Around the World in a Bad Mood! (9 page)

L
IKE
I
SAID,
times have changed. Nowadays air travel is more like a living hell than a glamorous, elegant experience. The airports are overcrowded, as are the flights, people are impatient, and it's next to impossible to provide the service that people expect. Usually there is some type of delay. Recently I was standing behind a man in line at the ticket counter and overheard the following conversation:

M
AN:
Well, why is the flight delayed?

A
GENT:
Weather.

M
AN:
You know I find that hard to believe. The girl who was here before you just made an announcement, not even ten minutes ago, saying it was a mechanical delay. Now I don't think you're being honest with me and I want to know the truth—right now! Is it a mechanical delay or a weather delay?

A
GENT:
It's both.

I feel sorry for people who have to travel for work. I can't imagine screwing around all day trying to get somewhere for a business meeting. I mean, the travel in itself is daunting enough, and then upon arrival having to go deal with clients or business makes it all worse. No wonder everyone is so miserable when they travel. At least after I've suffered through a twelve-hour day of travel I'm done! I don't have to concern myself with any other business matters because I am on my layover. One of the most treasured aspects of being a flight attendant, in addition to a flexible working schedule, is the layover. I must admit that this career has given me the opportunity not only to meet many different people, but also to visit many different places. Some people bid trips for the layover: “I've never been to Hong Kong and this month we have twenty-four-hour layovers in Hong Kong. I think I'll bid a few, just to see what it's like there.” Other people bid their trips according to what days they would like to have off. Certain people may need Mondays and Wednesdays off because they're taking a class; they don't really care what trip they take or where they layover, as long as they have Mondays and Wednesdays off. Some people want to work one-day trips (turnarounds) because they have kids in school and want to be there when their children arrive home. They will fly four turnarounds in a week, leaving at 6:00
A.M
. and returning at 2:00
P.M
., and never have to spend the night in a hotel. Still others want to fly long trips, such as six-day trips or even nine-day trips, by concentrating all their flying. Then they may be able to have ten or more days off in a row and be able to use one of their free passes to take personal trips.

There is also something else to be said for taking a nine-day international trip. Let's say you have just suffered a bad breakup or you're sick of your surroundings, or maybe just sort of sick of your life. You hop on a plane to Asia, Africa, or Europe and you really don't know what that trip may bring. There's a sense of excitement and intrigue to it all—even if you have to push a beverage cart across the Pacific. When you arrive you're in foreign land and you can be and do whatever you wish. Maybe you'll want to go out with the whole crew, or maybe you'll want to take off and explore on your own. I love going out with the crew and having a big, fun dinner in Dublin or Florence, but I also love walking around the streets of Tokyo at dusk all by myself and being an outsider. I'm making it sound pretty romantic, aren't I? Well, there is another side to it and that's the more common reality of the layover: Usually it takes place somewhere in America. You've worked a twelve-hour day, all your flights were full, and you've now arrived in some city that looks like the city you were in last night, or maybe it was the night before. In any event it's late and you're tired. The hotel van is late, and when it finally arrives, the driver takes you from the airport along an impersonal interstate in an impersonal part of town past all the impersonal chain restaurants at which you'd never really wish to eat, but at this point you're so hungry that even Denny's sounds good. You keep driving and finally pull into the hotel; sometimes it doesn't have an elevator or the elevator doesn't work, so you have to lug your bags up a few flights of stairs to your cell—I mean your room—which is always located as far from the elevator (or stairs) and as close to the ice machine as possible (that must be one of the requirements of the contract between WAFTI and the hotel). Then you try to unlock your door, but the magnetic key doesn't seem to work, so you leave your bags outside the door, trudge back down to the lobby, and stand in line for five minutes because there is only one front desk clerk and two people are ahead of you. At last, it is your turn. The clerk has to dig around for another key, you trudge back to your room and are delighted to discover this key works. You enter the room, and it stinks. They all sort of stink—either they smell stale or of some putrid scent used to try to cover up the stale smell—so you try to open your window and get some fresh air, but no luck. It's bolted shut. It's now going on 11:00
P.M
., and your pickup the following day is 8:00
A.M
. You peel off your uniform and suddenly realize you haven't eaten in about eight hours, except for a bag of peanuts. You're famished, so you call room service, but unfortunately room service and the restaurant close at 10:30
P.M
. They suggest you visit the vending machine. . . . Looks like you are out of luck in terms of dinner. Well, the exhaustion of the day is setting in and you decide it might be best just to take a hot shower and hit the sack. You could stand to lose a few pounds anyhow. You turn on the water for a few minutes and as you step into the shower you realize it's freezing cold. You let it run awhile longer—conditions do not improve. Finally, you decide to skip the hot shower and just crawl into bed; even the scratchy sheets and hard pillows do not bother you because you are so tired. You set the alarm and drift off to sleep. About two hours later there is someone next door who has decided to turn on the television,
full blast
. You wake up and look at the clock—it is 1:30
A.M
. You toss and turn, maybe get up and go to the bathroom, and now even though you're completely beat, you can't get back to sleep. The “What if I oversleep and the alarm doesn't go off?” panic has set in. You try to close your eyes and return to your golden slumber, but you keep tossing and turning and looking at the clock—every hour. You might be getting in twenty-minute naps, but something keeps you from going into deep undisturbed sleep; no REMs tonight. The more you try to fall asleep the worse it gets. Finally, around 5:00
A.M
., you doze off into a deep sleep, only to be ripped out of it by the screeching of the alarm announcing that it's 7:00
A.M
. and you have to be dressed and downstairs in one hour. You're hoping the hot-water situation has improved, and it has to some degree, but not entirely. You take a lukewarm shower, get back into that polyester get-up, and off you go in search of a decent cup of coffee. By now you know you are truly living in a fantasy world and until you get home a decent cup of coffee is just another pipe dream. It's back on the van and off to the airport; it sort of seems like you never left. Then it is the ­standard drill: go through security, board the aircraft, do the preflight safety check, prepare the cabin and the galley, and brief with the crew just in time for boarding, when another two hundred people enter into your day, asking for pillows, blankets, water for the pills they have to take, and help putting their Winnebagos into the overhead.

W
ELCOME ABOARD, SIR,
so glad you could join us today. You have seat 4B. Get you a gin and tonic? My pleasure.

Pleasure, my ass. I don't want to make him a gin and tonic, I'd rather watch paint dry. Come to think of it, I don't want to make anyone a gin and tonic, except maybe myself. Actually, that sounds pretty good right now. Well I guess since I can't have one, ol' 4B might as well. I'll just take a good long whiff of it while I'm making it.

Here you go, sir. Oh, you couldn't find room for your carry-on? You're tired of lifting it and you want someone to get it out of your way?

And I guess I'm the lucky someone. I cannot believe my good fortune. Jesus, what has he got in here? A dead body? If this six-foot, 200-pound bruiser can't lift it, how does he possibly think I, five foot four and 110 pounds—all right, 120 pounds—can lift it? I'll probably rip my shoulder out of the socket if I hold it in this position much longer. Well, I'm glad to see that all my hard labor isn't interfering with his enjoyment of his cocktail. He doesn't seem to even mind all my grunting and groaning. The last thing I would want to do is disturb him. I guess things could be worse; I could be married to him. That'd be a real treat: picking up after him, acting interested in his dull stories about his big job at the plant. . . . No, he doesn't work at a plant, let's see what does he do? Probably some sort of job where everyone runs around kissing his ass all day long while he yells at people and probably threatens to fire them, all the while hoping to God that nobody discovers that he has no clue what he is doing. Look at him, a cell phone in one hand, the
Wall Street Journal
in the other, boy does he think he is important. He's probably talking to a dial tone on the other end. I bet he doesn't even know how to read; he's probably just looking at the letters trying to impress everyone around him. I wonder if knows how to tie his shoes yet.

You know, sir, I think this bag is a little big for the overhead. Perhaps I could check it to your final destination?

Better yet, perhaps I could check you to your final destination and put the bag in your seat. The bag would probably be a lot more interesting.

Unacceptable, you say?

I'll tell you what's unacceptable (aside from the size of your bag): your personality! He probably thinks just because he's sitting in first class that he's entitled to be rude to everyone in the world—I'd be willing to bet my right arm he's an upgrade. I wouldn't want to deprive him of the opportunity to be rude. He probably knocked over a few women and children so he could be the first one in line to board. Well, I'm checking this bag, whether Mr. Congeniality likes it or not. I'm not even going to ask any questions. I'm just putting the tag on it and shipping it off. I guess I'll have to drag it to the front door.

Oh, I didn't mean to disturb you. . . . Yes, well, it looks like the only available option is to check it. It sort of exceeds the size requirements.

A little bit like your ego, pal. Oh boy, he's getting up now. Well that got him into action! Probably hasn't moved that fast in years. My, my, look at those muscles. . . . Amazing how he can heave that two-ton bag into the overhead. Just two minutes ago he didn't have the strength. That gin and tonic did wonders for him.

Now, there's no need to use profanity, sir, I'm sure we can . . .

Yep, he's pissed off now; I pretty much ruined his day. I don't suppose it would make the situation any better if I told him about all the people in the world with real problems. No, that's probably beyond his scope. If having to stow his own goddamn suitcase is the worst thing that has happened to him today, I'd say he is doing all right. Maybe I should give him a copy of Elie Wiesel's
Night
for some in-flight reading. Oh, I forgot, he doesn't know how to read. Well, at least that's over. Oh wait, now he's going to pout. Wait until he discovers there isn't a meal on the flight today—that will probably put him right over the edge. I guess I have to pretend that I care and ask his royal highness if everything is “acceptable.” Another opportunity to converse with him.

Thanks so much for helping with
your
bag. I'm glad we didn't have to check it. . . . My name?

My name . . . what the hell does he want my name for? It's not like we're going to be buddies. I hope he isn't under the mistaken impression that we're going to be on a first-name basis with each other anytime soon. I've had years of experience in this department; it will really be better if I call him “sir” and he calls me “miss.” I mean, after this flight we won't be hanging out or anything like that. In fact, if things work out the way I am hoping we will never see each other again. So why on God's green earth does he need to know my name? He's probably going to write me up. Why me? I'm just standing here, doing my job, risking my chiropractic good health trying to help this brute with his bag. And what do I get for all my troubles? This idiot requesting my name. Maybe I'll just make up a name. . . . My name is Pain and Humiliation. That's it, good ol' Pain and Humiliation Foss. My friends just call me Misery for short.

Oh no, you don't need to apologize. I'm sure you've had a hard day and having to tow that heavy bag of yours around has got to be tiring. . . .

Hard day? I'll give you a hard day . . . my day! Now that is a hard day. Five stops between Chicago and Indianapolis, airplanes of people just like this jackass. And I've got to do the same thing tomorrow and the next day, too. This is one of the worst trips I've ever had in my life, and I just wanted to bear down and get it over with. There I was just trying to do my job . . . serve the Cokes and pick up the garbage, and now suddenly he walks into my life asking me to make him a gin and tonic and stow his bag and give him my name. What did I ever do to deserve this? All I want is a simple life: to do my job, go home, hide under the covers, and watch television until my next god-awful trip. Is that expecting too much out of life? I think not. So why is it that I am constantly subjected to encounters with such utter fools?
Why me?

Tonight? Well, I'm flattered, but I have an early pickup in the morning and I . . .

God, I hate my life. I don't think I can take much more of this. We haven't even left the ground and he's already asking me out. Next thing you know he'll be inquiring about the Mile High Club.

Who me? What do I do for fun?

Oh, I like to spend time talking to people like you, trying to figure out ways to get out of situations like this. Another fun thing is watching TV. Yep, I watch a lot of TV. It meets all of my emotional needs. Nothing like sitting down by yourself in front of the tube with the dog, a bottle of wine, and a big plate of pasta on a Saturday night. My favorite shows are
Cops, Jenny Jones,
and wrestling. Oh, I'm a big wrestling fan. I would go out on more dates with eligible men like yourself, but there are just so many fabulous programs that I can't afford to miss. Another thing I like to do for fun is the laundry . . . now that is some serious fun! It's more fun than sitting through an evening with someone like you, I'm sure.

Oh, really? One of the best restaurants in Flint. No I can't say that I've ever been there.

Oh, I don't think I can, but you're so nice to offer. Oh yes, I'm sure there's a lot of great nightlife there, but I really have to get to bed early tonight because I have to wake up at 7:00
A.M
. Oh, aren't you funny, you won't take no for an answer. . . .

Oh, he's funny all right. Funny as a crutch. I can't recall the last time I met someone so funny or so debonair—usually you have to be at a trailer park or a bowling alley to meet someone of his status. Well, I imagine he'll keep pestering me until I agree to go to the finest restaurant in Flint with him. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll injure myself in the galley, you know slip on the floor and break my neck, and then I wouldn't have to go. I could just tell him I'm busy with my broken neck and have to spend the night in the finest hospital in Flint instead. He couldn't expect me to go out to dinner with a broken neck.

You're right about that, a girl does have to eat. I guess as long as I'm back by a reasonable hour . . . oh well, why not? I accept away, sir. Charlie? OK, Charlie. Oh, me too. I'm really looking forward to it.

I'm looking forward to it about as much as I'm looking forward to paying my taxes or getting a root canal. Oh, I probably deserve this. Somewhere in the past I must have done some dreadful act for which I am now being punished. The agony of it! I must remember this feeling; perhaps I'll be able to use it in my acting work. Maybe someday I'll have to play a character who is desperate and out of all possible options and I will call to mind this day and my new best friend, Charlie. Charlie this, Charlie that, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. . . . How will I ever live through it?

Oh, get you another gin and tonic? I'll be happy to, Charlie. I'll be right back!