Coffee, Tea or Me? (36 page)

“No, no. After you.” He’d suddenly gained some sense of courage and valor.

“
Now,
Mr. Shackwood.”

“You first.”

“Please, Mr. Shackwood. Quickly.”

I wasn’t about to argue with him. I grabbed the edges of the door and slid myself onto the chute. I no sooner touched the chute than I felt Shackwood jump on behind me, his legs hugging around my hips, his hands securely fastened on my chest.

“Wheeeee,” he screamed as we slid down. We both went off the edge. Shackwood landed on top of me, his hands still holding onto my breasts as though they were handles.

I ached all over, but managed to scramble out from under his dead weight. “You . . . you . . . you dirty, filthy sex fiend,” I screamed at him. Then I swung and my fist caught his jaw. It sent him back two or three steps.

Rachel grabbed me from behind and pulled me away. Shackwood started screaming to anyone who would listen about how he’d have me fired. I tried to go after him again but Rachel hung on tight. I finally just broke down and cried.

There had been no fire in the aircraft. It was just another one of those lousy little lights that decided to light up at the wrong time. Shackwood’s complaint against me was dismissed after Rachel told my supervisor about his actions on board. Even with her testimony, the airline was a little reluctant to take the word of a stewardess over that of a paying customer, especially a religious family man with eight potential travelers for the future.

I was pretty well bruised, but nothing serious. I rubbed my aches and pains for a week while on sick leave, and soon the black, blue, and purple spots disappeared. But the depression didn’t.

Rachel tried everything, we dated every good-looking fellow we could entice. We partied, drank, told funny stories, saw funny movies, and kept every minute filled with some sort of gay activity. But it really wasn’t very effective.

 

I told my supervisor about my feelings, and she appeared sympathetic—to a point.

“You know, Trudy, we can’t have an unhappy, unsmiling stewardess serving our valued travelers, can we?”

That seemed logical.

“One must always remember, Trudy, that one paying to travel our airline expects the finest and most pleasant service from our girls.”

“Yes.”

“But one also knows that occasionally one becomes upset over certain situations.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve contributed two valuable years to service, Trudy. We recognize that. Now it’s up to you. We can’t have you flying the line in the frame of mind you obviously have developed recently. One can understand that, can’t one?”

“Yes.” Who was this One she kept talking about?

“I’d like to suggest a course of action, Trudy, that might prove valuable to you . . . and the airline. We can recommend a good psychiatrist who might help you become once again the happy, smiling stewardess you were. How do you feel about that?”

“Yes. I mean fine. Why not? One must do these things at times, mustn’t one?”

“Guess what, Rachel?” I said with more enthusiasm than I’d been able to summon for weeks.

“Shackwood apologized, he’s divorcing his wife, and you’re marrying him.”

“Right.”

“Which goes to prove that one out of two girls will accept a marriage proposal from a perfect stranger.”

“I’m going to a psychiatrist, Rachel.”

“Why?”

“Our super thinks I should. And maybe she’s right. Anyway, I kind of think it’s that or stop flying. And I really don’t want to quit.”

“What doc are you going to?”

“She gave me a name. I think he’s an old guy from Vienna with a beard.”

“Take notes and tell me what he says,” Rachel said “And I’ll split the bill with you. That way he can shrink two heads for the price of one.”

Remember, I told you way back at the beginning that we only had one head between us?

It turned out the psychiatrist was a
young
man from Vienna with a beard.

“Take the chair by the window, Trudy. You’ll be more comfortable.” The doctor tactfully waved me away from the couch, a heavily tufted black leather monster that looked slippery and uninviting. He seated himself behind his desk and shuffled papers for a few minutes. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and my keen stewardess eyes could detect no pale, fleshy ring of a band hastily removed. An unmarried, I thought, and a doctor to boot. Unusual—very unusual.

“Now, Trudy, let’s talk a bit. Let’s see if we can’t find out a few things about Trudy Baker.”

“What’s to find out? I feel rotten. Totally rotten.”

“Totally?”

“Yes.”

“Physically?”

“Headaches.”

“That’s all physically?”

“Yes.”

He smiled and stroked his beard. “But I’m not a headache doctor, Trudy. You know that.”

“But if my headache is psychosomatic, and I’m internalizing and reverting back to mother problems, my headache would certainly fall into your area of specialization. Wouldn’t it?”

He sat up straight. I noticed for the first time a nervous tic in his left eye. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was winking at me.

He got up from behind his desk and walked to a table on the far side of the room. He poured a drink of water from a silver and teak executive pitcher and drank slowly.

“Could I have a drink, doctor?”

It startled him. “Oh, of course, Miss Baker.” He couldn’t find another glass and had to ring for his nurse. She brought one.

He sat down again behind the desk, his eye going at thirty winks a minute.

“Do you think you
do
have a mother problem, Trudy? Do you think you
are
internalizing?”

“How should I know? I just read a little before I came here. How should I know what’s the matter with me? I just know I’m not the same Trudy everyone knows. I’m depressed and blue and itchy and jumpy. Thinking of climbing on another airplane gives me the creeps. And I want to keep on working as a stewardess.”

He stroked his beard and said, “hmmmmummmm.”

I felt a surge of vocal energy.

“You see, doctor, you fly long enough and you meet so many different people that sometimes you lose faith in the human race. Rachel says . . .”

“Who’s Rachel?”

“Oh, she’s my very best friend. We’re very close.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Why do you say hmmmmmmmmmmm, doctor?”

“Just how close are you and Rachel?”

“You couldn’t get any closer.”

“Hmmmmmmmm. Has there ever been any intimacy between you?”

“Oh sure. We share the closest secrets. Why . . .” It dawned on me what he was getting at.

“Absolutely not, doctor. Rachel and I are normal, heterosexual young ladies.”

He almost seemed disappointed. There was a long period of silence.

“Doctor, do you mind if I take notes?”

“Take notes? Why?”

“Oh, just for the fun of it.”

“Well, I’ve never had this occur before with any patient. Do you always take notes?”

“I’ve never been to a headshrink . . . Ah, psychiatrist before.”

He seemed to be searching back into his textbook past for a proper answer. His eye went faster.

“If taking notes will make you feel better, please feel free to take notes.”

“Thank you.” I pulled out a steno pad and pencil and sat poised in the chair. Neither of us spoke. The doctor kept his eyes on the desktop. I looked straight at him. He swiveled around in his chair and coughed and winked and cleared his throat.

“Now, Miss Baker, suppose we begin.”

“OK.”

Silence.

“Ah, let’s see doctor. I was born in a small town and had a boyfriend named Henry.”

“Henry, huh? Did you have a normal sexual relationship with this young man?”

“Well, we always did things in Braille.”

“What?”

“Braille. He liked to touch me.”

“I see. And you didn’t like to be touched.”

“Oh, no. I loved it. Especially my popliteal.”

“What’s that?”

I giggled. “I thought all psychiatrists had to become medical doctors before psychiatrists.”

I think he got mad. He snorted.

“That’s the back of the knee, doctor.” I took note in my steno pad of his facial reaction. He didn’t like being exposed as not knowing something.

“What did you just write there, Miss Baker?” he asked angrily.

“I wrote you got mad because I knew something you didn’t know.”

“I wasn’t mad,” he said with a mad voice. “You can’t expect me to remember every term from medical school.”

“Henry went to medical school. He’s still going.”

“Who’s Henry?”

“My boyfriend. The one with the Braille.”

“I think you’re trying to make fun of me, Miss Baker.”

I hadn’t been really. And I felt sorry for the doctor feeling that way.

“Oh, don’t feel that way, doctor. I wouldn’t make fun of you. Honest.”

He seemed slightly relieved.

“You have to realize, Miss Baker, that being a doctor on a retainer fee from a company places certain strains on that doctor. Most of my income is derived from the airline and I’d hate to think of you going back and making fun of me. It could cost me this job.” He was sorry he’d said this. But I looked very understanding and tried to comfort him.

“Oh, doctor, I understand fully. It’s very hard feeling secure these days in any company. I know.” I took a few notes in my pad.

“What are you writing now?”

“That you’re a nice guy.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Thank you.”

“I guess being single is a problem for you, too.” I couldn’t help it. It just came out.

“Yes, a little bit . . . You see . . . Now wait a minute. We’re getting off the track here.”

“I sure don’t want to do that.”

“Good.” Forty winks a minute now. “Let’s talk about your recent experiences on the airplane that left you shaken.”

I told him about Mr. Lippingdone and Mr. Shackwood. I told him about the drunks and pinchers and kids and captains. He said nothing. He just looked at his desktop and went “hmmmmm” a few times. I talked until I heard the tiny tinkle of an alarm bell ring from his desk drawer. It startled him more than it did me. He sat up straight and turned on a very large smile for me.

“I think we’re getting somewhere now, Miss Baker. Or may I call you Trudy?”

“By all means.”

“That ends our first hour together. See my secretary on the way out for an appointment next week.”

I got up, stuffed my steno pad back in my purse, and walked to the door. He stopped me by saying, “This is just the beginning, Trudy. We have a long way to go. A long way. Perhaps in a few months I’ll be able to recommend to the airline that you go back on the flying line. Of course, we’ll continue to work together for at least a year. Maybe longer.”

“Oh that’ll be nice, doctor. And don’t worry about a thing. I won’t say anything that might upset the airline about you. In fact, I really like you.”

He beamed. “That’s good, Trudy. It’s important for the patient to like his or her psychiatrist.”

“In fact,” I continued, “I know a great girl for you. Would you like me to fix you up?”

“O no, Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I’ll just see you next week.”

I nodded my head and left. I didn’t make an appointment with the secretary. I just walked straight home, singing, happy, and gay for the first time in weeks. Rachel was at the apartment when I arrived.

“How was it?” she asked, never looking up from her copy of
The High and the Mighty.
(It was her tenth reading of it.)

“Great. He has problems. That’s for sure. I think it might have something to do with his father never having taken him fishing. Or something like that.”

“Idiot. He was supposed to help
you.
And me!”

“Who needs help? I feel the same as I always did . . .”

“Wow. This doc must be the best. What did he feed you? LSD?”

“He didn’t feed me anything. I just feel better knowing someone else has more problems than I do. The blues have gone to someone else and I’m squared away.”

“That’s great, Trudy,” Rachel said with much enthusiasm in her voice. “Great!”

I smiled.

“We’ll give it one more year, OK? Then we’ll both have found our respective knights on the white horses and we can move into houses next door to each other and write a book about it all over coffee.”

“It’s a deal, Rachel. One more year . . . By the way, do you think Betty Big Boobs would be interested in a young psychiatrist with a beard?”

We laughed.

We shook hands.

And had a mushroom pizza with extra cheese.