Coffee, Tea or Me? (11 page)

Take eight girls—one alcoholic, one dieter, one borrower, one compulsive liar, one pet lover, one overall bitch with a nervous curl of her lip, and the two of us—mix them together in a $750 a month penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and you have the makings of a chapter in this book. Lacking a nymphomaniac, we make no pretense at trying to outdo
The Group.
We simply present our own.

Pulling New York City as a duty station is easy. With so many flights originating from the city, the need for stewardesses is great. Also, many girls who try New York for the first year of their flying career decide to transfer to other cities. As they say, it’s a great place to visit but . . .

We did as most new stewardesses to the city tend to do. We moved into the stew zoo, a large apartment building in the east Sixties. But we did try first to find our own apartment, one in which we wouldn’t feel back in the atmosphere of the stewardess school. We followed the ads in
The New York Times,
and made every attempt to be the first ones answering any advertisement that looked appealing. We should have saved our energy. New York landlords just don’t want stewardesses living in their buildings. We rank only behind racial minority groups in feeling the vise of housing prejudice.

We first applied at a pretty brownstone in the upper Eighties where, according to the newspaper ad and the sign outside, there was an apartment available. We rang the downstairs apartment bell, marked super. He came to the door, some mustard from lunch remaining on his triple chin.

“It’s taken,” he said after looking at us for no more than two seconds. There was mustard on his summer undershirt, too.

“What’s taken?” we asked.

“The apartment. It’s taken.”

“How could it be taken so soon?” Rachel asked, shaking her head back and forth in disbelief.

“Look, goils, take my advice, huh? Go on over on sixty-fifth where all the other stewardesses live.” He started back into his apartment.

“Wait a minute. How do you know we’re stewardesses?”

“Ain’t you?”

“Yes, we are. But how did you know?”

He shrugged his shoulders modestly. “I don’t know. It’s a funny thing. All you stews look alike.”

Rachel wasn’t about to take this lying down. “If the apartment’s taken, why haven’t you taken down the sign?” she demanded.

The super was impatient now. He rubbed the back of his thick neck and screwed his face up in frustration. “Look, goils. Don’t make a fuss. The place is taken. That’s it. I leave the sign up because I git lonely and like to have people knockin’ on my door. OK? Try the stew zoo.”

He slammed the door in our face. We’d never heard of any place called the stew zoo. And his reference to it seemed a deliberate attempt to label us animals. At least that’s the way Rachel took his comment. She stood there banging her fist on his door. He responded by turning up a recording of Maria Callas at the Met. Rachel banged louder, screaming as she banged, “Call me an animal, will you? You’re the animal. A . . . a pig animal.”

I pulled her away. “Come on, Rachel. Forget it.”

We tried five other places and were rebuffed in each case. At only one of these places was the landlord open about not wanting to rent to stewardesses.

“Look, girls,” he sniveled, “nothing personal. But every time we let stewardesses in the building, it’s trouble. You break the lease and hop on an airplane for God knows where. You have parties all hours of the day and night and it bugs everybody else in the building. You get behind on your rent. Or you load the place with other girls and pretty soon there’s ten of you in a one-bedroom place. Please. Go away. Go over to the stew zoo. It’s fun there. Companionship and all that. You know?”

We asked the obvious question. “What is and where is the stew zoo?”

He told us. And we went.

The stewardess population in the stew zoo seldom goes below two hundred. Aside from being a home away from home for so many stewardesses, it’s pretty typical of most of the large apartment buildings in New York. We made a lot of good friends there. The halls were never without a uniformed girl of one airline or another. Girls ran in and out of each other’s apartments, borrowing stockings and gloves. Evening dresses came and went on loan. It was fun and crazy. There were the stew-bums, George Kelman included, who could be seen coming and going from various apartments, always on a first-name basis with the doorman. The supply of bottles to keep his brown paper bag full usually came from the stew-bums.

We became friendly with Joan Livingston, a stewardess for another airline, who shared the apartment next to us with Jane Bald-win, another stewardess. We got into the habit of dropping into each other’s apartment at any hour. Joan and Jane were pleasant enough, although Joan could be snippy and short, her upper lip taking on a strange curl when these moods came to the surface. Her roommate, Jane, we both agreed, seemed to drink too much for her own good.

“Jane always looks a little drunk,” we kidded with Joan one day as we walked down the hall together.

“I’ve never noticed,” was Joan’s cool answer, her lip curling.

We were having coffee one morning, a day off, in Joan and Jane’s apartment, when Joan asked, “How would you two like to move out of this place?”

“Do you have anything better?” Rachel asked.

“I sure do,” Joan said. “Here’s what we’re thinking. I’ve been going with a fellow who’s loaded. I mean really loaded. He lives in a penthouse on the West Side that cost him $750 a month.”

“Marry him,” I suggested.

“That comes later,” Joan said with a smile. “But listen to this. He’s moving out of there for a new apartment on this side of town. And he’s offered to sublet his penthouse to me. There’s over a year to go on his lease.”

“That’s great,” I said. “But how are you and Jane going to pay that much rent?”

“By getting other girls to share it with us. You two are the first we’ve asked.”

I did some quick figuring in my head.

“That’s over $180 a month. Impossible. We couldn’t afford that kind of rent.”

“Of course not.” She was annoyed at my comment, and her lip started to curl. “That’s only four of us. But add four more and it makes eight to share the rent. That comes to $93.75 for each person. That’s no problem, is it?”

“Eight people!” Rachel banged her knee into the coffee table as she got up from the couch. “Eight people! Can we fit eight into this apartment? It’ll be a dormitory.”

“Wait’ll you see it,” was Joan’s reply.

We saw it that night. Her boyfriend, a fortyish bachelor, let us in with an overzealous welcome. He gave Joan a long kiss and then proceeded to show us the penthouse. It was splendid. And the problem of fitting eight girls vanished after we looked at each of the four huge bedrooms.

“What have you been doing up here all by yourself?” Rachel asked Richard, as he poured us all a drink.

“I just love room,” was his reply. “I can’t stand to be cooped up like you usually are in New York. I hate to leave this place but I’ve found something even better. I can’t pass it up.”

We sat there and took in the living room as we sipped our Scotch and water. Jane drained her glass with one long, continuous swallow. It was refilled by Richard. The room was magnificent. Every inch of the floor was covered with deep, rich red carpeting, accented in front of the grand piano, the fireplace and the ceiling-high bookcases by white animal skins. The furniture was sort of early Chinese, primarily black, with various dragon designs and rising suns in appropriate places. Jane was on her third drink when I asked, “How can we ever furnish this place?”

Richard laughed a rich man’s laugh when asked a silly question about money. He looked at Joan and said, “I love this girlfriend of yours and I’m giving her all the furniture. Besides, I need a change. I’m buying all new for my next apartment. Everything you see here is staying.”

“But what’s the landlord going to say about eight girls moving in here?” Rachel was always the practical one.

Richard smiled a rich man’s smile. “He can’t say a thing. I’ve loaned him money at various times, and you might even say I own part of this building. I own part of him, too. You just move in and enjoy it.”

Jane walked a little unsteadily as we left. Joan stayed behind with Richard.

“Jane, I don’t understand something,” I said as we walked out of the building. “If this guy loves Joan so much, why doesn’t he just hand over the apartment to her? Why does she have to share it with seven other girls?”

Jane shrugged for a long time in preparation for her answer. She laughed a couple of times, too, at something only she was thinking. She never did answer the question.

Rachel and I had reservations about moving into the penthouse. The thought of living together with that many others was pretty scary. But the stew zoo paled in comparison to the elegance of that penthouse. And the experience of living in such splendor even for a short period of time would be worthwhile. We decided to go ahead with the move.

Joan naturally assumed a position of power. After all, it was her boyfriend who made the move possible. It was now
her
elegant furniture that we would be enjoying. It was her deal, and she knew it. Her lip took on a grand twist now, and she tended to speak with disdain. But we really didn’t care.

Joan brought the other four girls into the picture. There were Sally, Marie, Helen, and Sarah. We accomplished the assault on the penthouse in one day and soon settled into a routine that seemed to work very nicely. That is until we got to know each other.

Jane seldom left her room. We’d never met a girl who said less and drank more. It was kind of funny to see her weave into the kitchen or across the living room. How she managed to keep sober when flying the line was something we discussed frequently, but the fact that she continued to fly was proof enough of her success.

We seldom saw the other girls. Everyone seemed to be on a different shift, a fact of stewardess life that makes living together more easily accomplished. For the first month we were never all in the penthouse together. But on the first day of the second month, we did happen to find ourselves together. And Joan acted on the occasion.

She beckoned all of us to the living room and announced she had something to talk about. We straggled in, each in her own particular costume of relaxation. I was in my usual Levi’s and sweat-shirt. That’s the only way I can relax, in Texas pants and a shapeless, baggy top. Not glamorous, but the most comfortable clothes in the world. Rachel, on the other hand, relaxes in regular street clothes. She always has on a nice dress and stockings. She looks so ladylike I sometimes can’t stand it. Joan was wearing a sleek Japanese kimono, a real one she had picked up in Tokyo. Jane was in an ancient muumuu. Sally had on tight orange stretch pants with a poison green turtleneck pullover. We all suspected that Sally was color-blind; nothing she wore ever matched. The poncho outfit and boots belonged to Sarah. The granny dress with high collar and long sleeves was Helen’s idea of what to idle around the house in.

Marie sported her usual Bermuda-length shorts and button-down oxford shirt. An outsider would have thought we were quite a sight. We hardly looked at each other as we flopped around on the floor waiting for Joan to start the meeting.

“Well, here we are. I hope you’re enjoying what Richard did for us.”

“Who’s Richard?” asked Helen.

“He’s the one who made all this possible,” Joan answered with a haughty rise to her voice. “Anyway, I think with all of us living so close together, we should have some sort of rules. I think we need them.”

“She sounds just like Big Momma,” I whispered to Rachel who had taken off her shoes and was polishing her toenails.

“Shhh,” Rachel cautioned.

Joan went on.

“I’ve written up a list of rules, simple rules, and had them run off on a duplicating machine. I’ll pass them out now and you can read them.”

Jane excused herself and disappeared into her room. She came out a few minutes later looking more relaxed.

Joan passed out the white paper with the purple printing on it. We each took one and began to read.

“Who’s the rules committee?” Helen asked.

“Jane and I,” was Joan’s answer.

“Why you two?” was Helen’s next question. It seemed a logical one, except to Joan.

“That was decided when Richard allowed me to ask you girls in to the penthouse.”

“Who’s Richard?” Helen didn’t give up easily.

Joan simply ignored the question. Jane went back to her room for another moment’s worth of relaxation.

“Are the rules clear?” Joan asked in a loud voice.

No one answered.

“Good. That’s all for this meeting.”

We all went back to our rooms.

“I think the power is going to her head, don’t you?” I asked Rachel when we were safely alone.