by Alyson Noel
“Believe me, the only reason I feed and water anyone is because it’s my job, and I’ll get fired if I don’t. And now Kat’s gonna fire me as her friend, when she gets home from Greece and finds three starved kitties in her kitchen. Besides,” I whispered, shutting the door of the beverage cart and peeking down the aisle, “after six years of this, I don’t even like most people anymore.”
“Hailey, please.” He’d rolled his eyes. “None of us do.” Then, shaking his head, he’d charged down the aisle intent on stopping someone from cracking the overhead bin with their oversized bag.
And now, with the contents of my carry-on spilled across the galley floor, the fact of my missing manuscript was something I could no longer deny. And it wasn’t just that it was my only copy that had me so upset (sure I’d backed it up to disk, years ago, but I no longer knew where that was either), but more the idea of where it might be and who might be reading it that had me all bothered.
Let’s see, if I retrace my steps, then the last time I saw it was . . . Think, Hailey! When I was sitting in first class, drinking champagne . . . right before that awful gate agent made me move . . . then there was that really cute guy . . . Oh my God, what if he read it! If he read it, I will die! Seriously. But wait. Wouldn’t he just hand it over to the crew? And since I’d just spent the last five days with them, I know that didn’t happen, so it must have fallen between the seat cushions. “Which means it would have been found during the security check in Puerto Rico and then promptly thrown out after scanning it for terrorist threats, of course). So that means it’s probably resting on a trash barge, enjoying a long, leisurely cruise toward, its final destination, a landfill. . . .
“Um, excuse me, miss?”
Oh, God, this was the worst part of riding the jump seat. People always assumed you were being lazy by not serving them, when clearly my beige linen pants, cream-colored camisole, and beige wrap sweater were a far cry from the ugly polyester uniform Atlas made us wear.
I remained sitting there, bent over my stuff, hoping she’d go away.
“Miss? I’m sorry to bother you, but I think something’s wrong with my dad.”
I looked up to find a terrified teenage girl standing before me, hands shaking, eyes wide with panic, and I was out of my seat, in the aisle, and checking her dad for vital signs before I’d even had a chance to think. “Go get those flight attendants on the cart up there and tell them to call for help,” I told her. But when I reached for the first aid kit I saw that she was still standing behind me, completely frozen. “It’s gonna be okay,” I said softly. “But please go now!”
The guy sitting at the window helped me lay the sick passenger in the aisle, and as I bent over him, lowering my ear to his nose and mouth, I was filled with dread when I realized he wasn’t breathing. Ripping into the first aid kit, I grabbed the pocket mask, slapped it on his face, and immediately breathed two slow breaths into his mouth, watching his chest softly rise and fall. Then I pressed two fingers to his neck, desperately searching for his carotid pulse, but there wasn’t any.
Oh God, oh God. I looked frantically up the aisle. The young girl was just now telling Clay, and I knew there wasn’t enough time to wait for him to arrive with the defibrillator. I had to start CPR now! But was it still trace, space, and place? No, that was outdated. Now it was something like, imagine a line across the nipples, estimate the middle, and start pushing. But what if I broke a rib?
I glanced down at him, noticing his face had gone completely white and his lips were taking on a bluish tinge. And knowing it was probably already too late, I took a deep breath, and let everything I’d learned about first aid instinctively take over until Clay and Jennifer arrived.
Since I was already on the floor, I stayed put when Clay got there, helping him cut open the man’s shirt, shave his chest, and attach those sticky pads to the designated spots while Jennifer ran to page for a doctor and tried to calm the terrified young girl.
Over the years I’d had plenty of onboard minor medical emergencies, but there always seemed to be a doctor, nurse, EMT, or paramedic on board. But now that it was a life-or-death matter, it was just Clay and me. And we remained crouched in the aisle, desperately trying to breathe air into his lungs and shock him back to consciousness, until we returned to the San Juan airport and the emergency medical team stormed on board and rushed him away on a stretcher.
We stood in the aisle, dazed and sweaty, and I looked at the girl just as the Atlas reps were taking her away. “My dad!” she cried. But I had nothing for her. It was already too late when I’d found him.
When we finally landed at Kennedy Airport, there was the usual gaggle of supervisors waiting to meet us.
“Are y’all okay?” asked Dotty, a Southerner with bleached blond curly bangs and a tight, purple suit that hadn’t fit since 1987.
“I need you to fill out some paperwork,” said Shannon, our overanxious and underqualified base manager.
“You haven’t talked to any media, have you?” This one came from Lawrence, my very own supervisor, whom, quite frankly, I could not stand.
I rolled my eyes and kept walking. There was no way I was even going to answer that. What was he thinking? That I’d called CNN from the in-flight phone? That my agent was fielding bids on an exclusive story? I mean, some kid’s dad had died right in front of me, and that was the best this bozo could come up with?
I glanced over at Clay, who was surrounded by suits. But he was part of the working crew, which meant he had no choice but to stick around and answer questions. Whereas I, on the other hand, was on my own time. And right or wrong, to me, that little fact made all the difference.
I dragged my bag up the jetway, determined to shake Lawrence.
“Hailey, I know you’ve had a traumatic flight, but you cannot walk away,” he said, tailgating me. “We must debrief.”
“I’m going home. I’ll e-mail a report tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder as I entered the terminal and beelined for the exit.
There was no way I was “debriefing” with him. This was the same overzealous clown who wrote me up for wearing Ugg boots from my apartment to the airport during one of the worst blizzards the city had ever seen. Never mind that I’d promptly changed into my airline-approved pumps before I signed in. Apparently I’d done great harm to the Atlas image by allowing the crackheads loitering at the bus stop on the corner of 125th and Lex to peek at my non-regulation snow boots at four o’clock in the morning.
But Lawrence didn’t just limit himself to footwear infractions. Oh no. During the last several years he’d busted me for:
1. Wearing earrings bigger than a quarter.
2. Recklessly allowing my hair to fall past my collar.
3. Sporting opaque hose instead of silky sheer during foul weather.
4. Wearing two silver rings on the same hand and on different fingers.
5. Using a nonapproved piece of luggage when my roll-aboard suffered a severe blowout during a three-day trip. (Apparently I was supposed to have a backup bag on hand. Never mind that this went against the strict two-bag policy that even we were forced to adhere to.)
6. Not wearing the blazer during boarding. (Uh, let’s not even mention that it was 105 degrees outside and 110 in the cabin, as the Atlas suits, intent on saving money, forbade us from using the air conditioner.)
7. Chewing gum in uniform.
8. Using a “designer” lanyard to hold my ID rather than the Atlas-issued chain/clip one. (Even though it wasn’t really designer, but a Burberry plaid knockoff.)
He’d even gone so far as to drag me over to the mirror early one morning, directing me to gaze at my reflection while contemplating the sign overhead that read, “Image is everything” and “This is what your customers see.”
Well, if that’s what they were forced to look at, then I was truly sorry for them. Because not only was there an overworked and underpaid flight attendant with early-morning eye bags, an ugly uniform, and frizzy hair fighting to break fr
ee from its company approved French twist, but next to her stood a vertically challenged imbecile with a bad attitude, overplucked brows, sketchy man makeup, and a textbook case of Napoleon complex the likes of which I’d never seen.
No wonder they keep him down here, in the bowels of JFK, I thought as he pointed out the “wispies” that had spontaneously sprung loose from my hair clip.
“Wispies are frowned upon,” he’d reminded me. “Maybe you should try a stronger hair spray.”
And now he wanted to take a meeting”? Not a chance. Didn’t this guy have papers to push, bucks to pass, lightbulbs to change?
I pushed through the filthy glass door and headed for the bus stop, wondering if he’d follow.
He didn’t.
By the time I made it back to Kat’s I was frantic. Just how many bodies have I left in my wake? I wondered, making my way down the hall and bracing for whatever horror I might stumble upon. Would I find three emaciated Persians splayed across the kitchen floor, starving eyes staring at me accusingly? Or would Kat be waiting rigidly at the head of the table, flanked by a team of lawyers, ready to charge me with gross negligence?
I hesitated in the doorway, not sure if I had the guts to go through with it. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked into the kitchen, and just like in a clip from When Animals Attack, Harold, Conrad, and William came charging toward me, their tiny white paws scraping furiously against the stone floor while their blue eyes remained fixed on their intended prey—me. I froze in horror as I watched them closing in, and for a brief moment I considered fleeing down the hall toward the safety of my room. But in the end, I just dropped my bags and stood there, knowing that whatever vicious act they had in mind, surely I deserved it.
But instead of leaping for my throat and going straight for the jugular, they skidded to a stop at my feet. And then, arching their backs and lowering their heads, they sidled up against my legs, meowing in a way that was more greeting than protest. And as a lifelong, dedicated “dog person,” I gotta admit, I was impressed.
Relieved that all they seemed to want was a little love and nourishment, I busied myself with filling their bowls. Then I got down on the floor with them, and cried while they ate.
When the alarm rang at seven, I was already wide awake, having spent the previous half hour rubbing my itchy, watery eyes and battling through intense sneeze attacks brought on by “the kids.” And by the fact that I’d felt so guilty about their desertion I’d actually let them sleep with me.
I reached over, silenced the clock, and wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee, some paper, and a pen. Yesterday’s tragedy was still fresh in my mind, and I knew that eventually I’d have to deal with it, since I could only dodge Lawrence for so long. But for now, I had the whole day off, and I was determined to use it for more pressing issues.
I had promised myself that as soon as I returned from Puerto Rico I would begin rebuilding my life. And the best way for me to do that is always by making a list. Otherwise I tend to get sidetracked and drift way off course.
So I grabbed a notepad from a hotel in Barcelona and a ballpoint pen advertising a Dublin pub and wrote:
To Do Today:
1. Pick up stuff from Michael’s.
2. Find apartment to put stuff in.
Okay, this being New York City and all, I knew what a seemingly impossible task the second item would be. It can take people with far more money and resources than I months to find a decent place to live. But this was one of those rare cases when being a flight attendant could actually work in my favor. Since our irregular schedules rarely keep us in one place for more than a few days at a time, we are known to occupy the tiniest apartments in large quantities. So surely, somewhere on this twenty-five-mile island there was a vacant bunk bed waiting for me. I mean, as nice as it was in the Fifth Avenue penthouse, there was no way I could survive the rest of the week with three fluffy Persians and their collective dander. Besides, it was time to reclaim my life and start paying my own way.
So after feeding the felines, and brewing some coffee, I fired up my laptop and logged onto the Atlas Airlines Web site, heading straight for the employee swap board, which serves as a sort of craigslist for flight attendants, offering up everything from unwanted trips to gently worn uniform items and rooms for rent.
Since the majority of New York—based flight attendants and pilots are commuters, flying in to work and then heading back home as soon as their trip ends, there was a long list of available space in Kew Gardens (which due to its airport proximity and apartments chock-full of airline employees is also known as Crew Gardens). But that’s mostly a “twenty people to a two-bedroom” commuter crash pad, hot bed (bring your own sheets, first come first served) situation. And since I was a newly single, noncommuting, full-time New York—dwelling gal, I really preferred to live in the city. And I really preferred to have my own bed.
But after reading through countless listings I knew would never work, I was just about to give up when I read the very last one:
WANTED-
I F, N/S, F/A, 2 SHARE I BDR, IN CITY
CALL LISETTE JOHNSON.
Since I didn’t know anyone named Lisette, I immediately tried to research her schedule, hoping I could glean something about her from the type of trips she liked to fly. But when I typed in her name, RESTRICTED INFORMATION flashed on-screen, and I immediately assumed that, like me, she too had suffered a bad breakup with a fellow Atlas employee, and was determined not to be tracked.
So, feeling a common bond, I picked up the phone and dialed her number, keeping my fingers crossed that the apartment would still be available.
By the time I reached the fifth-floor walkup I was sweaty, gasping for breath, and vowing to join a gym as soon as I got settled in. Then, combing my fingers through my long, curly hair, I knocked on Lisette’s door, and blinked in surprise when I was greeted by Lisa, whom I vaguely remembered from flight attendant training all those years ago.
“Oh, hey,’ I said, wiping my hand across my sweaty brow, hoping the room hadn’t been rented before I’d even had a chance to see it. “I’m here to see Lisette.”
“That’s me,” she said, stepping aside and revealing a tiny, cluttered apartment with no discernible natural light.
“Wait. You’re Lisette?” I asked, pausing in the threshold and squinting at her, feeling more than a little confused. I mean, sure her hair had changed from its former brown ponytail to a jet black, flat-ironed, chin-length bob, and her formerly bottle-tanned skin was now a pale, creamy white, but I definitely remembered her as being Lisa, the girl who’d pulled me into the raft during the “Unanticipated Ocean Landing” class held in the Atlas swimming pool.
“I passed the French language exam. I fly only to Nice, Lyon, and Paris now,” she said, as though that somehow explained it.
I just nodded, frantically trying to recall anything more about her from our six weeks in the South, six years ago. But unfortunately, the memory bank was empty.
“So, this is it,” she said, with inexplicable pride. “Kitchen there, bathroom with tub/shower through that door, and my bedroom through that one.” She pointed, her index finger hitting all the important landmarks in the small, rectangular space. “What do you think?” she asked, obviously anticipating a compliment.
“Well . . .”I stalled, focusing on the dying houseplant in the far corner; the hideous, pockmarked, parquet wood floors; and the peeling, bubbled, yellowing walls, all the while trying to convince myself that this would be, at most, a temporary situation. “Can I see the room we’ll be sharing?”
“Oh, we’re not sharing,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “The bedroom is my room. This pull-out couch is where you’ll sleep. I’m told it’s very comfortable,” she said, running her short red nails along the armrest like a game show model.
Seeing that ugly, dismal, sagging, brown corduroy couch made my eyes threaten to fill with tears; but determined to get through it, I wiped my hand across my forehead, sh
ook my head, and said, “Okay. So how much are you asking?”
She stood there regarding me carefully. “Well, since you’ll be sleeping on a couch, I’ve decided to ask for less than half the rent.” She smiled.
“And how much is that?” I asked, determined to get to the bottom of it. I was in no mood for games.
“One thousand dollars a month, plus half the utilities.” She didn’t even flinch.
“For the couch? Are you kidding?” I said, staring at her in disbelief.
“The total rent is twenty-two hundred! I’m paying more than you!” she argued.
“Yeah, but you have a door While I’m just winging it in the middle of the living room here,” I said, feeling deeply depressed that I was actually bartering over a couch.
“D’accord,” she sighed, rolling her eyes and slipping into French. “Nine hundred and fifty.”
“Nine even,” I countered, narrowing my eyes.
“Done, fini.” She clapped her hands together twice, bringing an end to the bartering.
Shaking my head, I settled onto the crappy, lumpy couch, which would now double as my bed, and wrote her a check for the first and last months’ rent, secretly hoping the first month would be the last.
“I’ll come by later with my stuff,” I said, exchanging the check for a set of shiny gold keys.
And as I headed for the door I stopped and turned, glancing from Lisette to the couch, knowing I’d just been completely had. But I also knew that if I was going to find my own way, I’d have to start here.
STERILE COCKPIT
Flight attendants are
