Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Gaze upon one Mister Otto Beamer, a little man of little consequence.” For those of us in the lower belly of the craft it was as if Rod Serling, the creator of the historic popular show, was now in command of the massive jumbo jet. The look on the face of our business oriented teacher was one of astounded shock. Yet, from a different station above in the main cabin another member of our scalawag pupils picked up where the first impudent young man left off.

  “Mr. Beamer has just boarded an unfamiliar DC-10 Spaceship bound for a uniquely unconventional destination we call the Twilight Zone.” The instructor had enough. Her face reddened with anger. She turned and quickly hurried into the service elevator and up to the main cabin. Kyle Tillman broke into hilarious laughter as the other students in the lower galley feared getting the boot. The two pranksters were verbally reprimanded and given a stern warning, but even this did not deter the mischief makers from seizing the P.A. system at every chance. One often fantasized having a captive audience on the DC-10.

  No matter how hard I tried to enjoy myself in the various activities in the classroom I could sense a seriousness, a shadow on my soul when the safety issues were continually brought to the forefront. Regulation after regulation dictated your actions. Care and tools were available for every conceivable situation except one: the procedure for an emergency landing with no time to prepare.

  “Grab ankles and stay down until the plane stops,” Marilyn's persistent voice rang out. If one were lucky enough to run this gauntlet of horrors and come out alive there would be more regulations. There was Regulation 8.12-6: “Do not make any statements to the press concerning the probable cause of the accident.” Public Relations releases this information. It reinforced the realization that I was expected to be a company man to the end. I wondered out loud why these words seemed to continue to nag at me. Marilyn was efficient at her task, handing us special safety cards inscribed with the instructions on assessing the situation after an emergency landing. Mark took one such card and inscribed his own philosophy on the subject that seemed more realistic concerning the physics involved in such an event. He turned and flashed the content of his perceived judgment concerning a fatal crash.

  “Get your own ass out,” the message read.

  After reviewing the various potential accidents, it became evident to me that surviving in such a critical situation was similar to enduring the environment I grew up in-the Eastside. One had to use common sense and sharpen one's skills.

  By day, our trio were personified gentlemen, but by evening the nightlife that surrounded LAX became our playground. The age of disco and such clubs were the rage after hours in the basin of the City of the Angels. At many a sunrise, the taxis brought the intoxicated cadets back to their dormitory. Kyle and I usually accepted the task of carrying the lightweights through the kitchen entrance past the smiling hotel help and up the stairs to avoid any company spies sent to check up on the mischievous children.

  The introduction of males to a workplace that had been exclusively female for half a century brought about interesting situations. The feminist movement of the late sixties was being played out in reverse now. The boys would never have to experience the brief terror of enduring moderate turbulence in high heels. While housed overnight in a major city on layover, I was not hesitant to leave the safety of the hotel to partake of the local culture. The ladies rightfully had to be more careful. “All the women you want, a decent salary and free travel. It beats working for a living,” roared Mark with laughter. With a little boyish grin and a flattering word, Mark, Kyle and I got away with murder during that training period. One could definitely say that our actions away from class were far less than professional. Fortunately our trio’s conduct was never looked upon as anything more than boyish behavior by our superiors. We assumed they were not fully aware of the depth of our rogue antics. If there had been a question concerning our qualifications it was quickly swept away by the quality of our performance in class. The high scores we achieved on the federal and company exams were solid testimony to our commitment.

  I also began to recognize another development. Quality and professionalism are aspects of an airline culture, but warmth, understanding and true compassion are bonuses, rarely found in the corporate world. The people of the airline, the everyday workers from crews, mechanics, office people to ship cleaners, it was evident that this was as good as it gets in the industry. I truly had been permitted to latch onto a great company. I became very grateful for the opportunity.

  The Airport Park Hotel, our temporary home, had an efficient enough weight room. Right after the company bus returned us at the end of a class day, I would seek the solace of the gym.

  “Turn negative energy into positive.” My high school coach taught me a very basic and logical lesson. “Keep a clean and healthy diet,” he always advised. That part was always much more difficult to maintain. The headquarters of the airline contained a decent cafeteria that all the employees enjoyed, including the new-hires. Being two pounds shy of my maximum weight limit haunted me. I was having too much fun and eating too much junk. Although I did not look overweight, I was sure I was right at my maximum and would be weighed again before being fitted for my F/A uniform. Unfortunately, like anything one becomes obsessed with, there were days of great discipline and days of total failure.

  Back in the classroom Marilyn introduced us to the possibility of our worst fears. There had been a massive airline disaster some years prior on the runway at the main airport on the Spanish territory of the Canary Islands. Fog was a dreaded obstacle for any aviator. A fateful decision by one of the most respected captains of KLM, the Dutch based airline, was a major contributing factor. The Cockpit Voice Recorder, otherwise known by the public as the black box, revealed his impatience. With zero visibility and without final clearance from the less than professional tower, another factor, he took the Boeing 747, filled to the max with passengers and proceeded down a fog-ridden path. It remained unclear at that time whether he realized that a Pan American Airways 747 had just landed and was taxiing on the same runway heading to turn off to its assigned gate. The photos screamed it out loud. Over five hundred perished in the impact and inferno that followed. I got lost in the minor details. There were rows of blackened seats. An emergency procedure placard lay on the foam filled tarmac. There was a suitcase here, a shoe there, and metal contorted by massive forces seared inside and out. Then there were the bodies, some covered some not. Some whole, some not.

  “Eddy, are you okay?” Marilyn snapped. Perhaps she noticed I was caught up in a mesmerized trance.

  “You know, I have not felt well since breakfast,” I stated.

  “Maybe you should go back to the hotel,” she suggested. Having had enough time in the presence of Death, I jumped at the opportunity to play hooky.

  “I don't know if I can make it back to the hotel,” I played the part. “Perhaps Mark can come back with me?” Mark did not bat an eye. He picked up on the deception.

  “I'll see he gets back,” he retorted. The company bus was brought to the main entrance, we boarded and the charade was continued until it dropped us off at the domicile. “What’s up?” Mark asked. A huge grin appeared on his face.

  “I'm gonna give you a personal tour of the scenic highlights of Los Angeles,” I told the freckled face boy from the land of a thousand lakes. Revealing my charade we broke out in laughter. The prankster from Minnesota was up for whatever shenanigans I had in store. Now, when anyone imagines the sites a visitor to the south-land would wish to see, Disneyland certainly comes to mind. The Hollywood Bowl, the famous Chinese theater and the Sunset Strip are other desired locations to be visited. I, on the other hand, had a completely different itinerary in mind for my red-haired compatriot in mischief. Mark was going to experience the majestic environment that is East Los Angeles. Since I was in my hometown I was one of the few trainees who had the availability of a motor vehicle. Like two impish children playing hooky from elementary school, we gleefully zoome
d away onto the intertwined system of freeways. Boyle Heights and Whittier Blvd. is where the center of the Mexican American community congregated. Mark's eyes widened with amazement. He was all at once transported into a foreign arena that seemed like some distant land, a completely different world. The residents were black haired, dark skinned and alien in their features and mannerisms. Beer, and lots of it, was first on the agenda of our unique personal tour.

  The “Par-a-Dice” club is a hole in the wall bar on Atlantic Blvd. near where my parents lived. Its small billboard sign was truly unique: the artistic rendering of the biblical Garden of Eden, book-ended by a pair of dice revealing 'snake eyes.' The graphic was amateurish at best. Some people may have called the establishment a dive. I chose to look at it more as being a place with its own flavor.

  It would have been a good bet to say that Mark Matsen might find himself out of his comfort zone. The mariachi music blared as I opened the door to the rustic facility. The bar was crowded for an early afternoon with individuals who were wearing the typical white cowboy hat worn by that sector of society.

  “Buenas tardes,” I stated the appropriate greeting. Several of those drinking at the bar turned their heads slightly as they focused in on my face without any reaction. But a split moment later their heads swung around again, this time with their eyes wide in amazement. They caught a glimpse of Mark.

  “Weeno diiaaas.” The smiling white boy stated. Oh God, was I making a big mistake? There had been some local men playing pool when we entered but now the entire premises became motionless and the air filled with dead silence. Like an episode out of the Twilight Zone, where all the inhabitants are frozen except the primary characters, I began to worry. I instantly moved about as though there was absolutely nothing wrong. Silently, I worried that we would be knifed and thrown out the back into the desolate alley.

  “Dos cervezas Mexicana, Bohemia por favor.” I requested calmly. We slowly approached the counter. One of the young campesinos sitting at the bar continued to stare intensely after the others had slowly returned to their prior activities. I could read his mind.

  “What's this gringo doing here?” I quickly approached the stern, weary young man and nodded towards Mark saying,

  “Esta bien'. He's good.” I quickly turned my attention to the man behind the bar, “Otra cerveza para mi amigo aqui,” referring to the campesino.

  Conversation slowly started up again. I became worried that possibly they might think we were policemen, since we were still dressed in our regulation trainee attire, dress slacks, shirt and tie. The majority of the patrons of the club wore cowboy boots, tapered jeans, big belt buckles, buttoned down long sleeve work shirts and those white hats. The exception was the bartender. He had a lime green polo shirt with a name embroidered on the left side of his chest. The two wannabe F/A's took a seat at the far end of the bar. Mark was amazed. The decor, the mariachi sounds and the establishment's customers, the entire setting blew his mind.

  Initially, we were pretty much isolated from the rest of the patrons at one end, but as time went on the atmosphere became more relaxed. Suddenly, Mark jumped off his stool and displayed a strained look. My heart jumped straight away wondering if there was some immediate threat I was not aware of. The black rimmed glasses came off his face. He quickly cleaned them and put them back on and stared again.

  “Look,” he pointed. We are being served by Jesus himself!”

  “What?” I was confused.

  “Eddy, the bartender's name is Jesus.”

  “No Mark, it's Jesus, pronounced (hay-soos),” I said emphasizing the Latin accent. “There are a million guys around with that name.” The campesinos became alerted by my classmate's animated behavior and wanted to know what the white boy was raving about? I explained the situation to them and they began to laugh. Words like “tonto” and “pendejo” popped out but there was no choler behind the comments, only jest. Mark became curious as to why this guy had the name Jesus? There were a few guys there that spoke some English and graciously engaged in small talk with the fair skinned stranger. With time it grew to real conversation. “Look at him work the room,” I stated to myself. Mark was showcasing his charismatic personality and winning these tough guys over. Soon there was no concern whatsoever that there was a gringo amongst them. I could see why the airline believed Mark would be an asset.

  One Bohemia came and went, another was served. The blaring sound of the mariachi trumpets echoed through the smoke filled room. With the influence of the beer, Mark joyfully tried to join in on the lyrics of the music. I was not sure at this stage of the visit whether he knew that the words were in Spanish. He really didn't seem to care as he mimicked what he thought were close enough sounds. He shot pool with a few of the guys, continually called the man behind the bar Jesus (the English version) and emphasized it with a sense of reverence. The jester of F/A training class 2 was having a good time.

  When it came time to leave there were sincere invitations from the frequenters of the establishment to return anytime and soon. Mark had developed a special interaction with one crusty old “veterano” who soon was treating the white boy from the North as an adopted son. The man's leathery skin and dark complexion spoke of a life of hard work in the hot sun. Taking me aside as we were departing he informed me in Spanish that the reason for the uneasiness upon our arrival was not due so much to my friend's ethnicity. Because of our professional attire the crowd inside believed we were agents of the immigration department. I chuckled and understood very clearly what he meant. I didn't see any reason to tell Mark about the revelation. I turned to him as I unlocked the door to the car.

  “Now you can say you've been to the Par-a-Dice Club.” He snickered like a little girl.

  “And I got to meet Jesus,” he insisted. From that point on the saucy fellow also acquired a taste for Mexican beer, Bohemia in particular.

  Olvera Street in downtown Los Angeles is the city's historic representative of old California. I wasn't going to take Mark just to the shadier locations of the East Side; I wanted him to get a better understanding of my rich culture. Feeling hungry after the beers, we ate taquitos like nowhere else with it's spicing green salsa, and sampled a combination of additional tasty delights. The air was filled with delicate aromas. Enchiladas verde, carnitas, pollo con mole were some of the dishes sampled for the first time by my excited companion. He particularly relished the sweetness of pan mexicano for dessert. Once done filling our stomachs, guilt in the form of my ever mindful F/A weight limit persisted. I thought to ignore reality by dashing along the cobblestone thoroughfare alongside Mark, amusing ourselves by zigzagging through the various shops that lined the oldest street in Los Angeles. Leather goods were the specialty of one, authentic and colorful sombreros, hats for all Hispanic occasions were neatly displayed at another. There were visual delights all around. Multi-colored wrestling masks, like the popular luchadores of Mexico, hung in rows. There were pinatas in all shapes, colors and sizes for any festive occasion. Some stores had rosaries, religious medals and statues of every saint imaginable. At the old church in the plaza there was holy water for the faithful and an offer of redemption for those souls that were lost.

  One shop that caught both our eyes was the one that was dedicated to “El Dia de Los Muertos,” (The Day of the Dead). The mercantile establishment was filled with “calaveras,” skulls of all sizes and made from every possible material thinkable. Skull stones, skull posters, skull rings, skull belts and even skull candy. Mark's initial reaction was to think that the display of such items was morbid. I tried to explain to my hooky playing comrade that we Hispanics do not always see death as an abstract.

  “We garner the greater image of Muerto, Death himself,” I explained. “Being skeleton like and sometimes referred to by other cultures as the Grim Reaper, the Spanish version plays a much more active role in the daily lives of the people, a life that is much more burdensome than we here in the States could ever know. Therefore death could always be near, per
haps just around the corner.”

  It was renowned Mexican author Octavio Paz who wrote:

  “The word Death is not pronounced in Los Estados Unidos because it burns the lips. The Mexican in contrast is familiar with Death, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it. It is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love, but at least it is not hidden away. He looks at it face to face, with impatience, disdain or irony.”[1]

  Mark became intrigued. I pondered that there probably were not many stores in Minnesota dedicated to the Day of the Dead. My friend wandered through the shop with greater interest after my explanation. The design of the various artwork projecting the theme, and Muerto (Death) in particular, was amazing and well done. We envisioned showing up to our F/A classes with a skull-latent black t-shirt but determined that it would not go over very well.

  “It's not regulation,” Mark joked.

  It was getting late and we would have to deal with rush hour traffic to get back to Inglewood.

  “What is the day of the dead?” a somber Mark asked as we moved slowly along the Santa Monica Freeway.

  “At the end of October you have the three-day events of Halloween on the 31st, All Saints Day on November 1st and All Souls Day on the 2nd. Halloween is a day dedicated to the mischievous ways of Muerto, a celebration of the macabre, one might say. All Saints Day is more religious and honors those who have achieved the salvation of Heaven. All Souls Day is related to the bondage of Purgatory and is the only day in Roman Catholic belief one can actually pray a soul out of its hideous bondage. The latter two days were initiated into the celebration after the Spanish conquest of Mexico and today, festivities and dates vary in different parts of the country depending on culture and location. In some areas the Day of The Dead covers a two-week period. In other parts it may be confined to three days. To the religious it provides hope in combating Muerto. “If you ever want to experience the bizarre and the macabre, Mexico City on Halloween is the place to be.”