?” She snapped her head from looking out the window back to Bobby, “You are so fuckin stoopid,” She tugged desperately on his arm while he stared blankly at the television screen.

  At that moment, and I am not exaggerating—at that EXACT moment, the airplane hit a pocket of air and we plummeted hundreds of feet. It caught me off guard to the point of clutching my pearls and gasping like I was watching an episode of How to Get Away with Murder. And I work on the airplane.

  Before I go any further, let me break down turbulence in my own words. This will be a quick explanation so pay close attention. Ready? When it comes to air travel there are three levels of turbulence: light, moderate, and severe. Or as I like to call them: damn, oh shit, and FUUUUUCK! You may be lucky and go your entire life without experiencing turbulence. Every one of your flights reminds you of peacefully floating in a canoe on a lake during summer visits to Vermont. If that’s you, I don’t want to hear about it. My flights are prone to experience some level of turbulence. In my history, I have had hundreds of damns, a few serious oh shits, and two uncomfortable FUUUUUK!s.

  My first FUUUUUCK! was on a flight from JFK to Jacksonville. Surprisingly, it came out of nowhere and was over quicker than I had expected, just like the fuck that took my virginity. We were flying at 38,000 feet, somewhere over North Carolina, when out of nowhere we flew straight into a pocket of air that sent the airplane rolling to the right. Let me say that this was no slight roll. This roll was dramatic enough to win an Oscar. For a brief second we were flying sideways. Nobody on the airplane was prepared, pilots included. When we flew through the turbulent air, I had been standing in front of my jump seat chitchatting with a coworker from our human resources department who I had known from my time on the Standards Advisory Team. She leaned against the back galley counter looking down the aisle towards the front of the airplane while I stood slightly to her left and another flight attendant was flanked to her right next to the coffee maker. All three lavatories were full with passengers and a few were lined up waiting their turn. The flight was uneventful from our departure out of JFK. This was our canoe and the smooth air was our Lake Champlain. Then the wave came and it was pandemonium. The human resource employee and the other flight attendant dropped to the floor. I say dropped because that’s exactly what it was—one minute they were standing and the next they were sitting with their legs crossed. I grabbed the oh shit bar on the galley counter—in this case the FUUUUUCK! bar—and immediately sat down in my jump seat and secured my harness. The passengers in the lavatories were tossed around like dice during a game of Trouble. Screams and howls came from every seat on the airplane. After we leveled off one lady refused to come out of the lavatory and sat in there squealing like a stuck pig. Like I said, Oscar worthy drama. After all was said and done nobody moved from their seats for the rest of the flight. I loved that part.

  Back to row 22. The turbulence I had just shared with Princess Fiona was of the FUUUUUK! caliber. This was my second FUUUUCK! and honestly, after that last one, I’m all FUUUUCK!-ed out.

  Reeta started crying and buried her face deep into Bobby’s arm. I was scared too but was I thrusting myself into his sweaty greasemonkey pits? No. Did I want to? Yes! Sure, I would have walked off the airplane with his fist imprinted on the side of my skull, but that’s not the point. The point was he was gorgeous and probably worked on cars somewhere in Brooklyn.

  The working on cars is a total fabrication on my part. It was obvious Bobby was on welfare.

  It was time to take control of row 22. I pulled out my airline ID from inside the seatback pocket and tapped Reeta on the arm, they both looked up at me—he was so fucking sexy. “Hi, I’m Joe. I’m a flight attendant at this airline. This is just from all the bad weather. Everything will be ok.”

  She looked at me and for a moment I felt bad for her. She gave me a half smile, “Thank you. I’m like so fuckin’ scared. These pilots better know what they are doin. I have babies at home.”

  I reassured her, “The pilots are trained for this type of weather. We’ll be fine.” Then I added that she would soon be safely on the ground and home with her babies. I wondered what her babies might look like and it gave me a sharp chill. All I will say is I hope their daddies genes were stronger than their mothers. I imagined them to be little hairy Neanderthals running around their backyard half-naked, eating out of the trash can, and yowling, “Where foooooooood?” Reeta was that unattractive. She wiped her mascara-stained cheeks with the back of her hand and shoved her head back into his arm like an ostrich. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and winked at me.

  That wink sent my balls into overdrive. My swimmers paddled around thinking it was the Summer Olympics as they prepared to shoot out of my canon at top speed. I was three strokes away from winning the gold. Even though he went back to watching the television I stared at the side of his face and thought, “Can I hold your hand please? I’m just as frightened as her.” I actually heard the words aloud in my delusional mind. He never turned to look at me so I am pretty sure my inner monologue didn’t fail me. Maybe it did. Maybe he actually did hear me but decided to simply ignore the crazy gay guy seated next to them. I will never know.

  That was the melodrama happening inside the airplane. Outside, the scene was just as grim. The white and gray fluffy clouds surrounding the airplane obscured any view of land or sea below and the vibrating airplane became unsettling, even for me. The turbulence level switched from oh shit to FUUUUCK! and then back to oh shit all within 60 seconds. And then repeated the same pattern numerous times reminding me of a bipolar patient off their medication. Although I have persevered through my fear of flying, there are still rare occasions when I get nervous barreling through the sky in a tube; this was definitely one of those times.

  I turned the television channel to the live map to monitor our progress. I expected the airplane to break through the clouds soon to attempt a landing. The cloud coverage did nothing to ease my anxiety and I was not the only passenger who felt that way. The murmurs increased over the safety of the flight. The extreme tension outside the airplane had found its way inside the fuselage and whispered into our ears, “Something is wrong. Prepare for it.”

  Every few seconds I turned from the map channel to the window and then back to the map channel for perspective on our location but my attempts were unsuccessful. The cloud coverage was too blinding. The map clearly showed us at an elevation of 2,000 ft and heading towards northern New Jersey. Were we going to attempt a landing in Newark? I never got an answer.

  A few moments later the airplane burst through the clouds giving me a crystal clear view of the Statue of Liberty. There she was, waving her green torch like she was trying to grab my attention. She didn’t need to wave too hard, I was quite aware she was right outside my window. I had never seen her from an airplane window. On second thought, I had no idea airplanes were even allowed to fly this close to her. I internally freaked out when I realized we were flying towards downtown Manhattan at a very low altitude.

  We reached 1,800 ft and turned right allowing lower Manhattan to come into view. I couldn’t believe how low and close we were to Manhattan. The airplane kept descending and it seemed to me that we were too far from JFK to attempt a landing. I am no pilot but when it seems like you can step out onto the wing and do a somersault into the water, you are flying too low.

  Then it hit me upside the head like a bag of minis: we were ditching in the Hudson River.

  The word ditching hurts my ears. It really does. When I hear it the hairs on the b
ack of my neck stand up. When I say it, those same hairs whisper into my ear to shut the fuck up. Ditching is just a nicer way to say death. It’s that simple. There’s nothing cute about it. Most likely, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) came up with this term because, let’s face it, to the normal ear it does sound less painful than the word crashing. But it’s the same fucking thing. Actually, it’s much worse than crashing. Have you ever dove off a diving board into a pool and accidently experienced a belly-flop? Screams of pain and torture flood my brain remembering my horrific belly-flops as a child. It’s excruciating. Now take one of those experiences, but this time add about 500 miles per hour to it. That’s ditching. They should really change the name from ditching to crashing violently into a body of water and dying. That seems more on point. When I was in flight attendant training one of my instructors stood up and said, “Well, if you ditch you probably won’t make it anyway.” She’s no longer an instructor and for good reason. It took all our energy to stay seated and not run for our lives.

  Crazy thoughts scrambled around inside my head as we continued to descend, “They won’t make it to the airport. The winds are too strong. I am going to miss Matt and the cats. We are in trouble.”

  Our pilots hadn’t given us a report in approximately 20 minutes and I figured they were in the flight deck trying to save the airplane and all 155 people on board. As scared as all this was, I knew I had to stay calm because I had the Mad Hatter sitting next to me and if I showed any signs of fear or uncertainty, she might freak out.

  I imagined her yelling, “You told me everything was going to be ok!” as she shook me and splattered mascara all over my face.