“Yes, sir?”
He leaned closer, too. “This is your first flight, isn’t it?”
How did he know?
“Yes sir, it is.”
“I know. What I wanted to ask you was whether you’d have dinner with me in Cleveland tonight?”
I was stunned. We’d been told many times, of course, that many men would ask us for dates. In fact, we
hoped
many men would ask us for dates. Why else be a flying waitress? But so soon? With the rain and all? I thought quickly, trying to remember what the manual said about dating passengers. It didn’t say anything that I could remember.
“Sorry sir, but we’re not allowed to accept dates with male passengers.”
“How about females?” He laughed easily and with warmth.
I giggled. “Oh sir, that’s silly.”
“Seriously, how about it?”
“I can’t. We don’t even stay in Cleveland overnight. Well, unless we’re weathered in there.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll come back with you and we’ll have dinner in New York.”
Now I was totally confused.
“Well, you see, I have to go back to work now and I have my girlfriend with me and . . .”
“Great. We’ll have dinner in Cleveland or New York or wherever you say. All three of us.”
I began to panic.
“Well, I’ll ask her. Oh, but then you’ll want one of us to go home later, like in Coney Island. Right?” Now he was flustered.
“Anything you say, ma’m.” He was sweet. I liked him. But I suddenly sensed that despite the noise of the engines, the other passengers in the immediate area were listening intently. I turned from him and went on with my job of getting names. I looked back at him. He had returned to reading his copy of
Forbes,
a magazine I’d never looked into but one that undoubtedly had something to do with money.
I asked Rachel if we could date passengers.
“You bet, honey,” she replied. “It’s called a fringe benefit.”
Names taken, seat belts fastened, and mother-with-four-children relatively settled down and quiet, our captain swung the 727 onto the runway, gave it full-throttle, and we started gaining speed for take-off. Rachel and I sat together in our jump seats, tightly belted in, and thought of Maxwell Solomon and his philosophy on flying in today’s weather. The more the 727 shuddered as it gained momentum, the more we thought of Maxwell Solomon, now safely in his cab headed for Coney Island with a more receptive fare. And then we felt the slight sensation of being away from the concrete runway, free from the friction of rubber on that runway, and free of that maximum moment of strain before becoming airborne. Outside, a marshmallow blanket of gray, colorless and without substance, seemed to buoy up the mass of airplane.
The captain was making his first climbing turn when our senior stew, Miss Lewis, unbuckled her seat belt and motioned for us to follow her into the galley. We stepped inside, grabbing onto anything to maintain our balance in the turbulent turns. Miss Lewis again pulled the drape across the galley entrance.
“OK, let’s get moving. I ought to let you fall on your faces all alone. But I’m responsible for the flight and I don’t want to see you screw up the back end.” She looked at Rachel. “You . . . get back there and take drink orders. They pay in the rear, you know. We’ve only got to Cleveland to serve all the meals and booze. You’re squared away on meal service X-17-B, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” we said. What meal service
was
X-17-B?
“OK. Get those drink orders, put their trays in place, and hustle.”
“Right,” Rachel answered and departed the galley.
“Help me get this food set up.” Miss Lewis was a stern girl, I decided. In fact, she terrified me, especially when I realized I didn’t remember a thing about airplanes, passengers, food, drinks, or being a stewardess in general. I watched closely and followed her every movement, taking the fruit cups from the cold storage compartments, placing the little plastic bag of salt, pepper, knives, and forks on the trays after finding them in the same cold storage compartments, taking the Salisbury steak from the hot storage compartments and the rolls from the same place.
Rachel came back with the drink orders written on a small slip of paper. “I’d better get the drinks out there fast, before dinner, huh?” she asked Miss Lewis.
“Are you kidding?” Miss Lewis snapped as she slapped a piece of butter on each roll plate. “Give them the whole mess at once—booze, food, dessert, and coffee. Put the booze bottles on the tray and get them to the right people. Come on, get with it.”
“Why don’t they just serve sandwiches on these short flights?” I asked.
“Ooooooh, what did I do to deserve this?” wailed Miss Lewis.
We grabbed trays and headed up the aisle, no further questions asked.
“I ordered bourbon,” said the man with the attaché case under his seat.
“Where’s the soda for my Scotch?” drawled the soldier.
“Could I have a rare one, please?”
“I didn’t get a napkin.”
“The plane sounds funny. Are we all right?” This came from the little old lady.
“How high are we?”
“How fast are we going?”
“Say, tiger, what are we flying over now?”
“It’s stuffy in here. Can we open a window?”
“Where are those free packages of cigarettes?”
“Would you feed the two children in back of me,” said our flying mother of four, her voice more a command than a question.
It was bedlam. Total. We eventually matched the right people with the right drinks, managed to shovel a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into the kids’ mouths, turned down at least six requests for more than the allowed two drinks, and only spilled one glass of water on a passenger.
Everyone finally had his meal tray in front of him, and we actually inhaled our first free breath since takeoff. We hadn’t quite exhaled it when the aircraft hit a pocket of severe turbulence, sending it into a sheer and rapid descent of at least two hundred feet. The aircraft went down and the meal trays stayed up where they were, at least until nature grabbed hold of them and sent them smashing against the fixed trays that were on their way back up with the airplane. Their contact was violent, the result a cabin smeared from ceiling to floor with coffee, bourbon, gravy, butter, potatoes, fruit cocktail, and apple pandowdy. The turbulence also deposited the two of us on the floor after first reaching the ceiling during the drop. There were yips of surprise, cries of disgust, and wails of panic. We just let out a solid “ommph,” and picked ourselves up. Food was on everything, including the heads of many of the passengers.
The turbulence continued as we made our way up the side to help the passengers. The plane, buffeted with severe shocks, dipped and swayed in an irregular pattern. The cabin was saturated with anger and fear, and we tried our best to calm those who were frightened and sooth those who were angry. George Kelman grabbed my arm as I rushed by with a towel to help a man wipe gravy from his face. George whispered to me, but with firmness, “Relax, sweetie. Everything’s going to be OK.” His smile and calm voice were welcome.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Dinner?”
“Let’s talk when we get to Cleveland. OK?”
“OK.” Again, that smile.
We went about cleaning up the passengers and the cabin the best we could, all under the watchful eye of Miss Lewis. We had to admit later that this senior stew really did know how to keep calm in the midst of chaos. But it didn’t make us like her any better.
We thought we were finally about to get the best of the cleanup chore when the first passenger reached for his “barf bag.” He made it in time but the second one didn’t.
I was delivering my last towel to the little old lady when a middle-aged gentleman leaped from his seat and ran for the bathroom. Rachel stopped him in mid-aisle.
“You can’t leave your seat, sir. The seat belt sign is on.” He was carrying his little bag.
“I’ve got to,” he mumbled, his words slurred and garbled.
“You can’t,” she said again, actually pushing him back toward his seat. “This turbulence is severe and you cannot leave your seat for anything.”
He looked like he wanted to cry. “Please,” he pleaded. “My teeth,” indicating the bag clutched tightly in his hand.
“Oh, no,” Rachel exclaimed.
“Yes,” he lamented, his face screwed up to keep back the tears.
Rachel looked down at the bag and drew a deep breath. “Give it to me,” she said quickly, grabbing the bag from his hand and running toward the lavatory. He watched her enter the lav and then sat meekly in his seat. She emerged five minutes later with his teeth wrapped in Kleenex. He took them from her and turned to the window to hide his embarrassment.
We were approaching the Cleveland area and the captain had informed the passengers of this fact when the light from one of the bathrooms flashed on the signal panel in the buffet. Rachel went to the door of the lav to see what was the problem. Neither of us knew anyone had gotten up from his seat.
“What’s wrong in there?” she asked.
“I’m stuck,” was the reply from within.
Rachel stood outside the lav door and smiled. I came from the buffet to join her.
“What’s wrong in there?” I asked my flying partner.
“It’s a woman. Says she’s stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“What’s stuck?”
Rachel started to giggle.
“You mean her fundament?” I offered.
2
“Her what?”
“Forget it.”
The voice again sounded through the locked bathroom door. “Please help me. I’m stuck.”
I started giggling, too. There was nothing else to do. But we knew we’d better do something.
“Can we come in?” I asked.
There was a long moment of decision.
“Yes. Alone.”
I entered. She definitely was stuck, a victim of the mechanism’s strong suction force. It was a freak accident, and it had to happen on our first flight.
Rachel went and told Miss Lewis, who seemed to consider the problem a ruthless and premeditated plot to make her trip even more difficult. After Rachel and I tried various techniques to free the passenger, Miss Lewis went forward to summon the flight engineer who, along with his responsibilities for the major mechanical equipment on the plane, was also responsible for all minor cabin failures. He came out of the cockpit, a long, gaunt man with excess nose, sunken eyes, and veined cheeks. He continuously sniffed. He walked right into the lav, a flashlight in his hand.
“Howdy,” he drawled to the woman.
“Oh, my God,” she moaned.
The flight engineer stood still in deep thought for a few minutes before speaking.
“Shucks, ma’m, I don’t reckon we can do anything ’til we hit Cleveland. Reckon all we can do would be pull, and that’s sure to smart a bit.”
“Oh, please don’t pull,” she begged.
“I’ll tell the captain ’bout this here predicament and see if he’s got any suggestions. Meantime, you just sit tight.”
He chuckled at this pun of his and snorted with great gusto. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. He swallowed hard and returned to the cockpit.
We smiled down at the woman and suggested she take his advice—sit tight—and have a drink. The idea appealed to her and she smiled back.
“Bourbon on the rocks, please,” she ordered.
“Coming up.” I gave her a double.
We landed at Cleveland after a bouncy and bumpy approach and taxied to the gate assigned to our flight. We suggested to the woman in the lav that she have another drink until all the passengers deplaned. The captain had radioed ahead, and a crew of mechanics were ready to perform whatever mechanical surgery would prove necessary. We brought her a second double bourbon and went about the task of telling the passengers good-bye. Some of them, their suits spotted with food stains and their hair dampened with fruit cocktail juice, were in no need for jovial farewells.
One man, who wore a shiny black suit, a white shirt with high-roll collar, and a slick white-on-white tie, asked Rachel if she’d spend the night with him in retribution for the massive food stains on his clothing. She declined.
We stayed around after all the passengers departed to see how the mechanics would handle the plight of the woman in the water closet. They managed, after much loosening of bolts and dismantling of equipment, to free her from her oval trap. When she stood up, her knees buckled under her. The mechanics figured it was from shock. Rachel and I knew it was the two double bourbons. She regained her footing and wove her way unsteadily off the plane. I think she was too bombed to know she was in Cleveland. We heard later that the airline gave her a lifetime pass. I’ve often wondered if she had the nerve to use it.
Later, Rachel and I marched to operations where, for some naïve reason, we expected to receive the highest decoration for valor, service, and dedication the airline could bestow on an employee. After all, our first flight had been above and beyond the ordinary; as far as we were concerned, we had performed with extraordinary skill and fortitude. But the only official word we received was from our captain. He came over to us in ops and said, “I’m reporting you both to your supervisor for discourteous attitudes and infraction of stated and long-standing rules.”
We were stunned. He turned on his heel and strode away, his hat at a cocky angle on his head. Miss Lewis sat nearby filling out the procedure forms for the flight.
“Did you hear that?” we protested. “What are we being reported for?”
Miss Lewis looked up from her paperwork and chewed the inside of her cheek.
“It’s very simple, girls. You never even bothered to introduce yourselves to the captain at ops in New York before the flight. And you should know that’s rule number one in crew courtesy. I don’t blame him at all.” She turned back to her papers. “Always meet your captain, girls.”