Cruising Attitude

compared to what I had worked in the past. And the flight attendants who could hold trips on this type of equipment were even scarier. They were super senior, very cliquey, and totally set in their ways. The last thing I needed on probation was to piss off some senior mama who would write me up for not doing something a certain way.

2. I did not want to work the galley position. Why would I when all I’d done at Sun Jet was throw a couple of sodas and a bucket of ice onto a cart? At training, sure, we pretended to serve beverages to classmates on mock airplanes, but we didn’t even have real food to use! And the galleys we practiced in were not lifelike. In all our time in training, we’d discussed the different services in great detail, but we never actually set up a galley for one!

3. I did not want a trip departing out of Newark Airport. The airport was located in another state—two and half hours from my crash pad in Queens. In order to get there I’d have to walk a couple of blocks to the Long Island Railroad Station to take the train to Manhattan to catch the bus to Newark—a $30 round-trip fare, which is a lot when you can barely afford to eat. Not to mention that the four-hour travel time to and from the airport is not calculated into our twelve-hour legal rest time.

4. I did not want to work a morning sign-in. One reason I became a flight attendant was to take advantage of the flexible schedule, preferably the night flying. I just don’t do mornings well. I’d take a red-eye flight any day over a departure leaving at the crack of dawn.

Somehow all my wishes came true that week. Three trips in a row I got called out to work a narrow-body turn. I surprised myself by feeling right at home. The airplanes were all so clean and nice and the passengers always smiled and said hello, but in addition, it was work as usual—minus the delays, duct-taped armrests, and overflowing blue water leaking out of the lav, just a few of the things I’d grown accustomed to with my previous employer. The two big things that did stand out more from my old airline those first few days on the job were the quiet cockpits and all the short hemlines.

I’ll never forget sitting on the first-class galley jump seat during my first descent, my back against the cockpit wall, hearing nothing but absolute silence. It made me a little nervous. Okay, fine, really nervous! Long ago I’d learned to trust my instincts, and I just knew something had to be wrong. Why couldn’t I hear the computerized voice in the cockpit talking? Concerned, I looked at the flight attendant in charge who sat beside me, a senior gal who’d seen it all and then some based on the number of medical emergencies she’d told me she’d handled over the years. But she seemed as calm as could be, looking out the porthole window at the ground down below. Even so, I couldn’t let it go. I mean, what the heck was going on in the cockpit? Were the pilots dead? At Sun Jet we could always hear a computer voice yelling out commands from behind the locked door just before touchdown, things like, “Pull up, pull up—terrain, terrain!” After growing accustomed to that, the silence felt like a scream. If the seasoned flight attendant sitting beside me had not been there, I might have picked up the phone in a panic and broken sterile cockpit to find out. That would have had me fired for sure. Flight attendants are not allowed to contact the cockpit during sterile cockpit so that pilots can focus on what’s important—landing the plane. This was one thing I got used to pretty quickly!

As for the hemlines, this was the mid-1990s and everyone, passengers and flight attendants alike, wore skirts and dresses as short as Heather Locklear on the original Melrose Place television series. Compared to the majority of my passengers and colleagues, I looked like an Amish woman who’d gotten lost and stumbled onto an airplane. My uniform quickly began to embarrass me. It was like being a freshman nerd surrounded by cool senior cheerleaders. Forget the silver wings—gold wings at my airline are only worn by flight attendants with at least five years seniority—one glance at my dress and everyone knew I was on probation. Even frequent fliers seemed to get off on letting me know that they knew I was new. One first-class passenger decided to get up and help us in the galley as soon as he realized there were a couple of newbies working his cabin. At first we were annoyed by his know-it-all presence, but when we realized we might land with a couple of trays still out in the cabin, suddenly we were thankful for his assistance in not only collecting glassware that needed to be locked in the galley before landing, but also for helping us hand back sixteen first-class coats. In the aisle, before buckling into his seat, he took a bow. The passengers gave him a round of applause. We, the crew, slid him a bottle of wine.

The hemline had an effect on pilots, too. One look and they knew they could ask for food items they’d never in a million years get from a more seasoned flight attendant. When I told one such pilot we only had enough mixed nuts for first-class passengers, he suggested I take one or two nuts, whatever I felt comfortable with, from each passenger’s bowl. “It’ll be our little secret,” he added.

Even worse were pilots known to prey on flight attendants right out of training. Because we were young and dumb and unaware of the reputation some of these guys had, most of us found it flattering to be at the receiving end of their attention. In fact, one of my roommates, a “Cockpit Connie,” enjoyed it so much that when she finally got off probation she didn’t run straight to a tailor like the majority of us did. She left her hemline as long as possible so she could entice even more pilots into her layover hotel room late at night. On the flip side, there were the pilots who would see our long skirts and immediately go into father mode, trying to protect us from anything that could possibly go wrong in flight.

“If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask, and if the passengers give you a hard time, let me know and I’ll have them taken off the flight. I don’t care what the company says, I don’t put up with that kind of bull,” one told me. Those pilots were, and still are, my favorite kind, and I’d like to thank each and every one of them for giving us the support we don’t always get.

My worst flight attendant nightmare came true during my second week on the job: I got called out to work what we affectionately call the Death Cruiser 10. The DC10 was a monster of an airplane. It held more than 250 passengers and a crew of fifteen. Thirty passengers sat in first class, with fifty in business class. I’d been assigned the extra position, but things went from bad to worse real quick when I got to the airport. The flight attendant working the galley position called in sick. Because we already had an extra (me!) and it was too late to call out another reserve, scheduling told us to work it out. And so, one by one, in order of seniority, each flight attendant picked a position. Since I was the most junior flight attendant on the crew, I didn’t even have to wait until it was my turn to figure out that the lower lobe would be all mine. I offered fifty bucks I didn’t have to anyone willing to switch positions. No one took the bait. I upped it to seventy-five. They all laughed at me.

“Sweetie,” said a senior flight attendant with a beehive bun. “I haven’t worked a galley in twenty years. None of us have. You’re on your own.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

It must have been the sick look on my face that caused another flight attendant to pipe up with, “Just do the best you can. The passengers will survive.”

Actually, I wasn’t too sure about that.

Part of me wanted to throw up, but another, admittedly smaller, part of me couldn’t wait to check out the infamous lower lobe. It had a scandalous reputation, on par with Studio 54. Located underneath first and business class, it can only be reached by a one-person elevator. Completely out of sight from passengers and crew, flight attendants could do just about anything they wanted while working the galley position on DC10. Listen to music. Have a smoke. Join the mile-high club. I’d heard all kinds of crazy stories. One roommate even swore that she once opened a cart, looking for passenger leftovers to eat, and found a flight attendant fast asleep curled up inside.

The thing that freaked me out the most about the DC10 was that it only had one galley for all three cabins. On most aircraft each cabin—first class, business, and coach—has a galley. That means three flight attendants in charge of the flow of service. Now keep in mind that each cabin operates almost as if it’s its own flight in that no two cabins are ever doing the same thing at the same time. This is why the person working the DC10 lower lobe galley really has to know what he’s doing—there’s just one person in charge of setting up every single cart for all three cabins. When coach is in the middle of serving meals, business class might be starting salads as first class finishes up appetizers. A good galley is always one step ahead, preparing for the next service in each cabin.

At this particular point in my career, I had yet to work the galley on any flight, let alone three simultaneous services on one of the largest airplanes in our fleet. I hadn’t even seen how the service worked, and now I was in charge of it! Oh, I’d take working the aisle and all the accompanying drama any day over getting stuck in the galley with no idea of what’s going on. But, like Georgia working with an all-new crew, I didn’t have a choice. So I opened my flight manual to the page with all the diagrams showing how to set up different carts, and armed with a pair of company-issued galley gloves that were so long and silver they looked like they might belong on a space shuttle, I waved buh-bye to my crew and took the elevator down.

When the elevator reached the bottom, I turned the handle and opened the door slowly. Oh. My. God. I just