Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  I still have faith in humanity. I honestly don’t know why.

  As I approached the front galley there was no hiding my anger. I folded my arms as I positioned myself between Abigail and Keegan, “The guy in 19D put the cover of a porno magazine in front of his television. It’s Hustler.” I said Hustler like I was disappointed it wasn’t Dirty Power Tops and The Bottoms Who Love Them. Is that even a magazine? If it’s not, it really should be. At least if it was a gay magazine I could have confiscated it and used it at the hotel on my layover.

  Abigail asked, “Who? What seat is he in?”

  “19D. He’s the grungy looking dude with that nasty homeless-looking backpack.”

  She frowned, “He’s weird. I should have known something was up with him. He stopped up here when he walked on the airplane and said, ‘It’s the cockpit. Why do they call it a COCKpit?’ He emphasised the word cock.” She whispered the word cock each time to protect the ladies’ ears seated in the front row.

  Keegan turned his bobble head around and screeched, “Well he can’t have that. What makes him think he can have that? He can’t have that on the flight. Who does he think he is?”

  “Settle down, Keegan. I have it under control. If he doesn’t put it away we’ll remove him from the flight.” They both shook their heads in agreement. I spun around, smiled at the lady seated in the front row, and strolled down the aisle to the scene of the porno crime. In all honestly, my nerves were on edge. With each row I passed my anxiety rose until I felt my heart violently pumping. The perfect opportunity to pop a few Xanax if I’d had a prescription. I reminded myself to contact my doctor the moment I landed to ask why I wasn’t on Xanax.

  Why was I afraid of this passenger? Something made me extremely uneasy about him. Confronting people everyday is what I do and I am damn good at it. Great actually. I could tell people that I have a bachelor’s degree in confrontation—scratch that, a master’s. I love confrontation. It’s like fuel that keeps me warm on winter nights, but here I was, nervous about dealing with this low life passenger who wanted to argue with me about a porno magazine he had out in public for everyone to see.

  When I walked up to row 19, I was relieved to see he removed the magazine cover. Excellent. I’d jot that down as a win for Joe. But he feverishly was attempting to stuff another sheet from the magazine into the crevices of the television monitor to block the screen. I smiled, "Are you trying to shut off your television? Here let me show…" I was in mid sentence—holding my breath while I leaned over him to power down his television screen—when I noticed the Hustler magazine open, on his tray table, to the most inappropriate section of the magazine. There for everyone and baby Jesus to see, including the female minor seated across from him, were enough fake tits to make a plastic surgeon uncomfortable. If the tittie show wasn’t enough, a legally blind person could make out each picture of the cover girl stuffed with cock and balls. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two older Mexican ladies seated next to him in 19E and by the window in 19F. The last time I’d seen fear like that on a Mexican’s face was when the INS knocked on my neighbor's door and carted him and his entire family off to Tijuana. I swear I had nothing to do with it. All I will say is that Jorge might think twice before making empty offers to share his haul of fresh crabs from the sea and then act like he never offered them up in the first place.

  Magda and Marisa (or as I like to refer to them as M&M, the spicy Mexican chocolate kind) were shaking so violently in the seats next to 19D that they were burning off the empanadas they inhaled at the gate before boarding the airplane. It’s a scientific fact (I really don’t know if this is true) that Mexicans don’t leave the house without empanadas. They’d forget their seven children at home before they’d forget a meat pie. Puerto Ricans do the same with Goya Adobo Seasoning, whites with anything gluten-free, and blacks with fried chicken.

  Magda prayed, holding her rosary so tight I was afraid she’d give herself stigmata. I’d have to get this bitch off the flight before we closed the main airplane door. Wrestling with stigMagda mid-flight because she deemed herself a miracle and could walk out on the wing at 38,000 feet was out of the question. I didn’t give a fuck if she had stigmata on her hands, feet, or tits—the only miracle that was happening on this airplane was that I wouldn’t kill someone before departure. If I was ever going to pray, it was at that moment, so I looked up at the overhead bin to compose myself. Jesus Christ give me strength, or better yet, stigMagda Ortiz put down that goddamn rosary.

  With Magda destroying her rosary beads and Marisa crying real tears (not the fake ones that people do when they want an upgraded seat), it was obvious that M&M were about to start chanting some voodoo curse. Did I have to remind them it was only a porno magazine on the tray table and not real passengers spread eagle fucking? There was no denying 19D needed to quickly put away his pornographic material but it was not cause for crying in your empanada.

  I took my hand and flipped the front cover over to close the magazine, "Sir! What did I say? You’re gonna have to put that away.” Placing my right hand on the back of his seat and my left on the seat in front of him, I decided it was time to intimidate. “You can’t have that type of material in view of other passengers." I did not lower my voice. If the police were boarding the airplane soon—which I anticipated to be true—I’d need as many witnesses as possible.

  "Man, why you gotta be like that? I ain’t done nothing wrong.” He looked around trying to catch the attention of other passengers hoping they agreed. Nobody within earshot responded. The only feedback he got was from a few people who shot daggers at him and the occasional tear from 19E. The father of the little blond girl in 19C switched seats with her which placed him across the aisle from the dirt bag. I was the only obstacle standing in the way of him beating the fuck out of 19D. Nothing fazed porno guy. He refused to cooperate, “I bought this in the airport and I can read whatever I want on this plane. Go away.”

  Anyone with a watch and 20/20 vision could count the vein in my neck pulsating. I had to correct him, "No sir, you DO NOT have the right to look at, display, or read inappropriate material on this airplane. We will not tolerate this type of behavior." I always love ending an unfriendly confrontation on the airplane with that line. Basically it’s your last chance to set yourself straight before I yank you out of your seat by your Hustler magazine and toss you off the airplane.

  He wasn’t going to let this end. He took out a black sharpie from his jacket pocket, opened up the magazine, ripped off a strip and started writing my name down from my uniform wings, "Joe, is it? You won't tolerate this behavior. Really? Ok, we'll see about that when I contact the airline." It took him his entire rant to spell out J-O-E across a blond hairy labia. It took all my energy not to laugh in his face. I’d never before had my name written out so angrily across a picture of a vagina. I guess I can check that off my bucket list.

  What was this guy thinking? A letter to my airline complaining that I refused to let him read his filthy magazine in public for everyone in coach to see? I envisioned something like this being written across the orgy scene on page 32:

  Dear Airline,

  My mom paid good money for me to fly from Cleveland to Dallas to attend my child support hearing. I hate to fly unless I’m high or drunk. I can’t do that because of your stupid rules so I used my last $20 to buy a Dr. Pepper, a bag of Doritos, and a Hustler. I figured the Dr. Pepper would satisfy my thirst because I can’t drink before the hearing and the Hustler would put a smile on my face and a lump in my shorts for the three hour flight. And the Doritos are because you people don’t sell food. This faggot flight attendant Joe decided that he didn’t want to see my magazine and embarrassed me in front of the young lady seated across from me. She was hot. I liked her until her dad switched seats with her. Why is everyone a dick at this airline? I think she was at least 17 years old. Maybe even a sweet 16. How dare Joe do that? I bought this magazine at the airport and the chick at the counter said I could read it on
the airplane. I figure she knows what she’s talking about because she WORKS AT THE AIRPORT and she should know if she is selling the magazines, right? That queer ass faggot Joe don’t sell magazines. He don’t even like pussy. How’s he supposed to know what my magazine is about? He don’t know shit. I’d like him fired and I would like a full refund so that I can get caught up on my child support payments.

  Thanks.

  D. Bagg

  My concern wasn’t that he wanted to write a letter about me, or our interaction, but that he blatantly refused to put the fucking magazine away. If he continued like that, I’d be stuck waiting for security to drag him and his Hustler off the airplane. I couldn’t understand why he was arguing with me. A sane person would put the magazine away. I’d put it away. I have no problem with porn; I watch porn all the time. I’m actually shocked I took a break from watching porn to write this book. It’s perfectly understandable to look at porno magazines but they don’t belong on an airplane. Maybe in the lavatory during a red-eye flight, but not in row 19 before coffee service. This guy was more disruptive than members of NAMBLA at an elementary school bake sale.

  I passed the point of irritation and quickly moved onto beat down mode. I took a few deep breaths and envisioned stuffing the magazine down his throat if he continued disobeying my direct orders. The passengers within four rows were watching my every single move and M&M had each removed a small white bottle etched with a cross on the front. If either one of those zealots sprayed me with holy water I’d have to report an on-the-job injury. “Sir, I really need you to put the magazine away. Now!”

  “I can do whatever I want. You’re just the flight attendant” He responded loudly and flipped open the magazine. There was no getting through to this guy, and to be honest—fuck nonsense like that. I get paid to jump out of burning airplanes, not deal with passengers who have no common sense. That’s not true. As of right now, while writing this book, my score is zero jumping out of burning airplanes and 3.543 dealing with passengers with no common sense. 19D was being a total douchebag and I refused to let him get away with this behavior. Without saying another word I lifted my hand off his seat back and walked to the front of the airplane, passed Abigail and Keegan, and straight into the flight deck to speak with the captain.

  I informed both pilots, “Hey guys, 19D has a porno magazine and refuses to put it away.” The captain and first officer turned and looked at me at the same time. I continued, “We need to remove him from the flight.”

  The captain without missing a beat asked, “What kind of magazine is it? Is it a good one?”

  Really? Is this what I had to deal with. I wanted to tell him it was Dirty Power Tops and The Bottoms Who Love Them (I am obsessed with that title) just to watch his hair turn whiter, his face crawl into the back of his head, and his body turn to dust like the Nazi guy in Indiana Jones when he drank from the wrong chalice.

  “It’s a Hustler.”

  “Oh. That’s nasty,” he wrinkled up his nose in disgust, "You tell him that if he doesn't put the magazine away he’s coming off the flight."

  I didn't have the heart to tell him that Keegan, Abigail, and I had already made the decision to pull 19D off the flight and that this conversation was simply my way of being polite and giving him an update on the situation. The passenger was coming off the flight or the three of us were; no confusion about that.

  Another trip down the aisle to greet my new favorite person in row 19 and I noticed the magazine was not on the tray table, the television, or in his lap. I was also pleased his cock had not made an appearance and that M&M hadn’t turned him into a ferret. Kneeling down next to him I asked, "Sir, are you going to keep that magazine out of sight for the entire flight?"

  He refused to let up, "I don't understand what the problem is. I can read whatever I want whenever I want. This is America."

  “Alright sir. I’m done.” For the final time I spun around and headed full force to the front of the airplane. As I approached the front galley I noticed the airplane door was closed. “Why is the door closed?” I asked Abigail.

  “The gate agent said we had to close on time.”

  I became angrier, “Well looks like we need to open it up because that passenger needs to come off the flight.” I walked into the flight deck again and informed the captain to contact the gate agents and let them know we had to reopen the door.

  Once the airplane door was reopened the gate agent stood on the jet bridge with a puzzled look on his face, “What’s going on?

  I gave him the lowdown as quickly as possible, "The guy in 19D doesn't want to put his Hustler magazine away and I am done fighting with him about it. He needs to come off.” Not two seconds after I finished my sentence, 19D appeared at the front of the airplane standing between me and Keegan in the front galley.

  "You can’t tell me what to do, bro.” His face was flushed and he had either been crying or M&M splashed him with holy water. I couldn’t tell. He continued, “I have rights."

  I barely wanted to make eye contact with him. If I were out in the real world, or at the Adult Emporium, and not in my uniform, I would have beat the fuck out of him right where he stood. Smug looking prick. My heart still races thinking about how disgusting and inappropriate he was in front of the other passengers, that little girl and her father, my Mexican M&Ms, and of course in front of me. He needed his ass kicked and I wanted to do it. I’ve never been one to win a fight but he was small and scrawny. With any luck I’d only walk away with a few scratches, a Hustler magazine, and a case of scabies. I smiled at the gate agent and then looked at 19D, "Sir, the gate agent is here to talk to you. Have a nice day."

  I walked to the back of the airplane and tried to cool down. Watching from the back galley he stood next to Keegan waving his hands around and pointing at the gate agent and then down the aisle towards me. I was too far to hear what he was bitching about, and honestly, at that exact moment I didn’t give ten shits. A few seconds later he stormed down the aisle, opened the overhead bin at row 19, grabbed his dirty bookbag, and proceeded to deplane the aircraft.

  Like nothing happened, Abigail announced over the PA, “Flight attendants please prepare for departure and cross check your doors.”

  It was over as quickly as it started.

  After we finished the safety demonstration the three of us had a quick debrief in the back galley to update me on what happened after I walked away from the front galley. Abigail practically giggled the entire thing out, “The gate agent didn’t even have a chance to tell him to leave. He left on his own.”

  A little surprised I responded, “What? Are you kidding? He chose a slut magazine over a flight he paid hundreds of dollars for? That’s insane. I get upset when I miss the free bus ride from the train to the airport.”

  “Apparently,” she continued, “He told the gate agent he’d take the next flight because you were mean to him. What a kook.”

  “Well, good. This is the only flight to Dallas today so he can sit in the airport until tomorrow jerking off to his fucking magazine.” I sat down in my jumpseat and strapped myself in while they stood over me, “This is going to be a long ass day, and if this is how it’s starting, I’m going to need more coffee.”

  After we landed that evening I took a moment to look up the flight attendants working the next day’s flight and I was pleased to find out it was my friend Evan. I texted him immediately and gave him the passenger’s name and told him to be on the lookout for him.

  Evan text response was typical: “Was he hot?”

  I responded: “Not the point.”

  That next afternoon Evan texted me back: “He wasn’t on the flight. The gate agent said he cancelled his reservation.”

  All that because of a Hustler magazine? Incredible. I couldn’t help but wonder what airline he considered flying to Dallas. What airline allows a passenger to read a dirty smut magazine while young girls and frightened Mexican ladies shake in fear?

  Not an airline with me on the payroll,
that’s for sure.

  Bad Things Happen When You Fly Standby

  The only reason I become a flight attendant was to travel. Not just to travel—anyone with a good paying job or alimony can do that—but to travel for free. If anyone believes for one second that we sign up as flight attendants to simply pass out cups of sugar water to fat people who can barely fit in their seats, they are mistaken. Flying for free is the only reason I put up with the rudeness flung at me on any given flight. Now, some might share with you that they took this job for the flexible work schedule, or to move out of their overbearing parents house, but what we didn’t sign up for was the abysmal paycheck. If a flight attendant ever tells you they accepted a position as an air servant for the excellent pay, they are full of shit. The day I hear a flight attendant make that statement I will bitch slap them with a first class amenities kit. I am not kidding. Our pay isn’t horrible, but no airline can compensate a flight attendant enough for flying around all day passing out drinks waiting for the day when the captain—who makes all the money—calls the back galley to announce that the airplane will miss landing at JFK by 15 miles. I don’t fucking think so. No amount of money can cover that kind of therapy.

  The reason most of us slave away at 38,000 feet is because of our itch for adventure. An itch only scratched by free airfare. Think of it as having psoriasis and free airfare is the calamine lotion. If the idea of never having to fork over another red cent for an airline ticket is intoxicating, the act is addictive. It’s like being dependant on Vicodin and having your doctor husband write you endless prescriptions. (Side note: How fucking amazing would that be?)

  Unless you are in the airline industry—or addicted to Vicodin—you have no idea what I am talking about. Explaining this to my non-airline friends gives me a migraine. Kind of like explaining to creationists that dinosaurs did not roam the Earth 6,000 years ago spending their afternoons playing in the Garden of Eden with Cain and Abel. In all honesty, I am at a loss for words on the subject matter of dinosaurs and children being best friends. Do they not show Jurassic Park at the Creation Museum? Conversations like that make me want to slice off my own fucking ears.