Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  On one of my first trips as a flight attendant I met my friend Sam for a late breakfast during an overnight layover in Richmond, Virginia. For the civilized world, that’s brunch. In Richmond, it's breakfast—even when scarfing down mimosas and eggs midday. My guess is Virginia restaurants don’t support brunch because it sounds too gay. Virginia doesn’t like the gays—or anything remotely gay—including the words: cock, deep, moist, penetration, and my all time favorite, brunch. Virginia is for lovers as long as it’s not butt-sex lovers. This paragraph has most likely pissed off the entire state of Virginia. You’re welcome, America.

  As much as I enjoyed chatting with Sam, there was one big problem: he was ugly. Nice enough, but ugly. We are no longer friends, and I’d love to say that it was because he wronged me or did something terrible, but it’s because of his looks. What? I do my best to refrain from consorting with ugly people. Everyone does that, right? Or so I thought. Apparently, I’m wrong. My own husband says I am a horrible human being for thinking this way. I completely disagree. I’ll smile and politely remind him that I don’t kill ugly people (I’m not barbaric) I simply befriend them for short periods of time. I am not wishing them into an ugly concentration camp where they can all live and work together. How terrible. Or perfect? Do we know if one exists?

  Back to Sam. How ugly was he? So ugly his mother hated inviting him over for Thanksgiving dinner because he’d scare everyone out of the house, leaving her to sit across from him while he dismembered the turkey with his bare hands—while it was still alive. As single and ugly as he was, and trust me on that, the only thing on his mind at brunch (fuck you, Virginia) was talking about female flight attendants and whether I knew any single ones. I didn’t give an explosive diarrhea about single female flight attendants. I wanted to talk about my fabulous flight benefits and not his desperate attempt to date anything with a vagina. It seems that when you are ugly and straight, any pussy will do.

  Sam barely grasped what I was saying, “What do you mean you fly for free?”

  “I fly anywhere my airline flies for free. I don’t pay anything.”

  “You don’t pay to fly?”

  “Are you listening to me?” I wanted to slap him because I knew he was thinking about flight attendant’s private parts, “I just said I fly for free.”

  “Where?”

  “Sam, are you fucking stoned? I said any city my airline flies too.”

  “That’s cool,” he said sipping his coffee.

  “That’s your response? What the fuck? I just told you I have the most amazing benefit in the world and you say, ‘That’s cool.’” I refused to accept his reply. That reaction was only fitting if I told him I received 15% off purchases over $50 at Kohl's, not that I fly for free. I had to prove my point by making this as grandiose as possible so he’d fully understand. Without losing momentum I quickly added, “Actually, I fly on all the domestic airlines for free.” His head practically exploded on the wall.

  “Get the fuck out of here?” He splattered coffee on the table, “Holy shit! Now I really need some single flight attendant digits.”

  The freedom to fly all over the country without paying for airfare makes me as happy as Ed McMahon crawling out of his grave, knocking on my front door, and announcing on national television that I have won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. The ability to walk up to an airline ticket counter and ask for a free empty seat is mind-blowing. I am a superhero with the ability to fly free. I’m kind of like Superman, but more like Wonder Women because I am gay and the idea of soaring around in an invisible jet sounds better than picking bugs out of my teeth while flying faster than a speeding bullet. Even though I fly for free on standby, and there has to be an open seat available, I pinch myself each and every time a gate agent hands me a boarding pass without me ever having to touch my wallet.

  Could I afford to travel as much if it wasn’t for free? Hell no. I am a flight attendant. A majority of my money goes towards important things: wine, clothes, therapy, my cell phone bill… more wine. I have flown from Washington Dulles to Honolulu, Anchorage to Seattle, and Boston to Los Angeles for free on airlines that I don’t even work for. Focusing on my benefits keeps me sane—and out of jail—when dealing with asshole passengers. It’s healthier than swishing their ice cubes around in my mouth and spitting them into a cup before pouring in a can of Sprite. I simply remind myself that I am a flight attendant and I fly for free.

  Each airline has their own specific agreements with other participating airlines allowing flight attendants and pilots to travel on their flights for free. It’s called a reciprocal cabin agreement. Reciprocal cabin agreements make it possible for commuting crews to get to their reporting bases to start work. I basically use it to go on vacation and make my friends jealous. Most airline crews wouldn’t be in this industry without reciprocal cabin agreements. Not all airlines fly to every destination on the map. If a flight attendant lives and commutes from BumfuckIdaho Airport and the airline they work for doesn’t fly there, they have to rely on another airline for transportation. That’s why this benefit is so amazing. It’s way more exciting than a discount at Kohl's.

  Reciprocal cabin agreements don’t just cover domestic travel. They allow us to purchase discounted standby tickets on other airlines for international travel as well. If I told you exactly how little these tickets cost, you’d run right out and marry a flight attendant. I’m serious. You’d marry them even if they were obese and had a face full of acne. International standby tickets may not be completely free, but flying internationally as a flight attendant is exciting. If free domestic air travel is the cake then discounted international travel is the frosting—and who doesn’t love some international frosting spread across their lips?

  With all this positivity about flying for free you should know there’s a little negativity lurking in the shadows. Don’t worry, I know exactly where to find it because it haunts me every fucking time I step foot in an airport. Hold on because I am about to do a 180 on your ass. Seriously, you may get whiplash so grab something bolted to the ground and don’t let go. I’ll admit, I’ve spent plenty of time putting the joys of flying for free high up on a shiny white pedestal one might find at Crate & Barrel. And it really does belong up there. For the most part, it’s amazing. It’s fantastic. It’s orgasmic. But it’s time to give that pedestal a swift kick and throw some reality into the mix. While I love the free part, it’s the standby part that turns me into a raging lunatic. Uncontrollable. Crazied. Psychotic. Those are words that describe my behavior when I actually get on the flight. When I fly standby for international flights I become a complete and utter irrational schizoid. Strip me down, hose me off, lock me up, and throw away the key. As much as I love flying for free, I am horrible at the uncertainty of standby travel.

  The first time I traveled internationally on standby was in 2008. It was a New York City departure for a quick hop across the pond to Paris with Evan. Total cost: $77 roundtrip. The shock of the price kept me up tossing and turning for a few nights. Who pays under $100 for a flight to Paris? Do I even need to answer that? The ticket confirmation email vibrated my cell phone jolting me out of my crash pad bunk bed at 1 a.m. I laid there dumbfounded thinking there was an error. Evan was on a trip so I couldn’t ask him. I decided to send him a text the following morning. There had to be a mistake. Right?

  Wrong. The price was legit. Soon I’d be traveling on a wide-body airplane on my way to learn just how much the French hate Americans. That lesson came within my first few hours after arriving in Paris. The French don’t hate Americans, we are just assholes. Great. Not only have I pissed off Virginia but now I can add the other 49 states as well. What can I say, I like making everyone feel equal. Back to Paris, there’s nothing more embarrassing than listening to some redneck chick with a double chin from North Carolina yell in English while standing in line at a beautifully decorated fromagerie, “How much is this cheese? CHEESE! How much? Why doesn’t anyone speak English in this godforsak
en country?”

  I’ve learned that anything which brings us joy often comes with a heavy price. A late night concert which leaves you dead tired in the morning. Having a record breaking financial year but then forking over half of it to Uncle Sam. Flying for free with the chance you might not obtain a seat on the airplane. That last one kicks me in the sac. Hard. With a sledgehammer.

  Many flight attendants and pilots have no problem flying standby. Honestly, I don’t know how they do it. Is there some secret online course they’ve taken preparing them for the drama of flying standby? If that’s the case then why the fuck haven’t I heard of it? Even when the last seat is given away to another standby passenger, these magical individuals handle themselves with the grace and ease of a wrongly crowned Miss Universe.

  I act like Kanye West on stage at the MTV Music Awards.

  When you find yourself stressing, panicking, or freaking out over the thought of not knowing if you will make the flight, I hate to tell you but flying standby may not be for you. It’s not for me, but sadly I keep going back. Why? Because it’s free, and I love free.

  To save my sanity, and my job, I created a list of six rules to follow when managing my anxiety while traveling standby. They are as follows:

  1. Calm the fuck down! Nobody has died (yet).

  2. Always bring treats for the flight attendants so that if you do get a seat, it might be in first class.

  3. Have as many backup plans as possible. Have a plan A, B and C. There are 26 letters in the alphabet. If you are smart, you will have a plan for them all.

  4. Try not to swear, scream, stomp your feet, throw your luggage, do shots of tequila, or smack annoying children while standing at the ticket counter.

  5. Take deep breaths and remember that everything works out in the end.

  6. Refrain from hovering at the gate area. Also avoid sweating, talking to oneself, and pacing back and forth so you don’t give the impression that you are about to blow yourself up if you don’t get on the flight.

  Number six is must. If there’s one rule you implant into your brain make sure it’s number six. Don’t be an amatuer and forget that important detail the way I did traveling internationally back in 2010. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t intend on blowing up the airport, but the way I was sweating and pacing around the gate area you’d have thought I had more dynamite strapped to me than an Al-Qaeda housewife.

  Evan and I were embarking on an elaborate vacation that took us to Madrid, Barcelona, and—unbeknownst to us at the time—a quick overnight stop in Helsinki. It was our annual we-are-flight-attendants-and-fly-for-free vacation, which we took to celebrate our fabulous lives as flight attendants. Yay for discounted airfare, boo for flying standby. This trip was mine to plan. Actually, I planned all the trips because I’m a control freak. Evan never griped about my freakish desire to control everything. His only request was that we ventured out of the United States. I immediately chose Madrid and Barcelona. When I called him to confirm our itinerary he was giddier than a post-op male-to-female transexual getting her first set of tits. I eagerly tapped away at my laptop on long layovers and on my days off searching for hostels and airlines with open flights from JFK to Madrid. Within a few hours of planning I learned that all flights out of Barcelona back to the states were completely full on the date we scheduled our return. This triggered my full blown panic attack before we even packed our bags.

  Sitting on my sofa with sheets of paper spread out everywhere I urgently texted Evan: “Queen. What are we gonna to do? All flights are full leaving BCN and I don’t want to get stuck in Spain.”

  He instantly texted me back: “Relax. Everything will be fine. Okkkkkkurtt! Just think of another way home.”

  Evan never panics when he travels. This makes me hate him. Alright, I don’t really hate him—he’s one of my best friends—but it makes me want to hate him which works for me. How he maintains his composure in the stickiest of standby dilemmas is a mystery to me. He’s so fucking calm. If every airline on the planet seized their operations and he was left trapped inside a mud hut in South Sudan he’d smoothly say, “Girl, let me just fix my hair, find a hut with a strong WiFi signal, and we’ll jet out of here in a few.”

  He’d be rich if he found a way to bottle up this attitude into travel-size containers and sell it on Amazon. First, I’d buy stock in the product. Second, I’d purchase a 10 year supply and dab that shit behind my ears, under my pits, and anywhere else I could reach.

  I was challenged not to fall apart planning this trip. Unfortunately, I’m Jenga being played by drunk people when it comes to flying standby. My record for losing my shit during our annual trips wasn’t a solid one. Paris comes to mind. You remember Paris, right? The $77 round trip to Paris. This memory still breaks me out in hives. Evan and I stopped for a caffeine boost while strolling down the Champs-Elysees. The weather was fantastic, matching our moods. While he stood in line to place our cappuccino orders, I ducked into the restroom to relieve myself. After I finished draining my bladder, I bent over to flush the toilet and—kerplunk—my brand new camera slipped out of my jacket pocket into the toilet. With no time to think I reached down and fished it out of my own urine. The screen was dead and it refused to turn on. I started to cry. Not for the fact that I had dropped a not-so expensive camera into the toilet but because I had fucked up, again. Matt had bought me this camera specifically to bring on my trip to Paris because I had lost our more expensive camera the month prior. Losing two cameras in two months is beyond irresponsible. People in Saudi Arabia are executed for less.

  Walking out of the restroom with my pissy hands grasping my pissy broken camera I broke down while Evan stood in front of me double fisting cappuccinos. “I dropped my camera in the toilet. It’s fucking ruined,” I was weeping, “I can’t believe this happened. All my pictures are lost.”

  He stood there leaning from foot to foot and then erupted into laughter, “Girl. It’s a camera. No big deal. All you gotta do is pull out the sim card and your pictures will be saved.”

  Nothing helped. His rationale advice lost to my hysteria. “No. You don’t understand. Matt bought me this camera after I lost the other one last month.”

  This sent him into another fit of laughter, “That’s right. You lost that camera at JFK last month.” He couldn’t stop laughing as we walked up the hill towards Montmartre. In that moment I realized hating him might not be as difficult as I had earlier anticipated.

  Lucky for me, I had put Paris behind me and learned valuable travel lessons from that stressful experience. I continued telling myself that while I planned our Spain adventure. After several hours researching flight options from Barcelona to JFK, it was clear that we wouldn’t be coming home that way. As I was about to throw my hands up in defeat and cancel the entire trip, a flicker of hope came across my laptop screen when I randomly pulled Finland out of my ass. Seriously, pulled it right out from between my buttcheeks and slapped it down on the table. Splat! Now if you’re wondering how I came up with Finland, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. Like I said, buttcheeks. What I can tell you is that it was a genius plan and nothing like it has come out—or gone in—my ass ever since.

  The plan was set. After three days of sightseeing in Madrid we’d hop over to Barcelona for an additional three days, zip up to Helsinki for a 24 hour visit, and head home on a wide open flight aboard an Airbus 340. Wide open. Two words that I love hearing when flying standby, not when performing anal sex as the top. The Helsinki answer was a gift from the standby Gods. Evan and I were touched by the Gods. Sounds dirty when you first think about it but, in retrospect, it’s better than being touched by your creepy uncle. Agreed?

  Once we arrived in Spain, our trip started out as one of the best travel experiences of my entire life. Nothing seemed to go wrong. For starters, all the standby flights we had chosen had ample seating to accommodate us throughout our entire trip; I made sure of this before we left JFK. I confirmed with the airlines obsessively and to the point that
Evan eventually told me to stop calling them because they had enough nutty passengers to deal with. He was right. Once we wrapped up our time in Madrid we were off to Barcelona. While checking into our Barcelona hostel the front desk clerk informed us that they had no double beds available. The scene got extremely tense. Sirens alarmed in my head but seconds before sweat started cascading down my face the owner appeared inviting us to stay in a private apartment only a few blocks away. We didn’t even have to blow him, which is always a plus. Well, it was for me. I think Evan was disappointed. I even went out of my way to guarantee no camera drama by keeping it deep inside my front jeans pocket at all times. That camera was never out of sight or off my person. My outlook on flying standby began turning around, which was important because if I planned on spending my life traveling as a flight attendant, I had better get my shit together.

  Unfortunately, not all the electronics I traveled with on this trip were as closely guarded as my camera. For our last night in Barcelona, we set out to have dinner along the chaotic boulevard of Las Ramblas. Tourists flock to Las Ramblas for the sights, smells, and party atmosphere. Most people seem to relish in the disorder. Not me. Strolling toward our restaurant, among the thousands of tourists overcrowding the city streets, my guard was up high in an imaginary watch tower ready to shoot at any menace headed our way.

  The main threat in Barcelona were the infamous gypsies patrolling the dark alleys and bustling streets. They were everywhere. Dirty. Asking for money. Asking for food. Asking for anything and everything. It was hard to ignore them but like any good American, I did my best. As beautiful as Barcelona was, my impression was that these nomads owned the city. They were as much a part of Barcelona as the architecture, paella, and football. I commented to Evan, “There are so many gypsies here. It makes me nervous.”