prohibited from engaging in
any activity that could distract
the pilots from their
performance.
My first night on the couch had not gone well. Never mind the lumps, the bumps, and the creaky springs, not to mention my own germ-phobic paranoia about its murky origins and sexual history. The main reason I hadn’t slept was due to the constant sound of Lisette and her pilot boyfriend going at it so loudly that two earplugs, two pillows, and a thick down comforter thrown over my head couldn’t drown out the noise. And by the time it was finally, mercifully over, well that’s when the snoring started (both his and hers). And before I knew it, it was 3:45 A.M. and my clock radio was blasting the oddly appropriate “All Out of Love,” which would play in my head for the rest of the day.
I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the taps, and peered in the mirror as I waited for the water to warm. My hazel eyes had bags the size of checked luggage, my hair was a frizzed-out mess, and if I wasn’t mistaken, my chin held the promise of what by day’s end would surely be a freakishly large zit. And as I opened the glass shower door and cautiously stepped inside, I asked myself. once again, why I always traded my afternoon trips for ones that signed in early, when clearly I was not a morning person.
Yes, it was true that all I had to do was survive two quick yet tediously boring round trips to Washington, D.C., and back, but if the small gash I’d just made while shaving my legs was any indication, my hand-eye coordination was severely hindered. And as a person whose secondary responsibility is to get piping hot coffee swiftly and safely into the hands of the politicians and newscasters who frequent the shuttle (even though they think it’s my only responsibility), my early-morning handicap would surely work against me.
But the flip side was that a 5:00 A.M. sign-in often made for an early-afternoon return. And I knew that once I’d choked down a few cups of that brutal airplane brew, I’d be just coherent enough to get through the first flight of the day bomb check that was now required of me.
Freshly showered, with one towel coiled around my head and another tucked tightly around my body, I was bent over the sink, spitting mouthwash into the bowl, when a pale, paunchy, middle-aged man, unfortunately clad in a pair of tighty whities, threw the door open and demanded, “Have you seen my bag tag?”
I turned to face him, mouthwash bubbles racing a speedy slalom down my chin. “Excuse me? Don’t you knock?” I grasped my towel against my chest while narrowing my eyes at Dan, Lisette’s creepy captain boyfriend, who also happened to be half the reason why I’d barely slept.
“Have you seen it?” he demanded, peering around my shoulder and barreling his way into the tiny bathroom. “I need to get out of here. I have a 5:00 A.M. commuter flight home, and I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Wait. You can’t fly without your bag tag?” I asked, clutching my towel and standing my ground, refusing to be pushed around.
“Would you please just start looking!” he yelled, glaring at me and shaking his head in exasperation as he rifled through my makeup bag. “It’s just a plain gold band. You can’t miss it.”
I stood there, growing increasingly confused as I watched him manhandle my eyelash curler. “Uh, I’m a little lost here. Didn’t you just say you were looking for a bag tag?” I asked, yanking my Nars Multiple stick out of his hand and staring at his Adam’s apple, determined to focus from only the neck up.
“It’s my wedding ring.” He lifted my blow dryer and peered underneath. “And if I go home without it, my wife will kill me!”
“Wait—you’re married?” I asked, eyes darting toward the bedroom door, wondering if Lisette knew. Oh, who was I kidding? Of course she knew.
But he didn’t answer. He just shook his head, pushed past me, and headed into the living room.
“I don’t get it,” I said, tailing him, determined to get to the bottom of this. “What’s with the ‘bag tag’ bit?”
“The. Old. Bag. Tagged. Me.” He enunciated slowly. “Now could you get crackin’, and help me out here?” he said, peering behind some framed photos of Lisette posing in front of all the usual French landmarks.
I just stood there, my wet hair making a sizable puddle on the ugly wood floor, watching him desperately try to locate the symbol of his everlasting love that he’d apparently removed before spanking the symbol of his everlasting lust. And it was pretty clear that the only thing he really cared about saving was his own saggy ass.
Then I shook my head, grabbed my uniform pieces, and carried them into the bathroom. This time making sure to lock the door behind me.
The best part of working the Washington, D.C., shuttle was the half-hour breaks we enjoyed between flights. We were lounging in the blue leather passenger seats, in the fully reclined position, and enjoying our breakfast of leftovers when I said, “It went on and on and on.” I rolled my eyes at the memory. “I didn’t get any sleep. Not to mention that I’ll never get those five hours back.” I shook my head and struggled to break off a piece of the rock-hard bagel we serve our passengers.
“Is he living there?” Clay asked, peering at me from over the top of his mini carton of orange juice. Everything we served on the shuttle was miniature—well, except for all the oversized egos we catered to.
“No. He commutes from Atlanta, where he lives with his wife and kids. God, it is just so wrong. And she’s so loud?” I said, taking a sip of my coffee.
Clay’s eyes lit up. “Any particular fetish? Or just a random screamer?” He leaned toward me, on high alert for the juicy details.
“Well,” I whispered, wiping my mouth and glancing around, making sure the pilots and air marshals were well out of earshot. “She likes him to spank her. She says stuff like, ‘That’s it Daddy, give me a red-hot ass.” When I looked at him I started laughing in spite of myself.
Clay’s eyes went wide with pure joy. “You’re making that up!”
“I wish. And this morning, when I was in the bathroom trying to get ready, he just barged right in and asked if I’d seen his bag tag.”
“His what?”
“That’s what he calls his wedding ring. You know, the old bag tagged him,” I said, shaking my head and feeling disgusted all over again.
“Charming.” Clay rolled his eyes.
“On my way out I found it lying next to the kitchen sink. I guess she makes him take it off and wash his hands before he spanks her,” I said, reaching into my bag and retrieving the slim gold band.
Clay reached for the ring. “No diamond?” He shook his head. “Cheap bastard. So what are you gonna do with it?”
I shrugged and took a sip of my coffee. “You can keep it if you want,” I told him, watching as he slid it onto his left ring finger.
“It’s a little loose, but I think I can make it work.” He held up his hand and admired it. “Maybe he and I can move to Vermont and make it official.” He smiled. “But seriously, I think this will come in handy. Peter’s been doubling up on his abs class, and you know that can only mean one thing.” He looked at me, shaking his head ominously.
“Uh, you might have to fill me in here, because your Hamptons summer share is about the most sinister reason I can think of,” I said.
“It means he’s up to no good. It means he’s trying to impress someone. And this might be just the thing I need to make him jealous,” he said, raising his eyebrows and wagging his newly accessorized finger at me.
“That sounds very healthy, Clay.” I shook my head.
“You guys, guess who’s in the boarding area?” I looked up to see Sydney, the head flight attendant and our good friend, rushing down the aisle. She was the one person out of all fifteen thousand of us who somehow managed to look amazing in the uniform. But at five feet ten, with the body of a Brazilian supermodel, the face of a Russian supermodel, and the gorgeous straight blond hair of a Swedish supermodel, it’s not like she had a choice. “I just saw, like, a bunch of supervisors,” she said, stopping to catch her breath.
br /> “Oh great,” I said, giving up on my stale bagel and tossing it back into the cardboard box it came in. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently, they just got back from some meeting. They’re all carrying these white coffee mugs with black letters that say ‘OO.’”
“They finally cloned Oprah?” Clay asked, crushing his empty OJ carton, and opening another.
“It’s what we’re supposed to call them now. It stands for ‘Occupational Overseer.’”
“You’re joking, right?” I looked at her.
She perched on the armrest across from us and shook her head. ‘“Using a less-threatening name is the first step in mending the unfortunate gap of distrust that has grown between labor and management,’” she quoted.
“Where’d you get that?” Clay laughed.
“I was sideswiped by four of them on my way to Starbucks. They couldn’t wait to unveil the new OO strategy and introduce the softer, friendlier supervisor of the future.” She rolled her eyes.
“Does that come with a side of softer, friendlier attitude?” I asked.
“No. Their primary function is still writing us up. But now when they do it as OOs we won’t feel as resentful as we did when they were supervisors. What’s this?” she asked, reaching for Clay’s hand.
“Clay got engaged, to an Atlas captain,” I told her.
“And I had such high hopes for you.” She dropped his hand and took a sip of her latte. “So how’s the couch working out?”
“Total nightmare.” I shrugged.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she said, reaching over to break off a piece of Clay’s bagel. “It’s an unwritten rule on layovers that only the most junior flight attendants get the rooms next to theirs.”
“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve flown international,” I said, lifting my Styrofoam cup and taking a sip. “I guess I’m a little out of the loop.”
“Learn a language; then you can fly to Europe all the time.” Clay nodded. “They always need Greek speakers.”
“Well, on the flight down here I gave George Stephanopoulos two bottles of water; does that count?” I laughed. “Anyway, she has no idea what a mistake she’s making. I mean, look what happened to me. It was bad enough being in the same San Juan hotel with Michael; just imagine if I had to actually fly with him. I swear, I will never, ever date another Atlas employee again. Seriously. And that includes the CEO.”
“Hailey, please. Especially the CEO! Have you seen him?” Clay shook his head and took a sip of juice.
“Ready to board?” I looked up to see my favorite gate agent coming down the aisle. George had been around for nearly forty years and had the inside story on everyone at Atlas. He was also quite a flirt, and a bit of a perv, but at his advanced age he easily got away with it. But what we really loved about him was how he always gave us the heads-up whenever Atlas management or FAA check riders were coming onboard. “There’s a whole gaggle of supervisors out there, so make sure one of you stays at the exit row the entire time,” he warned.
But today I was way ahead of him. “Hey George, they’re not supervisors anymore; they’re OOs now,” I called after him, watching as he headed back up the aisle.
“OOs my ass,” he grumbled.
I’d never understood how someone standing in the middle of an airplane, dressed in a hideous polyester uniform, could be so invisible. But after ten minutes of holding my position next to the exit row, I’d already had my foot stomped on twice, my left leg broadsided by a renegade garment bag, and my head nearly decapitated by a sleek aluminum roll-aboard being hurled into the overhead bin.
I turned and waved until I got Clay’s attention. Then I gave him the exaggerated eye roll/headshake combo that served as our prearranged evacuation signal, meaning it was now time to switch places.
I headed into the galley and fixed myself another cup of coffee, then leaned against the bank of beverage carts, acting as though I was keeping a close eye on the cabin, when really I was flipping through the latest issue of People magazine that a passenger from the last flight had so thoughtfully left behind. Angelina Jolie was on the cover, and I could hardly wait to read all about it.
“Can I get a bottle of water?”
I looked up to see one of the supervisors, er, OOs, standing before me, wearing a beige, “heavy on the shoulder pads” suit with suntan nylons, cream-colored, sturdy-heeled pumps, and bangs that swooped and curled like a forehead awning. Her darkly lined lips were arranged in a thin, grim line, and her eyes were fixed on my magazine.
“Uh, certainly,” I said, smiling my heart out while pushing the magazine aside, as though it hadn’t even occurred to me to actually read it, but that it might come in handy a little later if I decided to wipe down the galley or something.
“Do you think I could get, like, twelve? Everyone’s really thirsty,” she said, eyes still ogling Angelina.
I smiled even brighter and opened the beverage cart. I guess the fact that we’re only catered with twenty bottles of water for the 138 passengers we were expecting didn’t really concern her. I mean, after all, there were twelve dehydrated OOs out there, and it was my job to serve them.
Not to mention that I’d just been caught partaking in the most heinous of all personal pastimes. The reading of a magazine during any phase of flight, especially boarding, takeoff, and landing, was strictly forbidden. And now, with the advent of camera phones, I’d heard of more than one sorry stewardess being photographed in the act and promptly marched into her supervisor’s—I mean OOs—office for a major browbeating.
Besides, this latest title change didn’t fool me, since everyone knows the entire in-flight supervisor group consists of all the former flight attendants who couldn’t hack it. Who couldn’t handle the daily challenge of working in the air—of never knowing who you’d work with, who you’d serve, not to mention where you’d end up. These people loathed spontaneity and longed for structure, rules, and sameness. And unfortunately, they wanted you to want it too.
Oh sure, every now and then you’d get some well-meaning interloper with good intentions and revolutionary dreams of changing the system by somehow making it more equal, less inhumane. But just six months down the line, those Che Guevara wannabes always ended up right back where they started, with their idealism shattered and their spirits broken by the unbridled tyranny of Atlas office life.
Supervisors, OOs, whatever you call them, it was all the same to me. They were of a particular breed, and I knew better than to ever try to befriend them.
I dropped the dozen bottles of water into a blue plastic Atlas-logo trash bag that would serve the dual purpose of helping her transport them to her seat, as well as keeping them out of customer view so as not to incite a preflight water stampede. All it takes is for one person to go traipsing down the aisle with an amenity no one else has yet been offered to start the call lights ringing and a mad rush toward the galley.
“Here you go,” I said, smiling till my face ached, praying we could just put the whole unfortunate magazine debacle behind us and return to La Guardia without anyone filing an incident report.
And just as she left the galley, I was shoving the magazine in my jump seat so I could read it during takeoff when she peeked her head back in and said, “Do you mind if I borrow that People? I mean, you weren’t actually planning to read it on your jump seat, were you?” Her eyes locked on mine as I broke out in a cold, cowardly sweat.
“Oh, you mean this?” I laughed nervously, retrieving it by its edge, as though it were some foreign object I bore no attachment to. “Actually, why don’t you just keep it?” I said, holding my breath as she thrust it into her little blue bag and headed back up the aisle.
And the moment she was finally seated, I leaned against the beverage carts and sighed. A softer, friendlier supervisor? Doubtful. But clearly, she had her price.
I was standing in front of my closet, trying to pack for my bipolar three-day trip with long layovers in both Miami and Misso
ula (bikinis and cowboy boots, anyone?) when my cell phone rang.
“Hailey Lane, please,” said a deep, masculine voice I didn’t recognize.
“This is,” I said, tossing a bottle of sunscreen along with a pair of thick cotton socks into my bag.
“Hi. My name is Dane Richards. We were on the same flight recently.”
I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it, wondering what he could possibly want. Was this some sort of new Atlas Airlines customer-satisfaction initiative? Were the passengers actually calling us on our cells to complain about the crappy service?
“It seems you left some papers behind and they got mixed in with mine. We almost filed them in court today. Good thing you had your name and number on the front.”
“You have my manuscript?” I asked, relieved that it was no longer lost, yet horrified to think he might have read it.
“Should I messenger it to your I can have it there by five o’clock.”
“No, I’m going out of town,” I told him. “Could I maybe pick it up somewhere?”
“Can you get to midtown?” he asked, sounding distracted, as there were now several other voices in the background.
“Perfect. I’m catching a ride on Forty-second Street. Just give me the address and I’ll see you there.”
The second I hung up I tore into the cardboard box that housed my favorite non-Atlas approved accessories. If memory served me right, then Dane Richards was a total hottie. And since during the course of our brief conversation I’d specifically heard the words “court” and “midtown,” I knew I’d just been presented with an opportunity I couldn’t afford to ignore.
Even though there were no shortage of hotties in Manhattan, finding an age-appropriate, unmarried hottie with a good job was like getting a really great gift-with-purchase—they were only available while supplies lasted. Whereas finding an unmarried, age-appropriate hottie with a good job who wasn’t afraid to commit would be like locating the Holy Grail—we’ve all heard it exists, though we’ve yet to see it for ourselves.