by Joe Thomas
I had to find that skunk before we ran out of tomato juice. As I turned and started down the aisle she squealed, “I spilled my bloody mary all over myself. Goddamn it! These are three hundred dollar jeans.”
I spun back around and knew for a fact she was not sporting $300 jeans. How did I know this? Because they don't sell $300 jeans at Walmart. I awkwardly squeezed around her towards the lavatory, opened the door, and nodded for her to enter and take care of her business. I wanted to toss her in myself but throwing out my back was not my idea of a good flight.
As I’ve hinted already, Miss Desiree was thick in the hips. She was also thick in the thighs, ass, arms, stomach. tits, legs, and neck. I wouldn't put it past her to be sporting a pair of Fred Flintstone feet inside her brown flats. I wondered if those flats were $300, too? She reminded me of a slab of bacon you'd find in Paula Deen's kitchen. I didn't care how plump she was, or that she’d bulge out of the small lavatory like sausage trying to escape its prison casing, I simply wanted her out of my galley.
I was not rude. I was stern. What do you expect? She dripped tomato juice all over the galley floor like a broken water pipe. How many cans of spicy tomato juice did I hand her? One can? Ten cans? I completely forgot but from the mess it seemed the latter. Where was all the tomato juice coming from? I forced approximately 20 wet sanitary napkins into her hand and told her to use those along with the paper towels in the lavatory to soak up the juice cascading down her robust leg.
I figured she’d close the goddamn door to clean herself. Even if being stuffed in the lavatory cut off her circulation, she could at least attempt at some level of privacy. I turned around, concluding my job was done. I had provided the napkins, the lavatory, and a smile. As I went back to filling up cups with ice, I never gave it another thought that she’d at least try closing the lavatory door. If not close it completely, then halfway. Aim at maintaining some of her dignity. Nope. The fucking lavatory door was wide open. How did I know? Because she continued complaining about her jeans over my shoulder. Now that I think about it, she did the right thing. Deciding not to cram her entire body in the lavatory was for the best. Actually, it was physically impossible. If she succeeded we’d have made an emergency landing so a technician could grease her up to get her ass out. Butter also comes in handy in these sticky situations. Did I already mention Paula Deen?
With my back facing her, my blood pressure elevated when I considered that she might actually take her jeans off. I was well prepared to call the pilots and have security awaiting us at the gate when we landed if that happened. I am trained for all types of terrorist activity and going down without a fight was not an option. I was dealing with a level 10 disturbance. Technically, airline disturbance levels only go up three levels but after considering her weight and how fast she moved-I took no chances. Peeking over my right shoulder, acting like I was too busy to know what was happening, I witnessed her butterball ass protruding out the lavatory door while she endlessly wiped off the tomato juice from her jeans, hoping it beaded up and rolled off like RainX.
I stayed focused on preparing drinks for my passengers. Her ordeal was not my problem. I grabbed the full tray of drinks and started down the aisle when she stuck her head out of the lavatory and aggressively asked me, “Can you please take care of my backside?”
“Umm, What? Your what? When? How? What? Oh no-I, umm, I don’t feel comfortable doing that.” I coughed out with a smile but almost gagged on the hummus and pita bread I had for lunch. It wasn't digested enough for me to handle cleaning her backside.
“Please," she said, practically in tears, "I just need you to wipe me off on the backside.”
That may have been the sentence ejected from her plump full lips but my little brain heard something different. Something completely different. Perhaps the roar of the airplane engines played a factor in what I’d processed but my brain translated her request into, "I can’t reach around with these two ham hocks hanging from my arms so could you please take a dozen sanitary napkins and wipe the tomato juice out of the crack of my big fat ass." That's what I heard. Loud and clear. As if she took the megaphone, placed it against my ear, pushed the button, and unleashed hell on me in my own galley.
Desiree had no average ass. Her one ass was easily two of my own asses. When she referenced her $300 jeans she was literally referring to the labor and the material cost that was put into making them.
“Don’t you have someone that can help you?" I looked at the flight deck door hoping they could hear me, "I really don’t feel comfortable doing that.”
Screaming for assistance from the other flight attendants would get me nowhere because they were in the back of the airplane conducting their service, oblivious to my Desiree dilemma in the front galley. Those bastards. I thought about picking up the interphone and pleading assistance from anyone. An air marshal? A grandmother knitting her infant grandson a new baby blanket? A knitting needle to the neck sounded appropriate. Losing copious amounts of blood and going unconscious seemed inviting when faced with her ass.
“Come on. I need your help! These are the only jeans I have for my entire trip,” She demanded while standing midway between the lavatory and the galley. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease. I can’t stand here all day.”
If Desiree had her way I’d be washing her jeans by hand in the lavatory sink while she stood behind me sipping on another bloody mary shouting commands that I had not been trained for, “Hey! Make sure you really scrub the crotch area because I don’t want dogs sniffing my kitty cat. My kitty cat purrs, it doesn't hiss. Watch it, don’t scrub SO hard you’ll take the blue off them.”
It became hard to hide my irritation with her. It had been a mere 40 minutes since she stepped onto my airplane. And changed the course of my life. Time meant nothing to someone like Desiree, whose sole purpose was to make me her bitch. In what seemed like a short period of time, she found herself bent over and spread eagle in the front lavatory begging me to wipe her fucking ass. Wipe her ass! What do I know about wiping ass? Actually, I know a lot about ass wiping from my days as a nurse but never did I imagine having to do it on the airplane. I had to draw the line and I drew it between my hand and her ass.
What did I even know about Desiree? She was chubby. That was obvious, but so am I. Can’t fault her for failing out of Nutrisystem. Have you seen their food? She liked vodka. That alone might con me into wiping her ass. But she wore imaginary $300 jeans. Imaginary jeans that were way too tight. An outright no-no. On a positive note, she made it easy for me to reference Paula Deen twice in a brief period of time. Make that three times. Having a great source for joke material was another way to get me down between her legs… Wait a minute! NO! No fucking way! What was I thinking? Those few points did not substantiate me wiping her ass from front to back until it was spotless. I may be bald but I am no Mr. Clean. Granted, I’ve touched men way more intimately in the past without knowing their names, but this was different. I was sober. And I was standing in an airplane in front of over 145 passengers who I knew by now had foregone whatever they had been doing at their seats and focused all their attention on the freak show in the front galley.
With the tray of drinks still in my hand, I swiftly thought of a way to deter the situation away from me cleaning her pants, “Can your friend in 5C come up and help?" I was hopeful her friend had downed both beers and was up for anything. I’d offer her a free six pack if she was game. Desperation arrived. I honestly didn’t know what to do, “Is there anyone on the flight that can help you?” There had to be someone else that was man-or woman-enough to tackle this operation. A boyfriend? Daughter? Neighbor? Long lost cousin? The guy in 1C? Anyone else but me. I might as well been talking to my jumpseat because her attention was centered on nothing but the stain that was painted across her thigh. And me wiping it clean.
Then it fucking happened. And I wasn’t prepared. Desiree gave me the most tragic look I’d ever seen on another full-grown adult. Like she had just found out Walmart raised their jean pri
ces. My customer service gene went into overdrive and I lost all will power. I knew what I had to do. It was dangerous—no doubt about that—and I’d probably never make it out alive but goddamnit, Desiree needed her backside taken care of and I was the only person around capable of getting the job done.
The entire situation reminded me of going scuba diving without ever taking a lesson. “Alright. Hold still for a moment.” I placed my full tray back onto the galley counter and grabbed some napkins from inside the galley bin. Without knowing if, or when I would resurface for air, I took a long deep breath and started Operation: Tomato Ass.
There was no way the three of us-me, her, and her ass-were fitting in the lavatory at the same time. I solemnly placed my pride, my crew ID, and my last will and testament on the counter. At least Matt would know what to do with my body when the airline flew my hollowed out carcass home. Even though there’d be nothing left of my body after this scene. Disintegrating into a cloud of dust was the fastest way to go. The chances of that were slim; my luck ran out when Desiree boarded the flight. Hopefully, if my eyes weren’t blown out of their sockets they could be donated to someone in need. That momentarily soothed the pain.
Having this unfold in front of everyone on the airplane was soul-crushing. Desiree’s head, tits, and stomach were stuffed in the lavatory while her ass, hips, and legs were in my galley. Grasping onto the handful of paper napkins as if my life was ending, I bent down on my right knee, and grabbed one of the galley carts for support. The instant my knee touched the discolored galley floor, the airplane began gyrating from side to side. Off balance from kneeling, the strain forced me forward towards her girth and then back against the galley cart. What the fuck? Hitting turbulence while your head is mere inches from the entrance to Lucifer’s summer home was not the way I wanted to go. Turbulence, light or not, was no laughing matter when face-to-face with an ass like that. At any moment I was prepared to taste tomato juice jeans. If I was lucky there might be a hint of vodka left behind to give me a slight buzz. The aggressive pressure only lasted a few seconds before the pilots leveled off the airplane. Bless them. I’m not a religious man but being down on one knee staring at more denim than the hardest working Chinese child laborer has ever seen led me to my first one-way conversation with Jesus Christ.
Hi Jesus.
It’s Joseph. No, not your dad. One of the gay guys from Florida. Yeah, that one. Yes, the one who likes Vicodin, wine, and anal. To be honest, that doesn’t narrow it down too much. You got it. That’s me. Can we get back to my issue for a moment? Are you paying attention? Jesus Christ! Huh? No, it’s just an expression but I see that got your attention. Listen, I did not see this coming when I woke up this morning but I am about to die by the hands of this passenger’s ass. Please take care of my husband, my friends, and my cats. That’s all I ask.
P.S. If she does fart, please let me go fast. Don’t make me linger on for days like you did behind that rock. See you in a few minutes.
Sincerely,
Flight Attendant Joe
I moved the paper napkins towards her ass crack and began to wipe.
Using a long, up and down stroking motion seemed smarter because focusing on one single area made me want to cry. Looking down from above, the stain appeared localized to just her ass, but once eye level it became clear the mess spread faster than chlamydia at an airline pilot summit. That tomato spill was more challenging than cleaning up after the Exxon Valdez. The galley lights were set on bright but sadly provided me with little to no light as I was defeated by the shadow of her meaty physique. I leaned in further and continued holding my breath, frightened that a slight tickle might release her anal pressure blowing my contacts out onto the dirty galley floor.
I wiped at the ferocious tomato stain for what seemed like hours. Truthfully, only a few minutes had passed, but in my defense time stands still when faced with that type of predicament. Just as I’d given up on life, and prepared to give St. Peter a good ol’ high five, she held onto the door frame, let out an animalistic trumpet sound—reminding me of a Hippopotamus taking a shit—and popped the top half of her body out of the lavatory. Astonished the lavatory door didn’t break off with her as she emerged, I glared up at her towering over me. She peered down and nodded acknowledging my professional housekeeping skills. I snapped back into a standing position with the once dry paper napkins now covered in red liquid as if I helped clean up a murder scene. In the trash bin they went. I took a few more off the counter and dried off the sweat beads encircling my head. She smirked as if receiving a happy ending after an amazing massage. I felt used, abused, and most importantly, violated by a woman. My first instinct was to curl up in a corner, hold my knees up to my face, and let out all the tomato juice tears that had welled up in my eyes.
But I still had a job to do.
Desiree stepped away from the lavatory and closed the door, “Thank you, Joe. I’m sure my jeans are ruined but if you give me a free bloody mary, that should make up for it.”
Really? A $5.00 bloody mary would replace her $300 jeans? An argument began to brew up inside me but I let it pass. She sucked all the strength out of me. Her and her fucking tomato jeans. I visited hell, came back, and only managed to hand out two drinks.
My customer service gene took over and I smiled warm enough to melt a fucking iceberg. Reaching into the liquor cart I pulled out a vodka mini and gave it to her, “You deserve it. I hope your jeans survive this fiasco.” My bullshitting skills are so on par I could run for president. I filled a cup with ice and handed her another can of tomato juice, “Now don’t spill this one. We are about to land and I haven’t even handed any other drinks out.”
“You are the best. I’m writing in a letter for you.” She took her drink and waddled back to 5C.
As quickly as it all started-it was over. I guzzled down three cups of water, mopped the second round of sweat off my bald head, and went into the lavatory to wash my hands with scalding hot water before getting back to work.
Stepping around the galley corner to restart my beverage service I almost slammed into an attractive male passenger heading towards the galley. He politely excused himself and made his way into the lavatory and closed the door. My heart started to race. Was this the reward for my run in with Desiree’s ass? I leaned my ear towards the lavatory door and patiently waited for his cries for help. What did he need cleaned off his sexy jeans? If I was lucky it would smell like bleach and taste salty. I paused for a moment, with a full tray of drinks in my hand, waiting for him to open the door. Many different scenarios ran through my mind of how we’d both fit in the lavatory, close the door, and lock it. I’d make it work. The ability to breathe came second to being locked tightly in an airplane lavatory with a stud.
The door never opened. It was apparent he hadn't spilled anything on his jeans and if he needed help, my name wouldn’t be yelled out. I stopped at row one and started handing out beverages. The first row of passengers were polite and understood the catastrophe that I endured. While handing a Sprite to the lady in 1C, I scanned the glowing faces of the passengers awaiting their drinks and I made eye contact with Desiree.
Her Cheshire Cat grin confirmed it’s always the person's ass that you don’t want to wipe that you end up wiping.
And she never wrote in a compliment letter!
Smoking Shenanigans
Even though I’ve lived my entire life without smoking a cigarette I’m sure my lungs are blacker than a Jamaican runner in the Summer Olympics. My parents’ addiction to nicotine left me spending most of my childhood living in what could only be described as a dirty chimney. No Mary Poppins. No Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. No singing and dancing. Just tar and the prospect of cancer. I wasn’t the only victim of their cancer-causing smoke. Irene’s chihuahua, Chiquita, never had a chance. She required continuous oxygen before her second birthday. The hum of her concentrator was louder than her bark. Have you ever tried walking a miniscule dog who’s attached to the tubing of an oxygen co
ncentrator? It’s not fun. It also cockblocks you receiving any park head from random married guys.
Alright, she wasn’t actually put on oxygen, but she should have been. She wheezed like my grandfather when he napped in his recliner. At least I escaped daily to high school for a breather. Chiquita was a prisoner to their cigarette smoke. I’d walk into the house after school, covering my mouth like a resident of Kabul, while Irene lit up a cigarette at the dining room table asking, “Can you take Chiquita out for some fresh air? She needs to go out.”
“You bet your ass she does.”
“Excuse me?” She’d say looking up from her crossword puzzle book.
“Nothing.” When I opened the door Chiquita bolted out of the house like her asshole was on fire. Poor dog. I despised Chiquita, but if I hadn’t loathed her presence in our house, I’d have felt sorry for her little lungs. They were small Oreo cookies stuffed with chocolate filling. As much as Irene loved that dog, she put her health at risk the moment she picked her up from the breeder. When I say she loved that dog, she loved that fucking dog. Her love for Chiquita left the Cinderella role wide open for me. I had an ugly step-Chihuahua that received more love and better healthcare than I did. When I coughed, Irene demanded I cover my mouth and sent me off to school. When Chiquita coughed, she received filet mignon for dinner.
Months away from needing a new voice box, Chiquita finally died of emphysema in 1987. It was a tragic end for a dog who I assume prayed daily to be crushed underneath a snow tire. Irene did not take it well; she cried ashes for weeks. It was as if Elvis Presley died all over again. To be perfectly clear, my heart did not weep for Chiquita’s death. I relished in her absence. While Irene double-fingered her cigarettes to relieve the stress of losing her beloved dog, I celebrated with a rare filet mignon. My parents’ cigarette smoke torture lasted my entire youth. On good days I’d be able to breathe, but on bad days it was like living in Pompeii right after the eruption.
