Coffee, Tea or Me? (5 page)

“Damn, damn, damn,” Rachel chanted as we walked away. “Damn.”

“I can’t believe it,” I moaned. “I really can’t believe it.”

We opened the door from operations and walked into the lobby.

“Hi girls.” We turned to see George Kelman standing near the door.

“Rachel, this is George. George, Rachel.”

“Dinner?”

“I told you we have to fly back to New York.”

“And I told you I’d go back with you. Anyway, I’ve already checked and you’re not flying back to anywhere tonight. Kennedy is still closed and expects to be until tomorrow. You’re staying at the Sheraton-Cleveland, downtown, and they’ll call you there about your next trip. In the meantime, you’ve got to eat and it’s all on me.”

We wanted to ask how he knew all these things but didn’t bother to ask. We didn’t even bother to look in our manuals about procedures relating to passengers and dating them. We just took his arm, one on each side, and walked toward the line of waiting cabs.

“God bless you, Mr. Kelman,” Rachel said.

“My pleasure,” he smiled, holding open the door of the waiting taxi. “All of Cleveland’s night life awaits us.”

Rachel and I didn’t know each other before meeting at stewardess school. But our backgrounds were similar, and so were our motivations for becoming stewardesses. For that matter, our motivations parallel those of most girls flying today. And the stewardess recruiters know this. They know all about us when we’re young and eager for a taste of glamour and travel, especially those of us living in small towns with bright dreams of running away to the big city.

I first thought about being a stewardess after reading an occupational brief published by Chronicle Guidance Publications. This little piece of propaganda cost me a quarter for the privilege of reading about a career as an “airplane hostess (Stewardess) 2- 25-37.” It was published in 1958 and contains the following point:

And therein lies the prime motivation to become a stewardess. Amarillo, Texas, my hometown, is pleasant but small. At least it used to be. But by the time I was a senior in high school, I knew I wanted the big time—Dallas, Chicago, even New York, I simply had outgrown Waddy Week.

I was born in Amarillo in 1942. It was a nice place to grow up. But excitement did not head the visitor attractions page in the Chamber of Commerce booklet. The new feature at the biggest movie house was an event to be attended, preferably in full dress.

My beau since junior high school was Henry, a bright young man who actually did enjoy getting dressed to the teeth for the new feature and pizza. And I was always his date at these “premières.” Henry was headed for state medical school and started learning all the terms of anatomy during his senior year in high school. We used to sit for hours on his front porch while he taught me the terms and quizzed me on my retention.

Every time Henry would teach me another term, such as popliteal (back of the knee), he’d leer a little and, say, “Now I’ll teach you in Braille.” Then he’d groan, laugh with a hint of the juvenile lecher, and touch my popliteal, or whatever was the lesson for the evening.

I thought it was funny at first. But after running through over a hundred terms and hearing him say with each one, “Now I’ll teach you in Braille,” I got pretty fed up with the whole deal. Except there weren’t many boys I liked in Amarillo.

So, I’d giggle, fence him off just a little bit after he got in a few touches, and try to enjoy the whole thing for what it was worth.

Still, I eventually found myself hating Henry and his medical come-on. My hatred lasted until he went away for his first year of medical school and then, after looking around at what was left, I found myself missing Henry. I’d find myself saying anatomical terms over and over in my mind, each one bringing back the thought of his touch. I actually yearned to hear him say, “Now I’ll teach you in Braille.”

Henry and I pledged to remain true to each other for the next twelve years or so, until he became a famous doctor. My parents wanted me to wait for Henry more than anything else they could think of. They would have liked a doctor in the family. Well, I waited for a couple of months. Then one day wandering along the main street I spotted something in the window of Sison’s Drug, Food and Stationery Store. It was a poster, a big one, that carried the bold, blue headline—
BE GLAMOROUS—BE A STEWARDESS!
And there she was, a chic blonde girl all decked out in a classy, form-fitting blue uniform, a smile as wide as Main Street. At the bottom of the sign was the information that a member of the stewardess corps would be at the high school gymnasium Monday afternoon at 4 P.M. Interested girls could speak with her and find out about a career as a glamorous member of this elite group of young ladies.

I didn’t tell a soul I was going to talk to her. I knew my parents would be furious that I even entertained the thought. And I was equally certain that all other parents in town would take the same attitude with their daughters. In fact, I expected to be the only one to actually stop and see that glamorous blonde on the poster in Si-son’s. It was my chance to escape, as Carolyn Jones did, and Cyd Charisse, to become big movie stars. I wasn’t reaching for stardom, as they did. I just wanted to swing a little more than I was destined to in Amarillo.

But I was wrong. Everybody wanted to swing. The whole female element of the senior class was at the gymnasium at 4 P.M. on Monday.

Seated behind a makeshift desk were two people, obviously not from Amarillo. One was a young man, about twenty-five, wearing what I considered the epitome of big city, urban male clothing. His suit was a conservative gray, with a vest, and a deep maroon-striped tie bowed out just so from his button-down collar. His hair was neat and clung closely to his head.

Beside him was a stewardess, a brunette, with a smile every bit as wide as the poster girl. She was chatting with a few of my class-mates, and when she spoke, her head cocked pertly to one side and her eyes made all sorts of movements enhancing her words.

Behind them stood a portable blackboard supplied by the school. On it was a montage of posters, some to do with being a stewardess but most dealing with exotic destinations. No matter where you looked, the words
travel
and
glamour
caught your eye. It was the same with the piles of literature on the desk in front of them. I walked forward and picked up one each of the four pamphlets being offered.

The young man smiled at me. So did the brunette stewardess. And I smiled at them, a little too much of a smile, but I decided on that very spot in the gymnasium that I wanted to be a stewardess. And smiling was without a doubt more important than anything else where an airline was concerned. My mouth started hurting and I went back to a seat.

I had just sat down when Mrs. Coolie walked into the gymnasium. Mrs. Coolie, widowed for over thirty years, doubled as history teacher and guidance counselor. She did know her history. But her guidance usually directed all of us to a state college where we could learn something to bring back to Amarillo.

She didn’t look at all pleased having this wild, wicked airline gang at her school corrupting her girls. She wore flat black shoes with laces. Her hair was pulled back tight in a bun and contrasted harshly with the soft, free hairdo of the stewardess.

“All right, girls. Everyone take a seat now.” Mrs. Coolie never needed benefit of microphone.

We were all seated and Mrs. Coolie began pacing in front of the table. She chewed her mouth as she paced, her hands behind her back. Then, secure in some thought, she turned to us and spoke.

“You’ve all come here today to hear what it would be like to travel all over this nation of ours and live in many different places. I suppose this is a dream that many young, impressionable girls have once or twice in their growing up. Yes, travel does have its appeal. I’ve traveled, as you all know. (The only trip I knew of was a teacher’s conference in Oklahoma City.) And I’ve found that other places never, never . . . never have what you’ve left behind in your own particular place of origin. But, you each will make this choice. And those few of you who may decide to leave Amarillo and . . . yes, even Texas, will at least have benefit of a firm and solid foundation in the great history of your state. I found this fact secure in my travels. Well, as part of our continuing effort to present to you people from various careers, we today feature the airlines. And these people are here to say some things about going away and working for their airline. I give them to you now.”

We applauded. Mrs. Coolie liked it as she strode to the sidelines.

The young man stood up and smiled at us. We smiled back.

“Good afternoon, girls. And thank you for coming. I appreciate that warm introduction from
your
Mrs. Coolie. Actually, we almost didn’t make it here as planned. We’ve been conducting these meetings all over the country and were in Hollywood yesterday. It looked like the weather wouldn’t allow us to reach Amarillo today so . . . well, we just stayed around the pool and watched the actors and actresses stroll by.”

Everyone laughed.

“But, I’m certainly glad we
did
have a chance to see and meet each of you. You all look like you’d make fine stewardesses for the airline.”

I wanted to ask which actors they saw strolling by. But I thought better of it. I wanted to ask if they’d seen Marlon Brando, my favorite. And I wanted to sign up at that moment before they got away and headed back for Hollywood.

The meeting progressed for about a half hour. The young man introduced the stewardess (I never got her name), and she told us about what she did as a stewardess and where she went and what she did when she wasn’t flying. It sounded like a real-live Cinderella story. She lived in Boston where, she commented casually, there were so many college men. She said she always went to Europe on her vacations because she could fly on other airlines for almost nothing. In fact, she even said she never really knew what living could be all about until she decided to become a stewardess.

“I suppose I’ll never want to stop flying,” she said with a reflective sigh. “Unless, of course, I decide to accept the marriage offers of those college men in Boston.”

We all laughed with her. Except for Mrs. Coolie, who sat rigid in her chair, her black shoes planted firmly on the hardwood floor, her hands firmly on her knees. It was obvious she wanted the airline gang out of her gymnasium.

The meeting ended and we were invited to stay around and ask questions. The only distressing thing about the meeting was the fact you had to be at least twenty years old to become a stewardess. But these two representatives from the airline had accomplished their given task. They had successfully piqued my interest, not only in flying but in their particular airline. I came forward to pick up a preliminary application form that the young man said would simply give them basic information on us. Then, when we became of age and went to Dallas to apply and be interviewed, they’d already know certain things about us. I went forward for those forms despite the hard stare of Mrs. Coolie, grabbed them, and returned to my chair. Then, after placing them in my purse, I went back to the desk and thanked the young man for coming.

“I hope we see you in Dallas very soon,” he said.

“You will,” I answered.

I walked quickly from the school gymnasium and ran through the hallway to the outdoors. I burst through the doorway and, once free of the musty, institutional smell of the building, breathed deeply. I was going to be a stewardess, live in Boston, date all those college men, and lounge around a Hollywood pool watching Marlon Brando do swan dives from the high board.

“Whatta ya say, Trudy?” It was the quarterback of our football team standing with a couple of other football players.

Suddenly, he seemed like a third-grade kid wanting to carry my books home from school. I practiced my new smile on him, cocked my head pertly, and walked away with a newfound air of confidence and well-being. It was good-bye Amarillo and hello Hollywood. Or something like that.