Brock asks Jimmy if there’s any truth to this story, showing him Janet’s letter. Jimmy looks at him, his hat cocked, and with those flashing, smiling blue eyes, says “Brock, I’ve been saying that to flight attendants for twenty-five years. If I told you I didn’t do it this time, would you believe me?” The office staff broke up, Pyle included.
Weeks later, Jimmy was called before an F.A.A. Board of Inquiry. The board consisted of five members, all of whom happened to be men, and the circumstances of the story were once again reviewed.
Jimmy was ultimately cleared of any regulatory infractions. After the official verdict was rendered, and we were all leaving the room, one of the F.A.A. guys booms out, “Captain, the next time you ask a flight attendant to sit on your face, just make sure you tell her to put her seat belt on, as well!”
Delicious
While in cruise, on a back-of-the-clock flight from Melbourne to Honolulu, Captain “Filthy” Farnsworth and I decide the time was right to play a joke we had all ready, just waiting for the right new-hire flight attendant to show up. Now we had one.
I’ve disheveled my appearance, dampening my face and hair, generally making myself look sick. Then Filthy calls this new hire up to the cockpit, pointing out my condition. “He’s sick.”
This lady became immediately concerned with my illness. “What was the problem? What could she do? How did it happen?”
Farnsworth tells her that I had eaten something bad, that I was very sick, and anything she could do to ease my condition would be much appreciated, since he’s busy with the plane. She leaves the cockpit to gather up anything she thinks might help me out.
Meanwhile, in the cockpit, we’ve taken my uniform hat, lined the inside with a shower-cap to protect it, and dumped a steaming hot can of chili into it.
When the girl returned, I seemed to be in the final stages of up-chucking into the hat. Her look was one of grave concern. Filthy commented that hopefully I would now be feeling better, having vomited, and would she please take the now brimming hat out of the cockpit, “dispose of this for us will you?”
Averting her eyes, she reaches out and gingerly takes the hat from my lap. Just as she starts to withdraw, Filthy stops her, grasping her wrist. He peered curiously at the mess in the hat. Looking directly into her eyes he says, “Christ, this whole thing has made me hungry!” With that, he sticks two fingers into the chili, and starts eating.
The girl’s shade of green can’t be accurately described. Gagging several times, covering her mouth with both hands, she groaned and took off for the lavatory like her ass was on fire.
For the rest of the trip she was totally out of commission. Curled up on a blanket in the rear galley, she took some hot tea and a sleeping pill, getting up only to go to the lavatory every hour or so, continually proclaiming, If I live to make it back to Honolulu, I will tender my resignation immediately upon arrival!”
“Pretty formal speech for a sick young lady.” I tell her, “I’d be saying I fuckin’ quit!” I can’t get her to laugh.
She didn’t quit, and she’s still with Continental, a little older and wiser to the shenanigans of pilots.
A few years later, when I was a co-pilot on the 747, I ordered the fish for my meal. One of the flight attendants brought up my tray, with the main course plate covered in foil, which is common practice.
Removing the foil covering, I am staring at the bony skeleton of a fish. My face must have reflected my puzzlement, my mouth hanging open. I’m surrounded in laughter and the joke’s on me this time, as I look back into the face of that flight attendant from long ago.
The Engine Sir
I was going into my fourth year with Continental, and had spent all that time in the engineer’s seat on the DC-10 in Honolulu. Not flying the plane was driving me crazy, and my scan (the practiced, patterned review of the flight instruments) had gone to shit.
My last job had me flying six and seven legs a day for Eastern Metro, Jetstreams without autopilots, in and out of Atlanta-Hartsfield. I had been at the top of my game. My scan had been developed to a point where I saw all the instruments at once. This mid-focused Zen state allowed me to know everything about the airplane’s performance, without consciously realizing it. Now it was all gone, replaced by rust and lethargy.
At that time, Singapore Airlines was hiring expatriate pilots for their 747-400’s on five-year contracts, and I was more than ready for the change. My FAX and phone correspondence paid off, and I was invited out for an interview in Singapore. They provided tickets for me, and I arrived in Singapore with a few days to spare before my appointment.
To get my weight-to-height just right, I went at it whole hog, jogging for months. I rented a suit for the interview. Some friends from CAL Honolulu base had preceded me out there, and I lunched and had dinners with them, to catch up on old friendships and to pick their brains for information about Singapore Airlines and life in Singapore.
Wishing to have a good night’s rest before my important interview the coming morning, I booked a massage through the hotel, for six in the evening. This was to be a legitimate massage, not the “steam and cream,” so common in the orient.
At six P.M., I dutifully present myself at the hotel’s health spa, and I’m introduced to this gnarled, chestnut- colored Malaysian woman who was to do the honors.
Disrobing in her private cubicle, and positioning myself face-down on her table, I was almost asleep by the time the old lady nudged me to turn over. This was going to be perfect. I was going to have just enough energy to crawl into my own bed for a great night’s sleep. Lapsing back into my stupor, I was totally relaxed when her mouth engulfed my penis. My entire body levitated off the table. My mind, racing to catch-up with this unexpected sensation, directed my mouth to say, “What? What?”
“Theengensahr.”
“What?”
“Theengensahr.”
She pointed to my unresponding member… “You have to make certain that the engine is working.”
I mentally slap my own forehead, oh “The engine, sir” is what she had been saying, while offering me this extra service.
The speed of thought is faster than the speed of light, I’ve always believed. Unbidden, my brain instantly asks my dick and my conscience, in that order, whether I can lay here with my eyes closed, pretending a young, pretty girl was fellating me for love, not for money. The answer came back, and “no thanks” was my response.
I’ve told this story to Geri, who finds it hilarious, as I do.
Once, I told it to D.B., and when I was finished telling him the story, he looked at me in his shit-eating, fish- eye way. “Now Steve, your tellin’ this story to me now, not to your wife,” waiting for me to confess my guilt.
I broke out laughing, not saying another word.
Continental 747 Upgrade
Although I was offered the job, Singapore Air required a thirty-five thousand dollars cash deposit, as insurance against my leaving early on the five year contract. I didn’t have the money, and it never worked out at Singapore, however my luck soon changed at Continental.
Most airlines pay “wide-body” or differential pay, the larger the equipment, the greater the pay. Not so in those days at Continental. Nor did Continental pay extra for international flying as is common elsewhere. Therefore,
