Coffee, Tea or Me? (26 page)

We’re still convinced Janis Pool was the spy. It’s never been proven. In retrospect, our actions against her were mean and un-called for. But we did what we did and felt better for it at the time.

Certain airlines still maintain the stew-spy system. Our union tries very hard to bring about the end of this big-sister system. So far, they’ve been unsuccessful.

Of course, we recognize that girls are deceitful creatures at best. There doesn’t seem a day goes by without one stewardess stealing away another’s boyfriend. We’ve seen hair-pulling matches between friends of long standing, poison-pen notes, vicious gossip, and nasty, day-by-day retaliation between the girls. We guess that’s the way we are—take it or leave it!

But adopting the “all’s fair in love and war” creed is acceptable when only love and war are involved. Our jobs are a different matter of much greater importance than a lost lover. We don’t personally know a stew-spy. That’s fortunate for them.

Charlie Smagg opened the door when we knocked. His head bobbed back and forth like one of those stranger-than-fiction, real-life Christmas dolls. He was drunk. That was obvious.

“Hi, Charlie,” we said happily despite the blowing snow swirling around our legs.

“ ’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the plane not a creature was stirring not even one li’l ol’ bubble in a glass of bubbly champagne.” His head bobbed faster.

“Can we come in, Charlie?”

“Why, of course. Course. Come in. Come in.”

The motel room was a welcome pocket of warmth. There were maybe a dozen people in the room. A party atmosphere prevailed.

Charlie Smagg, the first officer on the flight that brought us to Rochester on this Christmas Eve, was obviously the first to arrive at the party. Besides, it was his room, a good running start for anyone.

We weren’t supposed to be in Rochester on Christmas Eve. Our schedule called for a return trip to Kennedy Airport late that afternoon. But the unpredictable winter weather of upstate New York held off just long enough for us to land in Rochester at noon. Then, like an overanxious curtain puller at a bad play, the weather swooped in and shrouded the area in a white cloak of snow.

The word that we would not be getting home for Christmas brought sadness to Rachel and me. Neither of us had ever been away from home on Christmas. Our plans were to go back to Kennedy as scheduled, and look for empty seats to Texas and Kentucky. Failing that, we’d at least be able to enjoy the day together in the familiar surroundings of our apartment. But winter wasn’t kind.

The whole crew checked into the motel together after a slippery car ride from the airport. The desk clerk, a wizened little man with bad breath and a runny nose, set the tone for the evening when he said to the captain, “Have yourself a merry mistress, captain.” It did not instill any feeling of ho-ho-ho and glad tidings in us.

We shared our room with Rhonda, the third girl on the trip. Normally on layovers, two girls share a room. But the storm put rooms at a premium. “Well, what’ll we do for the night?” Rachel asked as she pulled things out of her suitcase. “Sing Christmas carols?”

“Why not,” I agreed. “We might become the Andrews Sisters of Rochester. Ted Mack might hear us and make us famous.”

“Right. We could play all the best nightspots of Rochester on the same bill with a hacksaw-blade player and a Maltese Santa Claus who does bird calls.”

“It makes me so mad,” Rhonda said as she pouted in front of the mirror. She was very pretty, with honey hair and fair complexion and an ample figure. Her major problem was she knew it. “My boyfriend and I were going to have dinner and drive up to Connecticut and . . . Well, it was going to be fun. Damn airline. Damn snow.”

The phone rang. I answered.

“All right,” the voice on the other end said, “get down here.” It was Charlie. “We’ve got some Christmas cheer here for you girls.”

“No thanks, Charlie. I’m beat. I’m off to bed.”

“Marvelous, Trudy. I’ll join you.”

“No you won’t.”

“Is Rachel there?”

“Yup.”

“Come on down to the room, Rachel. Little drink for Saint Nick.”

“Sorry, chief, but no thanks. I’m falling apart.”

“Oh. Where’s Rhonda?”

“Right here.”

“Put her on.”

Rhonda took the phone from Rachel.

“Rhonda, sweetie, how about some Yuletide cheer?”

“Love it. Be right down.”

That started the Christmas Eve Party in Rochester. Rachel and I did go to bed as planned, but soon found it impossible to sleep. We got up and went to the party. It was in full swing by the time we arrived. There were four stewardesses from another line who’d met a fate similar to ours. There were three men, not airline types, who happened in on the festivities and were invited to pool their liquor supply with the crew’s stock. They evidently had a large supply to offer. Everyone seemed high.

“Hey, a coupla more girlies. Yay, yay. Come on in honeys.” Our greeter was one of the outsiders, a salesman of heavy construction equipment. He had big bulging eyes and his shirt collar was too tight, its cloth wilted under the folds of his neck. His nose was red and veined. It was the first year he’d missed playing Santa Claus at the office party in Pittsburgh.

The room couldn’t stand thirteen people. Smoke threw up a dense screen that gave the scene the feeling of a Fellini film. The radio, one of those quarter-in-the-slot jobs, blared forth with Christmas music between hard-sell commercials, and drippy disc jockey chatter.

“Name’s Sidney,” the equipment salesman hollered over “White Christmas.” “You from around here?”

“We fly with them,” Rachel said, pointing toward the captain reclined in the bed, Rhonda snuggled warmly against him. Charlie Smagg plopped down beside them, a fifth of rye clutched to his chest.

“More stews, huh? Great. Whattaya drink?”

We ordered.

He brought the drinks, handed them to us, and promptly grabbed Rachel by the waist and whirled her around the room in step to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” He was surprisingly light on his feet for someone that fat. Rachel managed to get free from him and sat on the desk chair. Charlie Smagg got up and handed her his bottle. She gave it back. He tried to sit on her lap but slid off onto the floor. “Greatest stew in the world,” he yelled up to everyone over the music and chatter.

Another of the outsiders came over to me. “Hello there. My name is Scranton. Scranton Rigby. So you’re a stewardess. So’s my daughter.”

“No kidding? Who’s she fly with?”

“Well, no one right now. Got married. Got divorced. Looking for another stewardess job. Good thing she learned about the little pill before she got divorced from that idiot. Good thing. Kids get hurt, you know. Wouldn’t be able to find another stewardess job either, with kids and all that. Good girl. Say, maybe you can help her.”

“Gee, I don’t think so.”

“Well, we can talk about it later. Another drink?”

My glass was still full. “No thanks.”

The four stewardesses from the other airline were clustered around the third strange male in the room. He was small, very small. His few long strands of remaining hair were carefully positioned across his head to achieve maximum coverage. His suit was double-breasted, plaid, his shirt a fine check, and his tie wide and brilliant with pink roses on a black field. I strolled over and introduced myself to the group.

“Josh is a writer,” one of the girls told me after he’d mumbled an introduction to me. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“Go ahead and tell us some more,” the girls insisted as Josh carefully patted his hairs in place. He was pleased to be asked.

“Well, as I was saying, it’s very difficult for me to convey some of the humor of the business to outsiders. You know, show business is a fraternity in itself. I mean, the Broadway crowd I pal with is something else. Something else. There are so many interesting tidbits about the stars and all. Like Sonny Tufts.”

“Sonny Tufts?” I chanted with sheer wonder.

“Yes. Sonny Tufts. Did you know he was from a very wealthy family in Boston? Big banking family. And Sonny studied grand opera in Rome and was going to make his debut at the Met. You do know what the Met is, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“And I might add that Sonny was quite the society band leader. Did you know that?”

“Noooo.”

“See what I mean. It’s such an
in
thing. You’ve just got to look deeper than what you read in the columns.”

“Have you ever been in anyone’s column?” I asked. I wasn’t testing him. I was simply interested.

He chortled a little, admired his polished fingernails, and said, “That’s what my press agent is for. Keep me out of the columns. Ho, ho, ho.”

“Yes.”

The others giggled.

“What are you doing in Rochester, of all places?” He didn’t like that question either.

“Soaking up local color. I’m doing a play with an upstate setting. I want to feel it, touch it, live it, although it is dreadfully dull, dear hearts. But
being
what I write is important. It really is paramount to meaningful writing.”

“What have you written?”

“I’ve never written for the mass media. You probably have never read or seen my works.”

I walked away. Rachel came over and we mixed fresh drinks.

“Who’s the little creep?” she asked.

“Playwright, he says. Name’s Josh Something.”

“No kidding?”

“Yes, I think he’s kidding.”

“What’s he ever written?”

“Something to do with Sonny Tufts. With an upstate New York setting.”

Rachel didn’t understand. It wasn’t important.

The chubby equipment salesman turned the radio up louder. The disc jockey was talking about how the holiday season touched him deeply.

“. . . and to all of you out there tonight, wherever you may be and whatever you may be doing, I hope you share with me in all the warmth of this great season. Yes, it’s hard to conceive of peace on earth and goodwill to all men when our boys are away fighting the jungle wars of the world, but irregardless of that . . .”

“Irregardless?” Josh screamed.

Charlie Smagg took a swig.

Then a commercial followed the disc jockey. It was for a local cesspool company with a seasonal special.

“And now here’s the big one, the all-time, top-forty Christmas
favorite—‘
The Christmas Song.’ ” The DJ’s last words were punctuated with an electronic whine that lasted far into Mel Torme’s version of his own song. The equipment salesman grabbed Rachel again and swung her around on the carpeted floor. He lost his balance and fell down, vainly reaching for support from Rachel. She let him fall.

There was a knock at the door. Rachel answered. It was the desk clerk. He ignored Rachel and peered past her through the smoke. There was a dirty gleam in his eye as he fixed on the captain and Rhonda. Snowflakes settled on his nose and the wind blew some on Rachel.

“It’s cold. What do you want?”

“Oh, yeh. Long-distance telephone call for Mr. Josh Pierre. Figured he was here.”

Josh came to the door. “Probably my agent,” he threw back over his shoulder. “Be right back. I hope Merrick has come to his senses.” He left with the desk clerk.

“. . . Merry Christmas to you.” Mel Torme sang out his tune, the final notes rudely cut off by a station promotion for the local quiz show. Then came a rock-and-roll version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

“Ba ba doo, ba ba doo, ba ba doo,” Charlie Smagg sang as he danced across the room, his bottle clutched tightly to his bosom. “Let’s dance, Trudy, my love.”

We danced. You could almost feel the smoke brushing up against you as it hung heavy from the ceiling. The smoke, heat, loud noise, and drinks were getting to me. I was almost enjoying nutty Charlie Smagg and his two left feet.

“. . . tidings of comfort and joy ba ba doo ba ba doo, oooh tidings of comfort and joy ba ba doo ba ba doo YEH!”

Josh came back in the room.

“Just sold another one.”

“Another what?”

“Play. Option.” He sneered at us.

“I bet it was his mother,” I whispered to Rachel.

“Or the keeper at his funny farm,” she further speculated.

“You were telling us about Sonny Tufts and that time on Sunset Strip, Josh.”

“Right. Right. Now you may wonder why I know so much about Sonny Tufts. Well, it goes way back to . . .”

An hour passed.

“Did you know the Japanese actor who played King Kong was only five feet tall?” The girls, all drunk now, were still infatuated with Josh Pierre. “And they do the whole thing with mirrors.”

The captain and Rhonda were kissing it up pretty good now on the bed. Scranton Rigby was telling me about the bad man his daughter had married and how the poor girl was suffering from the divorce.