Page 3 of The Woman in 3B
I waited to be sure the older woman had exited the lounge for good before I pulled the bingo card from my purse.
My eyes fell first to the number and letter printed at the top of the card. “Damn it,” I mumbled.
Gemma and Kent crowded around me and the cardboard bingo card.
“What’s wrong? Did you get a shitty card this month?” Kent asked.
I curled my lip. “I’m not going be able to complete the seat-specific squares. They gave me 3B.”
I thought the most difficult squares were those that were seat specific. Those were the challenges that could only be accomplished through the passenger sitting in that specific seat. 3B was in the First Class section of the plane. I wasn’t a rookie at my airline, but I also didn’t have enough time in to be the senior flight attendant—the purser—on my flights. I typically worked the Economy section on a three-person flight crew.
Kent sighed loudly. “Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll let you work First Class on our flights this month. Butdon’tmake a habit out of this,” he warned with a shake of his finger. “Seniority should count for something.”
“You’re such a martyr,” I teased. “But thank you.”
“I don’t know why you waste your time. It’s a total racket,” Kent opined. “You might as well spend your entrance fee on scratch-off Lotto tickets. It’s less work, too.”
“It’s harmless,” I stubbornly defended. “And it keeps me entertained. I’d probably hang myself during beverage service without it.”
“I think it’s kind of mean,” Gemma spoke up. “Spilling a drink on someone on purpose?”
“It’s not like it’s hot coffee, Gemma,” I continued to defend myself and the game. “It’s just a little innocent fun.”
I didn’t particularly like the idea of the bingo card either, but the financial incentives were enough to make me momentarily forget the questionable ethics of it all. The winnings would be enough to pay off my two years of ill-advised college attendance. The only thing I’d really learned in those years of extra schooling was that not everyone was cut out for college. I wished my high school guidance counselors would have told me that; it would have saved me about forty thousand dollars.
“I still don’t like it,” she frowned.
Gemma had a singular talent for making me feel guilty, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong. She was a rule follower, unbending and disapproving. I couldn’t understand why she’d become a flight attendant; she acted more like a Sunday School teacher.
“What are they having you do this month?” Gemma asked. She didn’t drop her defensive posture, but the judgmental look on her round face softened.
For someone so concerned about rules and regulations, I thought Gemma secretly loved it when I first got my bingo card. She was less excited, however, when I actually began to complete the tasks.
“Some of the usual,” I noted. “Bump into a passenger when there’s no turbulence. Use a fake accent all flight. Wear a life preserver until someone says something.” I wrinkled my nose as I read the next task. “Assist a puking passenger is the center square again.”
“Stop withholding,” Kent censured. “What are the naughty challenges?”
I scanned over the twenty-five bingo squares and their twenty-five unique tasks. I read aloud the red colored squares that typically indicated a more challenging task: “Get a passenger’s phone number. Get a passenger to buy you a meal.” I stopped when my eyes fell on the next red square.
Gemma read aloud the square on which I’d paused: “Join the Mile High Club?!”
“At least it’s not seat specific,” I weakly remarked, despite how my stomach churned.
“Whoever comes up with these challenges has gone way too far this time,” Gemma huffed. She hugged herself and continued to look upset. “It’s basically prostitution.”
“It’s just a game,” I tried to reason with my friend. “I’d never do something I wasn’t comfortable with. I’ll just aim for completing one row so I make my money back. Then I’ll hope for a better card next month.”
“It’s totally sexist,” Kent piled on.
“Oh really? How so?” I posed. Kent’s complaint was a new one. I was intrigued to hear his argument.
“The challenges are much easier for women to achieve,” he argued. “How would a male flight attendant ever accomplish the Mile High Club task?”
“You mean how would astraightmale flight attendant do that,” I chuckled. “You get so much ass, Kent, don’t even deny it. I should be the one complaining about bias. As a lesbian,I’mat a complete disadvantage.”
“If you’d stop being so damn picky,” Kent proclaimed, “you’d probably have the whole thing won by now. Lower your standards, honey,” he advised. “People do it all the time for less.”
I shook my head. “I’m not going to whore myself out to win at bingo.”
