by Alyson Noel
But after returning from a long, drawn-out search for chocolate mints I knew we didn’t have, Helga was gone. And the remaining passengers had turned the abandoned beverage cart into an open bar.
Maybe I carried it just a little too far, I thought as I shooed away the booze stealers and picked up the pace. But as the rows and minutes ticked by with absolutely no sign of her, I knew she was taking one of her infamous “lav naps” and wouldn’t be emerging any time soon.
And that’s when I learned the truth about revenge. I may have been serving it cold, but like bad coach-class lasagna, it was repeating on me.
As I continued down the aisle, I quickly regressed to my old ways of monosyllables and generic greetings. Though unfortunately the passengers I’d left in my wake were unaware of my recent reversal. And still under the impression that I’d do just about anything to ensure their comfort and safety, they started ringing their call lights and asking for refills, cookies, complementary headsets, pillows, blankets, newspapers, magazines—one even requested a scoop of palate-cleansing sorbet.
I knew I was responsible for this mess. It was just the natural consequence of pretending to care. But the truth was, I didn’t care. And I was completely over it. I mean, Helga was probably deep into the REM stage, while I still had thirty rows to go.
Shaking my head, I continued pushing that two-hundred-pound beast down the aisle, tossing cookies like bread crumbs to pigeons, and flipping pop-tops till my calluses bled. And as I wiped my sweaty brow and gazed upon the endless rows of needy people, their mouths stretched open like newly hatched birds anxiously awaiting their share of regurgitated food, I cursed that horrible Helga, along with my own delusional dream of thinking I could change her when countless others had already tried.
And as I felt someone creep up from behind, tapping me gently on the shoulder, I thought, That’s it! This is the passenger who’s going to suffer for the sins of the others! I may lose my job, and they may not remember my name, but like the legendary stewardess before me, who after a self-important passenger’s repeated screams of “Do you know who I am?” grabbed the PA and announced, “There’s a confused man in first class who doesn’t know his name. Can someone please come and identify him?” they’ll remember this!
Clenching my jaw and narrowing my eyes, I slammed down a plastic cup of ice so hard I lost some cubes, and as I turned on my heel, ready for battle, I was faced with a tiny little person with Coke-bottle glasses, a shiny bald head, a withered arm, and a weird hump on his back. And he was bearing the loveliest, most genuine smile I’d seen in the last six years.
And that’s when I learned about karma. Except I already knew about karma; I’d just temporarily forgotten. So I gave him the extra napkin he asked for, along with a pillow, a blanket, a sleeve of cookies, and a complementary headset he probably didn’t want. I even mumbled something about sorbet.
Then I finished the service, parked the cart, and rigged the bathroom door so Helga couldn’t get out.
After crawling home from the bus stop in complete and total exhaustion, I grabbed my stack of mail, sorting through it as I rode the elevator to the top. And as I opened the door and dropped my bag in the hall, I noticed the very last one was from Atlas. And something about the plain yet official look of the envelope made my stomach fill with dread. But like pulling a bandage from a knee, I knew I had to act fast. So after ripping into it and unfolding a single sheet of paper, I quickly skimmed over it.
We’ve entered a time of NEW CHALLENGES that have resulted in a CHANGED BUSINESS LANDSCAPE such that we have no choice but to embark on a RADICAL CORPORATE TRANSFORMATION, which will unfortunately result in the FURLOUGH OF NINE THOUSAND Atlas employees, blah blah blah.
Then, at the very bottom, it stated:
Be aware that seniority numbers 13,400 and higher may be affected.
I was number 13,802.
“Hailey? Hello, hello, can you hear me?”
“Oh, hey Kat,” I said, rubbing my eyes and squinting at the clock, shocked to see that it was already 10:45 in the morning.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Um, no. Of course not,” I lied. “I’m just sitting here reading the paper.” I rolled over and looked out the window, but the apartment was so high up all I could see from my bed was blue sky.
“How are the kids?”
“The cats are great, but I can tell they really miss you, especially Conrad,” I said. “So how’s Greece? Are you in Athens?”
“Greece is wonderful, so relaxing. We were in Athens up until yesterday, but then we decided to visit Yanni’s villa in Mykonos. It’s so beautiful; everything is white.”
“Great,” I said, debating whether or not I should get up and actually do something with my day, but then quickly deciding against it and tucking the down comforter snugly under my feet.
“And how are you? How’s the writing and flying?”
“The writing? Well, I guess it’s on standby since it’s not really going anywhere. And the flying, well, Atlas has just informed me that there’s a good chance they’ll be laying me off. Though they make no promises.” I closed my eyes and bit down on my lower lip.
“Sorry?” she said. “I’m on a cell and I couldn’t quite hear you. Now what did you say?”
“I said I’m getting laid off!” I shouted, suddenly sitting upright with the phone clutched tight to my ear.
“Oh Hailey, that’s terrible.”
“Tell me,” I said, no longer wanting to explain that Atlas and I were actually still in the trying-to-make-it-work stage. That we hadn’t yet decided whether or not we’d split.
“Come to Mykonos,” she said.
“Oh, no. I can’t. I need to stick around and figure something out. Find a new job, start a new book, something.”
“I agree. But all that will still be waiting for you when you return. So for now, you should come to Greece and let Yanni and I take care of you for a few days. Use your free passes one last time lor something wonderful.”
“But what about the cats?” I asked, having already decided to go and now just trying to nail down the details.
“Call Clay. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Okay, so they need to be fed twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. And Jonathan Franzen gets just a pinch of food. And I mean just a pinch. Any more and he’s a floater,” I warned.
“Hailey, jeez. I got it, okay?” Clay said, shaking his head and taking a swig of his beer. We were having a late-afternoon drink at a bar we’d both determined was located almost exactly halfway between my place and his. And since I was leaving for Greece the next day I needed to get him prepped and ready for duty.
“Oh, and when you’re finished feeding Jonathan, make sure you close the door. I don’t want the cats to know he’s in there.”
“What is he—a squatter?”
“A stowaway,” I said, reaching for my wine. “You know, you and Peter should stay over. Take one of the spare rooms and turn it into a mini vacation suite, or honeymoon suite, or whatever. I mean, you guys are still together, right?”
“Five months and counting.” He smiled.
“So, is this getting serious?” I asked.
“Check this out—the other day I came home from yet another La Guardia—Lauderdale hell trip, and when I walked in the door, Peter had champagne, flowers, scented candles, and a bubble bath all waiting for me.”
“Wow,” I said, feeling happy for Clay, but also kinda gypped that straight guys rarely did stuff like that. “You know that kind of treatment should be mandatory after a Lauderdale trip. In fact, Atlas should provide a team of massage therapists and posttraumatic stress counselors the second we get back to the gate.”
Clay laughed and took another sip of his drink, but I wasn’t joking. Certain routes had earned certain reputations, but the La Guardia to Fort Lauderdale route was by far the worst in the business. And it wasn’t just at Atlas. Oh no. Over the years, I’d talked to plenty of other airl
ine employees, and it was basically all the same.
Different uniforms, different logo, same exact shit.
It starts with boarding. Every other person boarding those flights supposedly needs a wheelchair—because wheelchairs get on first. And with as many as fifty chairs lined up at the gate, you’d better start early if you’re gonna have a chance in hell of an on-time departure.
Once the chairs are emptied, wheeled back up the jetway, and everyone is more or less resigned to the fact that complaining the loudest will not result in a free first-class upgrade, we are free to board the remaining passengers.
And that’s when the call lights start ringing. Since now that the aisles are clogged with 156 people all trying to locate their seats along with a spot for their oversized luggage, those already seated have decided it is the perfect time to indulge in their assortment of pills and medications, and thus they require water—immediately.
After struggling against the current of bodies making their way down the aisle, after being shoved into armrests and battered by bags, after somehow miraculously not spilling the entire tray of waters before they reach their final destination, the preflight water service is complete, and a brief period of relative calm overcomes the cabin during the showing of the safety demonstration.
But as the flight attendants get securely strapped into their jump seats and the plane enters one of the most dangerous phases of flight, speeding down the runway and lifting into the air, the call lights start ringing again as passengers let forth a litany of complaints about everything from the cabin temperature, to the way the pilots are flying, to the lack of legroom, to the appearance of the flight crew—and each other.
Once a comfortable cruising altitude is reached the flight attendants wheel the carts into the narrow aisles, signaling that this is a great opportunity for passengers to:
A. Perform yoga stretches in their path.
B. Ensure that all bags, briefcases, purses, and extraneousbody parts are resting comfortably in their way so that theycannot move around them.
C. Take a leisurely stroll through the cabin, peeking in the galleys and checking out the lavatories while following closelyon the heels of the crew member working the beverage cart.
After moving the cart back and forth, over and over again, so that passengers can get in and out of their seats for various valid reasons, after every single person on board has complained about the food (or lack thereof), after every last bit of water, decaf, ginger ale, and tomato juice has been spoken for, it is time to stow the cart and collect the garbage.
Armed with the trash cart, the flight attendants head back into the aisle, where they are prodded in the ass with dirty fingers, half-full coffee cups, filthy diapers, sticky tomato juice cans, ball-point pens, mass-market paperbacks, CD jewel cases, coffee stir sticks, shoes, baby bottles, hairbrushes, thermoses, and one time even a small brown dachshund, as everyone assumes they are being ignored, when actually the crew is only trying to retrieve the items in the same order in which they were given.
Once the trash pickup is concluded, the cart is parked and flight attendants are back in the aisles, making themselves available for questions like:
“Did my bag make it on the flight?” I’m not sure, but I’ll be right back.
“Am I going to make my connecting flight?” I don’t know, hut I’ll he right hack.
“I liked our last crew better; they all had such cute Southern accents. Why don’t you have a cute Southern accent?” I’ll have to check, hut Til he right hack.
On final approach, when flight attendants are required to walk through the cabin performing the FAA-mandated safety check, suddenly the majority of passengers are all too happy to roll up their sleeves and pitch in by pointing out every infraction, real or imagined, that their seatmates may be engaging in.
When the plane finally arrives at the gate and the door is opened, all passengers swiftly leap into the aisle, engaging in a rowdy, pushing, shoving stampede toward the exit. Yet once it’s their turn to step off the airplane and into the jetway, they each stop, smile, and say “thank you” to the pilots for providing such a wonderful flight.
When the last person has deplaned, the flight attendants make a mad dash into the terminal, running past fifty unwanted, unclaimed, empty wheelchairs—because wheelchairs get off last—in an attempt to purchase and consume a dinner from Starbucks in just under eight minutes flat.
And then boarding is announced, and the wheelchairs are quickly claimed, thus beginning an encore performance.
We call this “The Miracle Flight,” since immediately upon landing everyone is miraculously ambulatory again. And it is always like that. And it never varies. And now I was actually feeling depressed about the possibility of getting booted from one of our longest-running shows.
“So how long are you staying?” Clay asked, waking me from my reverie.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I have ten days off, but I’ll probably only stay for a few. I’m getting kind of panicked about the layoffs. I mean, have you even thought about what you’ll do if it happens?” I grabbed a handful of trail mix and looked at Clay.
“Yeah, I’m thinking about going back to school, and finishing my master’s. Peter said he’d help me with the finances.” He shrugged. “Do you ever think about going back to school?”
“I do now. Though in my case it would be to finish up my undergrade I shook my head and took a sip of wine. “We’ve really been living in a bubble, you know? I mean, I used to think this job was so great, and I truly believed the low pay was worth it because of all the fun we were having. But now, six years later, what do I have to show for it? A passport full of stamps, a plastic key card collection from the cheapest hotels in America, some amusing anecdotes, and that’s about it.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, giving me a worried look.
“I’m saying that I’m right back where I started six years ago. Single, with no idea of what comes next. You know, after all that happened with Michael, I tried to convince myself that it was the dawn of an exciting new time, a second chance, a whole new beginning. But now I realize I’m just stuck. And I haven’t made an inch of progress.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. And now Atlas is gonna have the last word, and I’ll be out on the street.”
“You’ll be out on the avenue. Fifth Avenue.”
“You know what I mean.” I looked at him.
“Well, what about your book? What’s going on with that?” he asked, motioning to the bartender for the check.
I just shrugged. I was in full-on self-pity mode now, which meant I wasn’t really into talking about possibilities.
“You know, you could call that author guy, Harrison Whatever. Or you could rewrite it like that editor suggested.”
“But I don’t want to do either of those things,” I said, taking a sip of my wine.
“But sometimes you don’t get to choose.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I looked at him.
“Only you can decide how desperate you are. Only you know how bad you really want it, and just how far you’ll go to get it.”
“You urging me to sell out?” I asked, searching his face, curious where he was going with this.
“I’m urging you to explore your options and keep your mind open.” I He shrugged, dropping a twenty onto the bar.
I should have been happy. I was headed to Greece, to visit an island I’d only seen in glossy travel magazines, where I’d stay in a luxurious villa with a good friend and her new boyfriend whom I was very curious to meet. But as I headed up Madison Avenue, gazing into shop windows displaying clothes I knew I’d never be able to afford, I started to feel panicked in a way that I hadn’t fully admitted to Clay.
Recently I’d read some hateful statistic stating that 75 percent of women are married by the time they reach their twenty-seventh birthday. So you can only imagine the statistics for the over-twenty-eight crowd. And it’
s not that I necessarily wanted to get married, or even have kids for that matter. (Dogs yes, but kids?) But something about those numbers made me feel so solitary and isolated—like that lone species, left on the dock, that all the other animals on the ark refused to mate with.
I mean, how did so many women figure out so quickly just who to spend the rest of their lives with?
It was true that most of my friends were married, and the majority of them seemed pretty happy. And even though their husbands were nice, with no glaring personality disorders or fatal character flaws, I had to admit that nothing about them struck me as all that remarkable. And even though just a short time ago I too had been all too willing to settle, now that I’d narrowly escaped a mediocre mingle, I couldn’t help but wonder if merely being “nice” was really enough?
I mean, until death do you part?
I felt like I’d been on some crazy, never-ending scavenger hunt, like I was the only person still searching for that last, elusive item, while everyone else, pleased with their findings, had packed it up and gone home early. And if I ended up with the treasure, then clearly I’d win. But what if it didn’t even exist? What if the idea of an exciting, toe-curling relationship was just another urban myth? And what if I was the last one to figure this out?
Where would that leave me?
Making my way toward the park, I crossed the street and headed for my building. And even though I had errands to run and bags to pack, I wasn’t quite ready to go inside. So I leaned against the wall and watched all the people go by.
I loved living here, in this tough, annoying, grimy, wonderful city. I loved how on the surface it was rude and abrasive, until you looked closely and noticed that the guy at the deli actually smiled at you, or that your cab driver waited till you got safely inside your building. But if I lost my job at Atlas, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay. Since in a city full of overeducated, overqualified, hungry, young professionals, I wasn’t so sure there was a place for me.
