by Joe Thomas
My focus was on surviving and getting out of that airplane. Nothing else mattered. I quietly planned what to do once we splashed down into the water, if we weren’t in a few dozen pieces. Flight attendants are trained for this type of emergency, but not from seat 22A. My quick actions meant everything. I figured the tail of the airplane, and the two back doors, would be submerged under water so going out the back was not an option. The only way to save my own ass was to climb over twelve rows of seats to get to the overwing exit windows. I made the decision to climb over children, women, and men to get to the exit. I’d use Reeta’s body as a weapon if I had to.
I was not going to die.
All my focus was on my escape plan. And it was a good one. If executed quickly and correctly, I’d be out of the airplane, on the wing, and assisting other passengers to safety. With my legs I pushed my tote bag as far under the seat in front of me and tightened my seat belt just short of cutting off circulation. I slid my cell phone deep inside my front pocket figuring that it might come in handy if I didn’t get wet. I knew that was a long shot; I would be in the freezing Hudson River in only a few moments just like the passengers and crew on US Airways Flight #1549.
Do I need to explain what happened to Flight #1549? If you haven’t been living under a rock, and watch the news, you are well aware of this heroic flight. But for the minuscule few who have no idea what I am talking about, here’s a brief explanation: In 2009, Flight #1549 departed LaGuardia Airport for a nonstop flight to Charlotte Douglas International Airport. After being airborne for only three minutes the airplane struck a gaggle of geese which ultimately took out both engines. Captain Sullenberger and First Officer Skiles, realizing they wouldn’t make it to the closest airport, ditched the airplane in the Hudson River. There were no casualties. It was so fucking impressive that Kitty Higgins from the NTSB stated it was, "the most successful ditching in aviation history."
I know what you are thinking and I am right there with you, the amount of pussy thrown at these two pilots after this successful ditching must have been staggering. Just imagine all the mothers, daughters, grandmothers—that transgender aunt you only talk to on Facebook—being so enamored with these two that they just laid out their pussies like an endless shrimp buffet at Red Lobster. Trust me, that’s a lot of pussy, even for two pilots.
I looked out the window at the water below and thought to myself, “I am not going to die. I am not going to die. I AM NOT GOING TO DIE!” as we continued to descend with JFK nowhere in sight.
Matt crossed my mind while my head swept from the television, to the window and ahead to see how tall the people were in front of me. Making my way up to the over wing exit looked remarkably challenging but none of that mattered if the airplane broke apart once we hit the water. The rain was coming down violently, something that was not a factor when Flight #1549 ditched safely in the Hudson River, and the wind was howling mad all around us.
The Captain came back over the PA, “Ladies and gentlemen we will be landing in JFK shortly, flight attendants please be seated for landing.”
My head swung back to peer out the window, we were somewhere over Brooklyn. Land. That was reassuring, I guess. Were our chances better ditching in the water or crashing into row houses somewhere in Queens? I had no idea. The negativity and ideas of certain death were warping my reality. Why do I let these dubious assumptions take control of me? The captain had specifically stated that we were landing at JFK so why did I still have doubt? I shook my head hoping those negative thoughts escaped my mind as quickly as they appeared. I forced myself to think about being safely on the ground, at the gate, and on my way to my fabulous hotel in Manhattan. It worked for a moment.
The landing gear came down and the rotating sound of the wheels hitting the air was soothing as we continued our descent towards the airport. I stayed quiet while my insides screamed, “land this fucking airplane.” I leaned my head back against the seat and took deep breaths counting the minutes until we touched down at JFK.
Without warning, the engines roared loudly and everyone looked up from their televisions as the airplane started ascending back into the sky. I heard the wheels retracting back inside the belly of the airplane. I looked out the window to see the ground quickly disappear again due to the white clouds. 2,000ft. 3,000ft. 4,000ft. 8,000ft, 10,000ft—What the hell was going on? On the live map, it seemed we were heading northwest. The airplane breached the 10,000ft mark as we made our way out of New York City and towards New Jersey. Still with no word from our pilots, three things quickly became clear: we were not landing at JFK, we were diverting, and we were running out of fuel.
Where were we going? Newark was south of us, but we continued on a northwestern route. It was clear that Newark was not our destination. Pittsburgh? That made sense. It was the next city we flew to in our flight path but Pittsburgh was approximately 400 miles away. Did we have enough fuel for that distance? So many questions and no fucking answers. I understood the pilots were busy but a little message would have put everyone at ease. My mind raced right back to the fuel. We had been circling in a holding pattern for over an hour and our fuel reserves were most likely depleted. I honestly didn’t know if that was true or not but at some point the airplane runs out of fuel. We hadn’t boarded an electric-powered airplane.
To be honest, I am ignorant to the ins and outs of fuel on the airplane. I am serious. There are two things I know for sure: fuel is stored in the wings and that it’s crucial so the airplane doesn’t fall out of the sky. After that I hit my fuel wall. I suppose that’s really all the flight attendant needs to know, right? Who has time to worry about airplane fuel while dealing with real issues on the airplane, like managing passengers’ emotions after running out of Dr Pepper on a flight to Texas. If you want to enrage a Texan, tell them you are all out of Dr. Pepper. And that there’s a black president. And that same-sex marriage is legal throughout the United States. And that an abortion should be the decision of the woman involved and not the government. You get my point, it’s not pretty.
When I sat down to write this chapter I contacted my pilot friend, Trick Daddy, asking for a quick tutorial on airplane fuel. How much fuel does each flight need? Who is tasked with this important responsibility? Is there a mathematical equation deciding how much goes onto the airplane or do they just pull up to the gate, open the flight deck window, and yell out, “Fill ‘er up,” like at a gas station in New Jersey? It was imperative that I find out these specifics. We spent over an hour talking about airplane fuel. While he lectured on, I feverishly filled my steno pad with important notes. Trick Daddy was so on point with his feedback I should have been able to hang up and immediately go to work for an airline as a fueler. But that wasn’t the case. When we finally hung up the phone, I sat blankly staring at a bunch of words that still made no sense to me. I am a terrible note taker. A few weeks later I called him back and asked for an even shorter explanation. He was up for it and just as enthusiastic as the first time. His reaction was not a surprise, pilots love to explain their jobs to any layperson who will listen. They also love to lay any person who will let them—but that’s a conversation for later.
After his second attempt at drilling the information into my head, I came out with a little more understanding than the first time. It’s actually quite simple. For each flight, dispatch works with the pilots and fuelers to guarantee there’s more than enough fuel on the airplane at any given time. This includes: taxiing fuel, fuel for the scheduled destination, extra holding fuel for bad weather, alternate airport fuel in case of a diversion, and finally an additional 45 minutes of fuel required by law. That additional 45 minutes of fuel should never be used except in a dire emergency. The airplane should take off and land with that 45 minutes of fuel. That last sentence must be a crucial point because it was written down in my notes three times and underlined with a black sharpie.
As we flew to our unknown destination I’d bet all Reeta’s tears that we were in a dire emergency and had already bu
rned through 35 minutes of our 45 minute reserve. The reserve that you are never supposed to tap into. I wondered who else had fuel on the brain but there was no further chatting or murmuring going on around me. Everyone was silent and waiting for whatever was going to happen to happen. Survivors of airplane disasters have gone on record stating that before the airplane crashes everyone onboard becomes eerily quiet and preparing for the worst. I just wanted to scream.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” our captain announced, “seems like mother nature is giving us a difficult time today. We had a short window of opportunity to land at JFK and due to the winds we missed it. We are running low on fuel and will be diverting to Harrisburg to refuel and wait for a new window to take off and land safely in JFK. Just so you know, our airline doesn’t typically fly into Harrisburg so there are no airport employees here to let passengers off the airplane.”
You could almost feel the passenger’s level of anxiety lower inside the airplane. My first thought was, “no shit we are running low on fuel,” but I smiled knowing that my panic was warranted. Once the other passengers realized we weren’t going to die-even though diverting to Harrisburg is almost equal to death-the chatter began and most passengers understood that safety was the most important thing. Diverting is much better than landing in bad weather and have my body ripped to shreds while the airplane cartwheels down the runway in a ball of fire and debris.
Of course, to no surprise, Reeta did not feel the same way.
When the airplane finally landed safely at Harrisburg International Airport and rolled to a stop away from the runway, Reeta became a different person. That’s not a good thing. She wiped away her alligator tears smearing her mascara and immediately began bitching about what had happened. “We just almost fuckin’ died. This airline is ridiculous.” She looked over towards me but I continued looking out the window. I knew she was gawking at me because I could feel the heat from her breath on the side of my neck. Definitely a reason to pull out the air sickness bag and fill it up. My empathy for her vanished; I wanted to punch her in the face. That was a sure way to keep her husband from becoming my Facebook friend so instead I turned on my cell phone to send off some text messages. A few coworkers were waiting for me at JFK so we could all commute into Manhattan together on the train. My entire day was being swallowed up by this diversion.
When Reeta got zero response from me she went back to Bobby, “This is fucking bullshit. Right? I’m not flyin’ to New York babe. Rent a car. I want off this fuckin plane.”
He ignored her.
“I thought we was, like, gonna die. Babe? Babe, listen to me.” She snarled when he started punching numbers into his cell phone, “Who you callin?” Bobby continued on his cell phone like she wasn’t there. I wondered if he secretly wished we ditched in the river so he could have sat on her head until the bubbles stopped.
Most of the passengers remained calm and kept their spirits up. Our captain updated us with good news and bad news. The good news was refueling was completed and we’d take off for JFK as soon as ATC allowed us. The bad news was that it could take up to four hours before we were granted permission to leave. It was a grim thought being stuck on board the airplane next to Reeta for an additional four hours.
“I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day,” she howled at Bobby. She reminded me of a pull string doll that said everything you didn’t want to hear. I was irritated with her bitching about food because I was the one who hadn’t eaten all day. It took all my strength not to remind her of the Egg McMuffin she abused only three hours prior.
“Bobby. Bobby?” She shook his arm, “Get me a snack. Fuck, you’d think they’d bring some water or something.” She ranted with no response from Bobby while he continued whispering into his cell phone.
She continued pulling her own string and verbalizing every passing thought, “I want off this fuckin’ plane. We can drive. They can’t hold us hostage.”
He finished his phone conversation and finally responded, “We aren’t driving. I told you to chill out.” Then as if he was sharing the weather he said, “The girls stayed home from school today. They are sick.”
Reeta’s response led you to believe the airplane landed on their house.
She screamed, “What? What’s wron with my babies. I don’t like this, Bobby. We have to get out of here. I want to drive back to New Yawk.”
“Everything is aight. My motha said they were runnin’ fevers dis mornin’ but they are fine now.” He tried to reassure her, “and we are not rentin’ a car and driving to New Yawk.”
After watching the rain come down for an hour my ears were bleeding from Reeta’s venting. They weren’t really bleeding but they should have been. She wouldn’t shut up. Did she talk this much when a dick was in her mouth? I was jealous just thinking about Bobby’s dick in her mouth. I thought about how much I truly hated the dentist but drilling, pulling teeth, and enduring a root canal was less painful than being stuck on a runway, in the middle of Pennsylvania, sitting next to Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey.
Many passengers were standing in the aisle waiting for the lavatories and at this point in the game I was hungrier than a Guantanamo Bay hostage. My hunger took a turn for the worse when I realized I was secretly searching the carpet for crumbs from Reeta’s Egg McMuffin. I was so desperate I fantasized about snacking on anything, especially the deliciousness of an English muffin’s nooks and crannies. It was for the best she destroyed every morsel of that sandwich. Explaining my actions while she looked down at me rummaging through her McDonald’s bag might have been tricky.
My left knee became stiff so I decided that it was a good time to get up, stretch, use the lavatory, and purchase an airline meal. I smiled and looked over at Reeta, “Excuse me,” I unfastened my seatbelt, “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Babe, he’s gotta get up,” she pushed at his arm, “Get up. Move!”
I wanted to stuff my sock in Reeta’s mouth to shut her up. My only reward for enduring this entire day was the chance to glide across Bobby’s lap while getting out of the row and she managed to fuck that up.
Inside the lavatory I was reminded of how human beings react in a crisis. It was appalling. Practically nothing was left. A few more diversions like this and the airline might go bankrupt. These passengers had resorted to looting the airplane lavatory during one diverted flight. I was surprised the lavatory mirror had not been dismantled and carried off to the overhead bins. They confiscated the toilet paper rolls, the paper napkins, and tissues; anything that could be used to wipe someone’s ass. They even took the tampons. Gone. I could understand the need to hoard tissue and napkins, but tampons? Were all the female passengers on the same cycle? I hoped not. People are capable of the most random crazy behavior when faced with disaster, albeit this was far from a disaster. But what do I know, I’ve never had to worry about Aunt Flo and Cousin Red knocking at my back door during an unscheduled diversion. What I did know was that the Grinch was on board the airplane and decided to give up on trying to ruin the Whos’ Christmas and instead just piss off any Who on their period.
I washed my hands, dried them on the front of my pants, and abandoned the lavatory to spend a few minutes in the back galley with the flight attendants. These flight attendants had been through the mill. A short day trip to JFK and back turned into a long day nightmare. One of the flight attendants working in the back had tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” I asked making eye contact with her and moving out of the next lavatory occupant’s way.
She didn’t say a word. She flashed a crooked smile and pointed to the floor beneath her and I saw the mess. She was standing on an airline blanket that was draped over what looked like a pool of vomit, make that a lake. I understood why she was at the brink of tears.
“That’s disgusting. What happened?” I questioned leaning against the jumpseat and staying out of the way.
She recited the tale in a deadpan tone, “A passenger pushed his way through the aisle and instead of
making it to the lavatory he projectile vomited all over the galley, carts, and floor. And me.” She pointed to her shoes. It looked like a crime scene but I kept that to myself. Whoever made this mess decided to give back all the red wine they ingested during the flight. Another flight attendant was passing his cell phone from passenger to passenger so they could make phone calls to their family.
Witnessing all the chaos inside the airplane from the terminal might have led people to believe the airplane actually crashed. I was in the middle of a war zone in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania and all I wanted to do was get to Manhattan so I could go get dinner in Chelsea like every other gay guy in New York City. Was that so fucking hard? After a few minutes the flight attendants ushered me back to my seat for some extra elbow room. There wasn’t enough room for me, them, the never ending line of needy passengers, and puke soaked blankets in the back galley. I understood but I hated leaving, standing in the middle of Lake Vomit was better than sitting next to Reeta.
After climbing over Bobby’s thick muscular hairless legs—he didn’t get up this time—I leaped over Reeta—she had fallen asleep again—and I plopped back into my seat. I fastened my seatbelt and then realized I forgot to purchase an airline meal while I was in the back galley. It was probably for the best because after witnessing the galley disaster my hunger subsided. I tried focusing on anything other than my situation and the fun night in Manhattan stolen from me. My attention drifted to the little frail black lady seated directly behind me making phone calls. She was calling friends to update them on our current situation. At first, I thought she was calling the person picking her up at JFK, but I was wrong.
“Mildred? Yes, it’s me honey. We landed somewhere in Pennsylvania. What? Girl, I don’t know. Yes. Something about weather. How’s the weather in Oakland? It’s raining like cats and dogs here. I know. Can you imagine? Ok I gotta run. I will talk to you later.”
There was a brief moment of silence before the next caller picked up, “ Hi Marisa? Can you hear me? I’m in Pennsylvania. Did I say New York? No. I said Pennsylvania. Turn up that hearing aid, you know you can’t hear nothing when you don’t turn that thing up,” she coughed into the phone, “Yes. PENNSYLVANIA. Well I know safety’s important but I think my blood sugar is getting low. What was that? I know you’re right, I wish I had my Bible too.”
