Around the World in a Bad Mood! (10 page)

E
VERYBODY HAS A PHOBIA.
I know a flight attendant who is scared to death of flying. It's true! She takes a Dramamine before every flight, wears a St. Christopher medal, and avidly watches the Weather Channel. When it gets really turbulent she goes to the cockpit full of questions, and she bids to work near the forward part of the cabin, where the ride is generally more placid. She has been flying for more than twenty years. One of the phobias both Bitsy and I developed was (and continues to be) “germs.” When a passenger tries to put a used Kleenex or a dirty diaper in my bare hands I go crazy! First of all, I won't even take it. I simply smile and say, “I'll be right back,” then walk away, and if I'm not too pissed off I'll get a garbage bag. I've been like this to some extent my whole life, but when I started flying it got worse. To this day my hands are like sandpaper from washing them so often with that awful airplane soap. For a time I didn't think that soap killed germs, so I got in the habit of taking a little vodka and pouring it on my hands after the meal service. I figure the alcohol is more effective than the soap and it certainly smells better. Besides, the bathroom lines are so long that it can be three hours before you can actually get in there to wash. In the meantime you have to keep reminding yourself, “Don't touch your face, don't rub your eye, don't scratch your nose,” and of course that makes your nose start itching like crazy. You can't imagine how thrilled I was when they invented Purell. It has changed my life.

And if you think the food is bad when you're eating it while crammed into your seat next to a big fat guy, try eating it while sitting in the jumpseat right next to the bathroom. There is often a line of people staring at you (yes, ladies and gentlemen, flight attendants do eat) while, with your meal tray balanced on your knees, you try to shovel some slop down your gullet. That is when people usually want to ask you a question: “So is this your regular route?” Or else they want to ask you for a drink: “Can I have another beer?” (He has had only five and needs another one right now, never mind that you haven't had a morsel to eat in the last ten hours.) Meanwhile, the rest of the line is moving in and out of the lavatory. Many a lousy meal has been ruined for me in this fashion. The only thing that can be said for eating your breakfast, lunch, and/or dinner near a lavatory is that it's probably a great way to lose weight.

One time I was strapped into the jumpseat that faces the passengers and the kid in the passenger seat directly across from me threw up right as the plane was landing. He didn't get to the barf bag in time. It was all over the floor in front of me and on my shoes and nylons. I jumped up and screamed (really professional), and I can still remember every gory detail. That was about ten years ago. Lucky for me I had another pair of nylons and another pair of shoes. It's not only the snot and barf that perpetuates my phobia—it's also the air. It might just be my imagination, but it seems as though a lot more people are coughing and sneezing on me these days. Maybe you've heard about this on the news, but the recirculated air is really bad. As I understand it, a certain percentage of fresh air comes into the cabin, but a larger percentage is just stale air that keeps circulating throughout the cabin during the entire flight. I've been told that the cockpit can control the amount of fresh air that's mixed in with the stale air by turning on more packs, but that uses more fuel. So in order to contain fuel costs the airlines encourage the cockpit to limit the amount of packs they use during the flight. Also, there's about zero percent humidity in the cabin (ergo that lovely dry feeling) and those things combined probably account for the reason you feel like crap after a flight of any length.

I've come to believe that flight attendants develop wonderful immune systems because we really have to combat a lot of foreign particles. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Bitsy's trouble began when she got called in for excessive sick calls by good ol' June Larson. It seems that Bitsy had exceeded her allotted sick calls for the year and June wasn't too happy with her. She told Bitsy she would have a “watch dependability” in her file.

“But June, there's been a bad flu going around this year and I didn't call in sick at all last year. I can't help that I'm sick. In fact, I think it's amazing that I haven't been sick more often when you consider all the germs we're exposed to on those airplanes. I'm surprised I'm alive.”

“Yeah Bitsy, I hear your concerns, blah, blah, blah. Now I want to know what you are going to do to improve your dependability. We can't have people at WAFTI we can't rely on.”

“Well, if I'm sick I don't think I should come to work. That would just make everybody else sick. I think if I am sick I should stay home,” said Bitsy.

“Sometimes you're so sick you need to stay home, but other times you need to tough it out. Now I don't want you calling in sick the rest of the year. Do you think you can do that?”

“Well, June, I'm not going to make any promises. I'll do my best.”

“Super! Now what are you going to do to prevent yourself from getting sick for the rest of the year?” June inquired.

“Frankly, I don't know. I take vitamins, I eat, I sleep, I exercise.”

“OK Bitsy, why don't you think of some other things you might do to prevent any more illnesses this year and get back to me.”

Needless to say, Bitsy was very unhappy after that encounter with June Larson. It became a running joke—how could we prevent getting sick? Did not calling in sick include accidents? For example, if we were in a car accident and Bitsy broke both her legs, was she expected to come to work? Certainly some people abuse sick time, but Bitsy was a very good employee and really didn't call in sick unless she was sick. I suppose that's what made her so mad about the whole thing. By the time Bitsy ran into June again, she had acquired a plastic eye shield, rubber gloves, a surgical mask, paper shoes, and a gown from a doctor friend of hers. On her next outbound trip, Bitsy put on all the medical garb over her uniform, armed herself with a can of Lysol, and marched into June's office, announcing that she had found a way to prevent any further illnesses for the year. She was quite confident that she would not miss any more trips. June didn't find the whole thing very funny and gave Bitsy a serious reprimand, but to us it was worth it and we kept the costume for a possible Halloween outfit.

T
HESE DAYS IT SEEMS
that people will almost kill for a first-class seat. I guess it's because conditions are so deplorable in coach. One day I saw two grown adults get into a fight over the last seat in first class. Apparently the computer had made an error (hard to believe, I know) and there were twelve seats but thirteen passengers. Now, we're one of the most civilized, technologically advanced nations in the world, but the behavior of these passengers took me back to the fifteenth century. There is only one word to describe it: “barbaric.”

It was a dark and stormy night. There was thunder, lightning, heavy rain, and a full moon. The three flight attendants prepared the galley and checked the meal count, and as they did so they began to chant:

“Double, double toil and trouble

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

“What does thou serve for those who sup in first class?” asked the head flight attendant.

The second answered, “Filet of rattlesnake in the cauldron boil and bake. Wool of bat wrapped in a leaf.”

“In other words, chicken or beef,” said the third.

A lightning bolt flashed and heavy thunder rumbled. “A drum, a drum, the passengers doth come,” cried the boarding agent.

The first passenger, let us call him Macbeth, boarded.

“How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is 't you do?” he inquired, as he removed his cape and hat.

“A deed without a name. We live to serve,” responded the flight attendants.

“Hail Macbeth, hail to thee. Here is your seat, you have 1B. The last remaining in first class. Now give me your cape and your boarding pass.”

As Mr. Macbeth got situated in his seat, he heard a strange eerie voice that whispered:

“Macbeth, Macbeth, Beware Macduff

Beware the Thane of Crete

Beware Macbeth, she wants your crown

Beware Macbeth, she wants your seat.”

It bothered him that no one else seemed to hear the voice, but he had been working hard and was tired and things weren't going so well with Lady Macbeth back at the castle. The stress was probably getting to him. Maybe he just needed to take it easy and relax he decided, but he would mention this to his doctor on his next visit. At that moment the thirteenth passenger, Ms. Macduff, entered and the flight attendants assumed the position. In unison they chanted:

“Hail, Hail, Hail Macduff

We see thy crown, we kiss thy feet.”

“Enough, enough. There is someone in my seat!”

The junior flight attendant came rushing to her aid, “May I see your boarding pass?”

Ms. Macduff shoved it in her face and sure enough it was the same seat assignment.

The junior flight attendant, not knowing what to do and feeling very afraid of Ms. Macduff, ran to the senior flight attendant and whimpered, “Fie, fie, fee, fee. . . . Ms. Macduff also has seat 1B.”

“Ah me, toil and trouble, boil and bubble, when seat assignments here are double!” She pulled the junior flight attendant into the galley and tried to decide what type of service recovery would best suit the situation. Meanwhile, the passengers took matters into their own hands—which is always a dangerous thing.

“Pray, kind sir, but you're in my throne, where I shall rest till dawn. Remove thyself and get thee gone,” Ms. Macduff proclaimed.

Macbeth, with no intention of leaving his seat, fastened his seat belt and announced, “I'll not move, I'll not fail. Screw my courage to the sticking place, this is
my
seat and this is
my
space!”

Ms. Macduff growled at him.

Well, Mr. Macbeth would not stand for this. It was going to be a long flight to Scotland and he was exhausted from all the battles he had just fought. So he grabbed the toenail clipper that he had stowed properly in the overhead bin and let this broad have it.

“Fie, fie, I am a frequent flier.

I'll not share this seat with

The likes of you, a common liar.”

Ms. Macduff was insulted, and not being one to back down she set down her cell phone, grabbed her eyelash curler, and countered:

“What care I how much you fly?

I am in the Regal Club and

Have a private room at every hub.”

By now the two of them were standing in the aisle lunging and parrying about the cabin. The flight attendants hid in the galley and the other passengers took cover. Macbeth jumped onto the seat.

“Ha! I own the stock, I am the board

When I arrive, they call me Lord.”

Ms. Macduff, with her eyelash curler in hand, inquired,

“Lord of what? Pray do tell.

Lord of this? Me thinks it hell.”

You have to admit she had a valid point. However, Macbeth's adrenaline was racing and he wasn't about to give into this shrewish hellhound. He shouted at her:

“Nonetheless, that is my seat and it I shall defend.

You, poor wench, will ride in back with all the common men.”

He jumped down from the seat and let out a mighty roar and an evil guffaw as Ms. Macduff fell forward with despair at the very thought of it.

“Ride in coach? I'd rather ride in a boat.”

With that a full-fledged battle ensued. Passengers were taking cover, while the flight attendants continued trying to serve drinks. Accidentally, the junior flight attendant got caught in the fray while trying to bring Mr. Macbeth a nice cold beer. The beer fell off the tray onto Ms. Macduff's brand-new Anne Klein suit. This stopped the action, and Macbeth said to the flight attendant,

“You wench, you fool,

You've spilled my beer

I'll write your boss and

Ruin your career.”

The flight attendant began to furiously scrub the stain on Macduff's suit. “Out, out damn spot . . . ,” she sobbed. The head flight attendant ran to her assistance, offering her a tip she had learned from years and years of flying: “A little bit of club soda will take that right out, honey.” With that they threw a can of club soda on Ms. Macduff. Then before Ms. Macduff could react they hobbled back to the galley, muttering to each other, “Fie, fie, fee, fee, how are we to serve amidst all this clatter?” At that moment Ms. Macduff pulled a curling iron from her carry-on and thrust it into Macbeth's soft belly. With a chilling laugh she declared, “I've got you now, size doth not matter.”

Macbeth fell from his first-class seat to the floor. And without missing a beat, Ms. Macduff sat down in seat 1B, for which she had battled valiantly and fairly won. And then suddenly, just as she began to relax, Mr. Macbeth, in a surprising comeback, pulled out a golf club from under the seat in front of him. He screamed, “It matters not!” as he whacked Ms. Macduff in the head. He fell backward just as Macduff fell forward on top of him.

When the head flight attendant came out of the galley to begin the cleanup process, she looked about and commented:

“Dead, dead, me thinks them dead

Beer has been spilled, body fluid shed.

And yet here lies a seat that is free and

For this chance other beggars outside do

Wait, spewing forth and bitching at the gate.

So bring them in, the next of kin and seal the

Final fate.”

At that moment, during the trumpet fanfare, in sauntered a young man, Mr. Hamlet. He was very well dressed, but looked a bit preoccupied with his own thoughts. As he entered he said out loud, “To be or not to be? That is the question, whether 'tis . . .”

“No, no, no!” said the head flight attendant. “Excuse me, Mr. Hamlet? Not 2B . . . 1B . . . right over here.”