Evidently, someone upstairs was answering the phone, because I got on the plane. I happily brushed by every other aisle passenger on my way to my seat, flopped into the center seat between two businessmen, and went to sleep. I woke and repeated the above paragraph (almost verbatim) in St. Louis. The only difference was that this time, I sat between an elderly couple. Now at first I took some comfort in this coincidence, seeing as I was doing this coastal hike in the name of my beloved grandparents, but it soon became clear to me that there were one or two striking differences between this couple and my family elders: namely, these two smelled funny and were deaf.
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This isn't funny. I blew the air jet directly onto my face so I could
breathe properly and tried to quietly ignore the "conversation" taking
place over my chest that would've been funny had I heard it happening to
someone else. As it was, I was beginning to get a headache (they were
both quite loud and had been married a long time), and a headcold (the
airjet was freezing). Somewhere in there, I realized that the woman on my
right was talking to me!
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"Are you going to California for business or pleasure?"
= cliché thing to say "My grandfather died." = so much for clichés "Oh." she looked crumpled. "I'm sorry." = standard thing to say "It's okay." = standard thing to say, I don't know why. "How old was he?" = another standard thing to say, like that matters? "Seventy-six." = guesstimate "Oh." she looked crumpled again. "I won't say how old we are, then."
Hence, my stand-by flight to California. I will spare you all the antics
of my family in close-quarters, the funeral, the idiosyncrasies and
quirks that remind us all how we love each other at a good distance apart,
and the all-too real-pains and self-doubts that come out of a humbling
experience like the death of a loved one -- and I'll skip to the relevant
melodrama: the stand-by ride home.
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Honestly, my flights were rather non-committal, petty annoyances at best,
but I shared my first leg of the flight with my brother and sister and
one of their experiences bears including. There was a flight attendant
whom I argue must have been on some exchange program or charity case,
like the Make-A-Wish Foundation granted that she could be a flight
attendant just once before she died. This is her story.
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I really had minimal contact with her, but it made an impression on me —
specifically, my toe and my face. My luck at getting an aisle seat
instead of my customary stand-by center seat was dented by this woman
rolling her little cart over my foot. No big deal as far as things go,
but she reacted rather drastically to the jostled drinks, waving her
spread fingers over the items for a moment like a child before a house of
cards, willing them not to move. She then turned with a smile and spat,
"Sthomething to dptrink?" (Spittle hit on the 's' of something and the
'd' of drink which I had to wipe off of my face.) I replied meekly and
she left. That was my sum total experience with her.
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My brother, on the other hand, had more dealings than he cared to admit.
The only one he shared with me in detail was the "call button" incident.
He had pushed his "call button" near the end of the plane ride to ask for
something (my bet: napkins for his face) and mentally pleaded that one of
the other attendants would answer the call. No such luck. She came
bustling down the aisle just as quick as you please... and walked right
past him. She returned quickly... and walked right past him. And again. By
the fourth pass, my brother gamely tried to wave her in, but she kept
right on walking. My sister was helpfully in hysterics and could barely
breathe, let alone assist. About to make her sixth or seventh pass, the
flight attendant's eyes settled on her "clue", namely the call light
that was illuminated above my brother's head. Thankful for the attention,
he opened his mouth to voice his request but she beat him to it. "You'll
have to shut off that light before we land, sir."
Now, my siblings and I are cut from the same bolt of cloth and have the stitches to prove it. I'm proud to say my brother's speech changed mid-synapse and he countered with, "I don't know how to shut it off," and he sat back to watch. He was not disappointed.
She unhappily looked at the panel and pushed. All of us familiar with
airplanes realize that if the call button itself is not the light, the
button is located on the armrest of the chair. What she was pushing on
was the reading light which must have been understandibly hot. She
quickly changed her approach and twisted a knob. This was the airjet.
Undaunted, she pressed her thumb flat on the little, orange call light
itself. It didn't budge. She grit her teeth and kept jabbing. By now, my
brother had a soft smile on his face and my sister was trying to keep her
eyes averted on the magazine crossword puzzle. She slammed the flat of
her palm against the light in a final act of defiance, then turned in a
huff back down the aisle. Another attendant came and calmly pressed the
button inside the armrest, shutting off the call light, and my brother
made his original request without further incident.
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No one saw her for the rest of the flight. Me, I think they asked her to
test the parachutes.
Moral of the story: if ever you have to travel stand-by, you can look for your wits, marbles, humor, patience and anything esle you're bound to lose in the hidden rubber room of the airport asylum. I'll be there: I promise! |
