Coffee, Tea or Me? (14 page)

Of course, even with the breakup of permanent crews, it’s still possible to fly with a particular favorite pilot. Every crew member works on a bid system when it comes to receiving monthly assignments. The stewardess bid results come out before the cockpit crew results. If a captain has something going with you, he can usually, if he has the needed years of seniority, bid for those trips you’ve been awarded. But this situation can lead to great sadness.

A stewardess with another airline was madly in love with a handsome captain. They’d carried on an affair for six months, and he’d always bid for and receive most of her trips.

The sadness came one day in flight operations. She hurried up to him with the glad news, “I got San Francisco again, Harry. You’ll have no trouble getting it, too.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Lucia, but I got stuck with Buffalo and Toronto. What a rotten break.”

“Buffalo and Toronto? You’ve got enough seniority to get any trip you want. I can’t believe you’d lose out and end up with those dog runs.”

“I tried, Lucia, I really tried. I’m sorry.” With those words of apology, Harry walked away to the hellish fate of a Buffalo nonstop.

But Lucia wasn’t about to take this turn of events without a little checking. She slithered down to the departure gate and watched Harry climb on board with a new stewardess, who was sort of a cross between Sophia Loren and Gidget. It was obvious that Harry decided to fly the milk runs because they were the only ones the new gal could bid and win. Lucia learned there and then that a sure tip-off of a dying romance between senior captain and stew is when he suddenly becomes junior again, both in seniority and outlook.

Most crews will get together after a flight for a dip in the motel pool. It makes no difference what the hour is, and 2 or 3 A.M. swims are common. We all splashed into the pool this particular night in Miami with the exception of our captain, who begged off without any specific reason. We were having a wonderful time in the cool water when he finally did appear and ran up on the edge of the high board. He perched there, minus blue serge uniform and wings, and sprang up and down in readiness for a swan dive. Oh, yes—he was also minus his swim trunks.

There he was, our leader, posed proudly like an out-of-shape statue in all his natural glory. Occasional spotlights around the pool perimeter reflected off the water to illuminate his splendor. Then, with a healthy Tarzan scream, he leaped into the water to join us.

We all paddled around for an hour. Our captain wasn’t drunk from all we could ascertain. It was a simple matter of flying fatigue.

“Roll me in the clover and do it again,” he sang as he lazily paddled back and forth across the pool. His singing brought a few complaints from sleeping guests at the motel, and the manager, as understanding as he was with airline crews, came out and asked us to leave the pool. We did, forming a circle around our nude captain.

We asked him about it the next morning at breakfast and he mumbled something about the threat of the H-bomb and starving children and other vague references. We didn’t press the issue, and his subsequent dips in the many pools we frequent were always with trunks.

There are so many stories about captains. Some are true, some are almost true. Many are simply too grotesque and sordid to write about. In their professional role of commander of a giant commercial aircraft, they’re fine, expert professionals performing a very responsible job. Passengers seldom have to worry about their captain. Stewardesses are the ones who sometimes worry.

Rachel has a favorite captain story. One wintry night there were about ten stews sitting on the floor in our apartment drinking red wine, listening to Oscar Peterson records, and swapping girl talk. We went through quite a bit of wine that night and the competitive spirit became keen. Each girl tried to top the others. The stories became more and more personal and, I suspect now as I look back, less and less truthful. After a while there was a kind of lull. I turned to Rachel, “You’ve been very quiet over there. Haven’t you been raped lately or anything?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .”

All Rachel needs is one prod and there’s no guessing what’ll come next.

“C’mon, tell us. What happened?” the girls begged

“I never told you about Louis Lamb, did I?” Rachel settled herself against a pile of cushions. “You know, the big-deal captain who thinks he’s God’s gift? I wasn’t going to tell anybody, I mean, it’s kind of sick. Pour me another glass.” I did.

“Well, I was working some trips with him couple of months ago and we laid over in Detroit. I kind of liked him. He’s a good-looking guy, you have to admit that. So he took me out and we drank a lot and pretty soon he had me talked into staying with him. We went back to his room and after a while he went into the john and I got undressed and waited under the sheets. It took him forever to do whatever he was doing. And then . . . Oh, pour me another wine, huh?”

“C’mon, get to the point,” I said.

“Yeah, let’s hear it,” the others chorused.

“OK. So I’m in bed and all of a sudden the john door opens and out he comes, not a stitch on, and he’s got his arms out at his side, like wings on an airplane. And he starts running around the room and dipping from side to side and making motor sounds, like
Rrrrrrrrrrrr.
I swear he was nuts, really nuts. All over that damn room and I sat up and boy, I was scared. Then all of a sudden he zoomed at the bed,
Rrrrrrrrrrrr,
and he said, ‘OK, baby! Maybe you’ve had it from the best. But you’ve never been screwed by a 707.’ I’m not kidding, girls. That’s what he said. Boy, did I get out of there fast. I hate to look like a kid, but I’d just as soon have it like I’ve always had it. I guess I’m just a country girl at heart.”

We all laughed for at least twenty minutes. There were girls sprawled all over the floor, laughing like crazy. The next morning I said to Rachel, “Come clean. That Louis Lamb story. Did it really happen?”

Rachel looked at me, her brown eyes round as searchlights. “Why, Trudy, would I lie to you? Ever?”

“I don’t think you’d lie to me. But you could have been putting those girls on last night. Did it happen?”

“Like I said.” She put her arms out and went,
“Rrrrrrrrrr.”

I started laughing all over again. There’s no telling with Rachel. But this I do know: captains can be a strange breed.

My visits back to Amarillo always take a particularly pleasant turn when I stop to see my Aunt Laconia, a fascinating person, and the only family member pleased with my stewardess career. Aunt Laconia is a librarian and naturally reads a lot, mostly about places she’s never been. Aunt Laconia should have been a stewardess. She was a beautiful girl in her youth.

When I visit her, we usually pass the first ten minutes with general chitchat about Amarillo, the family, and local gossip. Then, when it’s time for tales of my travels, Aunt Laconia begins with, “You must see so many interesting places, my dear.”

Before I begin my travelogues for Aunt Laconia I have to give her a careful rundown of a day in the life of a stewardess. Otherwise, she’d think we’re fresh as a daisy and raring to go the minute we hit a new town. We like to go all right. Stewardesses are young and swingers and we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on our sleep when we’re older and grounded. But even with all the enthusiasm in the world on our side, there are times when we’re simply too bushed to do the hot spots.

You, the carefree passenger, may snooze your way from New York to San Francisco or dip into a light novel or watch a shoot-’em-up movie. Meanwhile, here are a couple of things that we’re doing:

Our flight leaves at two in the afternoon. We check in at operations at one and hustle down to the airplane. We go through all the setting up and you, our paying customers, come on board. There are one hundred thirty of you.

Flight time is about five hours. And here’s how we spend it.

. . . We prepare and serve two hundred sixty diverse drinks, all from the liquor cart that was designed to fit in the aisle, not to function as an effective bar-on-wheels. One of you becomes irate because we don’t serve mint juleps. It’s not our fault. Nor is it when the premixed martini isn’t dry enough. And we’re sorry we hit that turbulence that caused us to spill ginger ale on your only suit.

. . . Now come one hundred thirty hot towels. We explain to eighty passengers what to do with them. And our hands become TV-rough and red from handling them.

. . . Collect the towels. Set up one hundred thirty trays. No, we don’t have special trays for children. No, we don’t have peanut butter and jelly on board. No, you don’t have to eat. Yes, if you’re going to eat, you have to do it now. No, you can’t have another drink. No, we do not have
Playboy
on board (men always ask that and wait for our reaction. It’s our least favorite line and we wish they’d stop).

. . . Serve one hundred thirty meals. You ordered a kosher meal? Gee, the caterer didn’t put one on board. (Should we tell the next passenger who ordered a special meal that the airline never delivers on those orders? Should we simply make up our own kosher meal for the next passenger? We’ve done both.) We’re sorry the steak isn’t rare enough. It’s a shame you don’t like bacon crumbs on the salad. We’re sorry, we’re sorry, we’re sorry. Our legs are beginning to feel it now, the running up and down, the bending, the apologizing, the rat race.

. . . Coming up are one hundred thirty desserts. Don’t yell at us because the ice cream is too frozen to push your spoon through. I’ll bet your mother did make better apple pie.

. . . After-dinner drinks now. We’re still pouring wine from dinner. Some are getting drunk now. And some of those are getting obnoxious.

. . . You’re too cold? We’ll make you warmer. Too warm, now? We’ll make you cooler. Sorry, but we don’t carry
Downbeat.
No, I won’t go to bed with you. Yes, I will go to bed with you. We’re really tired now. We’ve run up and down getting you water, matches, cigarettes, magazines, Kleenex, pillows, blankets, writing paper, telegram blanks, postcards, the typewriter, the razor, and anything else you might want—within reason. No, even outside of reason.

. . . There’s San Francisco below us. And we know what you’re all thinking as you file off the airplane past us. Who, what, why, when, where are we going to swing tonight? Yes, sir, here we are, those swingers of the sky, about to tear up hilly old San Fran and have an orgy on a houseboat in Sausalito and drink ourselves silly and still show up tomorrow morning with our smiles, hair, and uniforms in place, sans wrinkles and ready to serve you in the best tradition of our airline.

Well, you know, you’re not altogether wrong.

We check out of the airport about five, reach downtown San Francisco at six, take a shower, put our hair up, think, boy, this is one night I’m going to do nothing but sleep. It’s shut-eye from now until I’m called for the 8:30 A.M. flight back tomorrow. Nothing will get me out of bed. Nothing.

The only trouble is that in about ten minutes the phone rings. It’s Susie or Grace or Mark or Phil—one of our pals from this flight or other flights. “Hi, Trudy, hi Rachel! C’mon, there’s a party in room 1026 and then we’re going down to the wharf.” I say I’m too tired. Rachel says she’s too tired. We’re both too tired. But while we’re protesting, we’re already pulling the rollers out of our hair and reaching for our shoes. “Come on, Rachel,” I say, “let’s go!” And we’re off to a big night in San Francisco.

Most of our layovers now are only eighteen to twenty-four hours. In the past when planes were slower we often stayed in a place for forty-eight hours or more. Then we have more time to sightsee and get to know a city. But even with lots of time, stewardesses aren’t much for visiting museums and trotting around to historic sights. The museum stuff that I tell Aunt Laconia I usually get from travel booklets. She likes so much to hear me talk about culture. I always play down the nightspots; she isn’t very big in that department. But stewardesses are.

Here, then, is a stew’s-eye view of some of the livelier towns in the U.S.A.

 

San Francisco:
Just the simple act of taking a walk can be an enjoyable experience in San Francisco, with its hills and white buildings and cool-wet bay breeze. The night life is the best, although all the topless craze of late seems to have caused some confusion in the minds of San Fran’s eligible dates. We love dating there. We love a drink at the Top of the Mark. We love listening to jazz at the Matador or Jazz Workshop. But we
don’t
love going to watch some Iowa farm girl flop her silicone breasts around on the top of the bar. As they say at county fair girlie shows, “Ladies free ’cause there’s nothin’ inside you ain’t seen before.” But, topless or not, San Francisco will always reign supreme.

Boston:
Boston is a nice city. And it has so many nice, eligible college men. It does help your cause if you’re at all conversant with urban renewal and local politics, two apparent running manias with Bostonians. We always manage to find time for a ride on the swan boats on the Common; beer, beans, and sandwiches in Harvard Square; and maybe even a little sailing on the Charles. Most stewardesses try for at least a year’s duty in Boston. All those educated, potential lifelong mates are a pretty potent motivation.