The giggling gave them away.
Even over the constant roar of the 747's turbofan engines, I could hear the mischievous laughter of two people who knew they were doing something that they shouldn't have been doing. It happened on at least one flight a month where a couple thought they were being original and unpredictable and spontaneous by squeezing into an airplane bathroom that was barely large enough for one body, let alone two.
I knocked briskly on the plastic bathroom door. The passengers were from my section of the plane, so it fell to me to get them back to their seats.
"Excuse me." My voice interrupted their clandestine actions. "You'll have to return to your seats. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign."
"Just a minute!" I heard a panicked, feminine voice. "I'll be right out!"
"Don't worry," I drawled, unamused. "I'll wait. Right here."
Slight turbulence bumped and shook the plane, but my legs automatically tensed and I naturally shifted my weight from one foot to the other, like balancing on a boat at sea.
I heard the sounds of shuffling and frantic whispering before the bathroom door eventually unlocked and opened. A man exited, his dress shirt untucked in the front, followed by a woman in a similar state of fashion disrepair. They both ducked their heads and averted their gaze as they passed rather than acknowledge me.
"Thank you for your compliance," I stated in a too-loud voice.
My eyes followed their walk of shame down the left aisle of the wide-body plane and back to their assigned seats. It made me feel like a disapproving school teacher, or worse—a mom. But it was my job to babysit these people until we returned safely to the ground.
Once I was satisfied that the couple was securely fastened into their respective seats again, I returned to my place in the narrow galley at the front of the plane. My friends and fellow flight attendants, Kent and Gemma, were just cleaning up after our final beverage service of the flight.
"Do they really think no one will notice?" I huffed.
Kent, a small, angular man with fine blond hair and icy blue eyes frowned and wrinkled his nose. "I think that's the point—for everyone to know."
My other friend, Gemma, leaned against the beverage cart and sighed. "I don't know," she said, twisting her thick braid. "I think it's kind of romantic—not being able to keep your hands off each other; even for a two-hour flight."
"Yeah, real romantic," I scoffed. "Two hundred people listening to you have sex in a phone booth."
I couldn't be too upset with the couple, however. In fact, I was probably a little jealous.
I could understand the appeal. Once the plane reached a cruising altitude, we were all seeking some kind of release.
Takeoff was a little like foreplay—if you did it right. The engines hummed and turbines twirled. You coast, you glide, you bump along the tarmac. The wing flaps flex their reach. You pick up speed, teasing, not quite meaning it. Each little false acceleration builds the anticipation.
The plane pauses on the landing strip. It snorts and spews like a muscle-corded bull about to charge a matador. A low rumbling, the plane rolls forward, tentative at first, as if afraid of its own power. The engines grow louder. You spurt forward. Another false start.
You've been grounded for too long. The frustration grows. The engines scream to be free like a braying dog, pulling against the leash that tethers it in place, keeping it from what it most desires. The light touch on the brakes reminds you of the engines' explosive potential.
You sit. The plane shudders. The sounds of the engines grows louder again until they seem to swallow up all other noises. The voices in the plane are vanquished. It's so loud, you forget all other sounds.
The force of takeoff pins you to your seat. The pressure crushes down on your body as the airplane climbs and climbs. It feels unending. Eternal. Your body folds in on itself.
And then it's over. You level out. The unbearable weight lessens. The noisy world returns.
"Don't mind her," Kent's voice interrupted my thoughts. "She's still pining over Luscious Lara."
"Am not!" I hotly protested.
My friends had accused me of being in a bad mood ever since breaking up with another flight attendant: Lara Pierson. I couldn't really call it a breakup though since it hadn't exactly been a relationship. Rather than seriously dating, it had been a thrilling month of stolen moments in-flight and fiery overnight stays on three-day flights, but it had ended nearly as suddenly as it had started.
I hadn't fallen in love with Lara, but she'd certainly been exciting. With my rigid flight schedule, I doubted I would ever repeat those same kinds of experiences unless it be with someone else on the crew. But my airline employed very few female pilots and even less queer female flight attendants. The ratio tended to favor straight women and gay men, even in the flight deck.
"I don't even like women, and I would have hit that," Kent proclaimed.
"We had fun," I said stiffly. "But now we're on different schedules, so it's over."
"What does working the same line have to do with it? You know people do date 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 the many things 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.
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. But don't make 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 a straight male 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'm at 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."
"You're not winning bingo; you're winning money," he pointed out. "Cold. Hard. Cash."
Gemma interrupted our juvenile bickering before it could escalate. Conflict made her itch: "You guys want to do something tonight?"
"Can't," Kent clipped. "I'm having spaghetti." He wiggled the fingers on his right hand in parting. "See you grandmas tomorrow."
Kent sashayed out of the flight crew lounge, leaving Gemma and me on our own.
"Kent sure eats a lot of pasta," Gemma observed with a wistful sigh. "I wish I could have carbs."
Gemma was perpetually on the quest to lose five pounds. I thought her curves were sexy, but I could appreciate her concern. In our profession, every little extra bit on your body added to the overall claustrophobia of the galley.
I cocked an eyebrow at my friend and laughed. "You know that's not what he's talking about, right?"
"Huh?"
"He's probably hanging out with one of his married pilot friends. Spaghetti is code," I supplied. "Straight until they get wet. Straight until they get a few drinks in them."
"Oh. Oh," Gemma blinked rapidly as the realization set in. "That makes so much more sense."
I couldn't understand Kent's near-obsession with sleeping with married pilots. For one, they were married. How could your conscience ever forgive that kind of behavior? For the other, pilots were notoriously cocky. Confidence was attractive, but most of the pilots I'd met over the years were ego-maniacs.
How many pilots does it take to change a light bulb?
Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.
"What are you doing tonight?" Gemma asked. "Are you having 'pasta,' too?" She highlighted the euphemism with air quotes.
I snorted at the suggestion. "Not likely. The only pasta I'm eating these days comes out of a little blue box."
+ + +
"Honey, I'm home!"
I shut my apartment door with my foot since my hands were busy with grocery bags. I only went shopping once a month, mostly for non-perishables and a gallon of milk whose expiration date I considered as a recommendation, not the end all, be all.
My apartment wasn't much, but I didn't spend too much time at home anyway. At least I actually had a home though. I knew some people who had crashpads around the country instead of renting a proper apartment. Crashpads could be a house or an apartment with bunkbeds in each room. For a couple hundred bucks a month you could have a place to stay if you weren't keen on the commuting life.
I had lucked out that the city in which I lived—Romulus—was a central hub for my airline. Despite its name, Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport was actually located in Romulus, Michigan—a small city about twenty miles west of downtown Detroit. The airport was the busiest in the state and one of the largest airports in the country. My own airline operated over one hundred gates in two different terminals.
I knew a few others whose home airport was also Detroit Metro, but they commuted to a different city in a different state to go home. They always seemed overtired and overstressed. Commuting took a lot of planning and your schedule could be ruined with a simple weather delay.
Even without commuting, our work hours were long. In a month, I typically spent between 65 to 90 hours in the air with another 50 hours of preparing planes for flight, completing reports, and other grounded tasks.
I dropped off the bags on the short countertop island that functioned as both a food prep area and my dining table. I left the bags on the counter for the moment.
"You hungry, Honey?"
I didn't expect a verbal response, but my pet turtle enthusiastically splashed in her tank. I'd had Honey—a red-eared slider—for close to a decade. My job kept me from owning more traditional pets unless I paid to have them kenneled or hired a pet sitter. That was money I didn't have. Honey was the perfect compromise. She didn't require much maintenance beyond occasional feedings and cleaning her aquarium. Plus, she had loads more personality than a fish.
I dropped a handful of floating food pellets into her tank and watched her hunt down each piece of food with erratic precision. She was clumsy—smashing her open mouth against the clear glass walls—but persistent. No piece of food went undevoured.
"How was your day?" I asked. I leaned close to the aquarium glass and watched her zip across the water's surface. I tapped lightly against the glass, but she was in hunting mode and paid little attention to me. "Get some good sunbathing done today? Take a dip in your pool? Must be nice; I was in recycled air all day while you're on a permanent vacation."
With Honey fed, I started the task of feeding myself. I didn't have occasion for eating at home too often. The airline paid for most of my food since I was on the clock during most meal times. I cooked a little though; my life would have turned into too much of a sad cliché if I relied on frozen microwavable dinners and cereal.
My conversation with Gemma had inspired me to make Italian that night—homemade meatballs on top of thick-noodled spaghetti, swimming in a rich marinara sauce. I'd just settled down at the kitchen island to tuck into my meal and a glass of red wine, when my phone rang and my sister's name and number popped up on the screen.
My sister Dawn was a few years older than me. While I hadn't made it through college and had boomeranged back into my parents' basement, Dawn had achieved practically everything she had set out to do. I was a single, gay, college dropout who lived in an 700-square foot apartment in Romulus, Michigan while she was married with kids and lived in a big house in the affluent Detroit suburbs.
"Are you coming to Peter's swim meet on Saturday?" she asked when I answered the phone.
"I'm on call on Saturday," I shared, "so probably not."
Although we had days off that scheduling couldn't touch—called Golden Days—on some off days of the week we had to be flexible. An on-call day might eventually turn into an actual day off, but if someone called in sick or had a last-minute personal emergency, we had to make ourselves available and get to our home base airport to fill in.
"But you missed his last swim meet, too!" she protested.
"He's five," I deadpanned. "How much of a competition is it really?"
"That's not the point and you know it," she sternly chastised. "You're missing out on family time."
"I'm not doing it on purpose," I insisted. "It's just not going to work out this time."
"It never works out," she grumbled.
My voice pitched up. "Because your kids insist on doing stuff on the days that I'm working!"
"Can't you switch with someone?" she demanded. "Or pretend to come down with a cold?"
I tugged at my hair in frustration. "You know it doesn't work that way," I growled into my phone. "I can't flake on my work. I've got responsibilities."
"I don't know why you can't just skip," she openly complained. "It's not like you're curing cancer."
"I know. I'm just a flight attendant," I bit out as my frustration mounted. "Nothing special or important about that."
"You know I didn't mean it like that, Alice."
"I've gotta go," I said, my voice suddenly flat. Even a brief conversation with my older sister had drained me of all energy. "My dinner's getting cold."
I ended the call without waiting for my sister's goodbye. I knew she would only continue to text me the rest of the night, waffling between apologetic and passive aggressive, so I turned off my phone entirely.
I swirled my fork aggressively through my spaghetti noodles and took a bite. I'd lost my appetite, but I had to eat. And my already thin pocketbook wouldn't forgive me for letting good food go to waste.