Page 2 of The Woman in 3B
“What does working the same line have to do with it? You know peopledodate people they don’t work with, right?” Gemma posed.
“When’s the last time you went on a non-work date, either of you?” I flipped the question on them.
“I don’t date,” Kent denied.
“I know. You only hook up with married, bi-curious pilots,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And what’s your excuse, Gemma?”
“I’m working on myself,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m focusing on my career and dating myself.”
Kent snorted. “Every time you say that I’m convinced your luggage is just sex toys and lube.”
“Be nice,” I admonished.
“Thank you, Alice,” Gemma said, sticking out her tongue at Kent.
“Besides,” I continued, “we all know that can’t be true.” A mischievous grin found its way to my lips. “All that KY Jelly would have to be in three-ounce bottles in a clear quart-sized bag to get through airport security.”
“Hey!” Gemma’s mouth dropped open in shock before snapping back and finally settling into a sour, displeased look. “I really hate you guys.”
The interphone in the front galley chimed and Kent was the first to reach it. The phones were located throughout the airplane, allowing the crew to speak to each other in the various cabins, as well as to reach the flight deck and pilots when the door was shut. Because Kent was the purser—the senior flight attendant who was technically in charge of the other crew—he made all of the in-flight announcements and attended to passengers in the First Class section.
“The captain’s ready to begin landing,” he said upon hanging up the interphone. “Alice,” he told me, “you’re on Crotch Watch in the Village. And Gemma, check on the U.M. in 25C.”
Gemma beamed. She loved working flights with an U.M.—an Unaccompanied Minor. She did a great job with the crumb crunchers, giving them honorary pilot wings and pumping them full of sugary treats before reaching their final destination.
“Oh, and check your lips and tips, ladies,” Kent reminded us.
I’d heard the reference to our fingernails and lipstick many times before. It was a gentle reminder that despite the 12-hour days, limited sleep, and hasty meals grabbed during short layovers, we flight attendants should aim to be flawless at all times.
I walked up and down the aisles while Kent made our final arrival announcement over the speaker system. Crotch Watch, also affectionally called a groin scan, referred to the rounds that flight attendants make prior to liftoff and right before descent that ensures that all passengers’ seatbelts are on and properly fastened. I worked the Village on most of my flights—a reference to the Economy section of the plane.
Passengers dangled various garbage items in the aisle for me to pick up, even though I’d already been through the cabin multiple times with a proper garbage bag. It was one of themanythings that annoyed me about customers. Why couldn’t they remember to put their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment with the wheels out? Was it really so hard to hold on to their jacket until everyone had boarded? And why couldn’t they be bothered to remove their headphones and earbuds when they ordered a drink?
I passed the couple who had tried to join the Mile High Club. They had their heads bent towards each other conspiratorially; the whispering and giggling hadn’t stopped from earlier. I considered giving them a break by just continuing to walk on by, but I couldn’t help myself. I stopped in the aisle and spun around to face them.
“I hope you enjoyed your flight,” I grinned knowingly.
The couple looked up simultaneously at my words; both appeared a little like deer caught in headlights. I knew I was embarrassing them, but I couldn’t resist teasing them, just a little.
The man was able to find his voice first: “Oh, uh, yes,” he sputtered. “Yes, it was very good, thank you.”
I leaned a little closer to the two and they perceptively straightened in their seats.
“A tip for the future?” I offered, lilting my voice. “Wait until the drink trolley goes by before you try that little stunt again. The flight attendants will be too busy to notice you’re both gone.”
+ + +
The bingo card was waiting for me in my mailbox in the flight attendant lounge.It was the end of the work day, but Kent, Gemma, and I routinely stopped one more time in the lounge to see if we’d received anything from the airline before we’d catch a shuttle that would take us to the employee parking lot.
“Purser alert,” I heard Kent’s quiet warning. Kent was technically a purser himself, but he also wasn’t a narc.
I discretely slipped the bingo card into my purse without looking at it. The competition was an open secret, but the higher ups at the airline probably wouldn’t have been happy to acknowledge its existence. I’d have to look over my seat assignment and monthly challenges later.
Every month a new bingo card was anonymously delivered to the mailbox of every flight attendant across the company who paid their twenty dollar entrance fee. Twenty-five different challenges, at various levels of difficulty, had to be accomplished and confirmed within a month’s time. Some of the challenges could be fulfilled at the airport, but most occurred in-flight. At the end of the month—like the lottery—if no one had filled out their card entirely, the pot of money continued to grow.
I didn’t recognize the woman whom Kent had alerted me about. I’d been with the same airline for nearly eight years, but it wasn’t unusual not to know the other flight attendants with whom I worked. You could work really intimately with your assigned crew for a three-day trip and then you might never see them again.
She was an older woman with silver hair—a senior mama—a term used by flight attendants, but not unkindly. Her kind were a rarity in my line of work. There were no longer age restrictions for flight crew, but you still needed to be strong enough to help passengers stow their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments. She didn’t greet either Kent, Gemma, or myself, but went about her business of checking her mailbox before leaving the lounge.
