Flying by the Seat of My Pants: Flight Attendant Adventures on a Wing and a Prayer (12 page)

W
ally was eighty-seven years old the day he boarded. I know because he told me.

The gate agent introduced us and handed me Wally’s arm. “Wally might need a bit of extra care,” he said.

Wally had a difficult time walking, but eventually we made it to his seat.

As I took care of getting him fastened in the seat belt and showing him where the bathroom was, Wally seemed upset.
The agent turned and left, Wally grabbed my hand and drew me to him and said in a broken voice, “They took away my license today. They took away my driver’s license.”

I listened to him and realized this must have been Wally’s last claim to independence—his ability to drive himself when and where he wanted. It was obvious that he was devastated.

I knelt beside him and looked him right in the eye. “Oh, Wally,” I said, “I am so sorry.”

“They took away my license,” he said, his eyes filled with tears.

I stayed for just a minute more. Then I had to help board our 120 passengers. We got everyone on board, and during my last cabin walk-through before takeoff, Wally grabbed my arm again. “They took away my license,” he said, with an earnestness that made me wish I could get that bit of independence back for him.

I knelt by him again and said the only thing I could. “I am so sorry, Wally. That must be awful for you.”

It was a busy flight, but I was able to kneel beside Wally’s seat three more times to offer a bit of empathy. And each time I stopped to be with Wally, I realized anew that this is the greatest calling in the world—just to be kind to someone, to offer a cup of compassion in the name of love.

It’s been eight years since I had that flight with Wally, and I still think of him, still wonder how he fared.

W
hen I was young, still living at home with my three siblings and a mom who was desperate to find a little humor in our household, we borrowed books by Erma Bombeck from our library.

I never dreamed I would actually meet Erma. I did dream about winning a Pulitzer Prize, but seeing Erma Bombeck in person would be akin to a Catholic meeting the Pope or a Southern Baptist meeting Billy Graham. It would be like a miracle, something only God could arrange.

One day, before my first book was published but after some of my humor articles had garnered praise, I was working on a flight where I was assigned to Coach but was in First Class for takeoff and landing. After boarding, I strapped in, and as the plane roared down the runway, I absent-mindedly glanced up at the faces of the First-Class passengers.

Suddenly, I grabbed my shoulder straps to keep from falling over in shock.
It couldn’t be. It absolutely could not be true
. I ripped the passenger manifest from the hands of the other flight attendant and looked at the names for Row 3, Seats C and D. I could hardly believe they would travel under their real names: Bombeck, Erma and Bill.

I screamed silently to get my mom’s attention in heaven.
“Take a look at this!”
I told her.

As soon as the seat-belt sign went off, I stood up and ran to Erma’s seat to pounce on her like the rabid fan I was, but alas, she and Bill were sound asleep. I later learned they were traveling home from China, and they’d boarded our plane in Atlanta for their last short hop. They were exhausted.

There was nothing for me to do but go work in Coach the rest of the flight. I hoped there would be time to speak to Erma before the end of the flight—or at least that she’d be awake by then. I was desperate to talk to her. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me. I wanted to tell her that in all my years
of growing up, she had been the one person who taught me the healing power of a humorous story—of laughing at the things that happen to us.

I wanted to tell her so much. But I couldn’t wake her up to tell her that. So, after the beverage service (because she was still asleep), I sat on the First-Class jump seat and watched her like a falcon watches its prey, waiting for a good time to pounce. Throughout the entire flight, she never did wake up. So I wrote a note that I would give her as she walked off the airplane.

Dear Erma,

When I was a little girl in a big family, and there was not much fun in our household, my mom and I would take refuge in your books. We would read the chapters to each other as we did dishes or fixed meals. We laughed, and sometimes cried, as we found a kindred spirit in you.

Erma, I have started getting my own humorous inspirational essays published. And have just been offered a contract for my first book. Your legacy lives on, Erma, in writers like me who were inspired by you. I just want you to know that.

Love, Marsha Marks

Finally, during the last minute on final approach, Erma woke up. I was by her side in a flash. I handed her her coat and knelt by her seat. “Erma,” I said, getting choked up, “I’ve always admired you.” And I gave her the note. She read it, and then in true Erma fashion woke up her husband to show it to him.

I watched them both read it, and I heard Erma say, “Look, Bill, isn’t this neat?” And the joy of the moment was not lost on me as I looked up and said to my mom, who I hoped was paying attention,
“Did you see that? Can you believe that?”

We have had lots of celebrities on board, some more famous and some more wealthy, but none more honored, in my own mind, than the great (now late) Erma Bombeck.

S
o you’ve read this whole book and now you’re thinking,
What else? Are there any more adventures in the works? I mean, we got the flying career, the husband, the kid and a few books published. Let’s move on
.

Well, I am moving on. The new plan involves Sandra Bullock, NBC, and me. I need to tell you at this time that I have never met Sandra Bullock, but I do have a plan to meet her. The plan is this: I’ve heard she loves to eat at this restaurant
that is only one hour from my home. So I go there, sit, and eat, and try to look like I’m a resident of that community. I do it all the time. One day (in my version of this dream), she will walk in, see me alone (less threatening), notice my official-looking NBC ID tag, and assume I’m in “the business.”

The truth is, I’m not in the business. I don’t know one person from NBC and wouldn’t know an entertainment executive if I ran into one. In fact, I still have my day job. I am still a flight attendant. Serving beverages and saving lives…mostly serving beverages.

Which explains how I got the NBC luggage tag in the first place. I bought it at the NBC store while on a layover in New York. You can buy NBC mugs, T-shirts, and luggage tags. My husband said the luggage tag looks cheesy. But at least it has the NBC colors and the peacock, and it has been the segue to some cool conversations with people who see the NBC luggage tag and assume I’m someone more important to them than a flight attendant.

I must at this time tell you how I know people notice the NBC tag and treat me differently because of it. In 1999 I was attending a big writers’ conference that I could not afford to attend. I had just purchased the NBC luggage tags and forgotten they were even on my bags. I got off the plane, put on my sunglasses, adjusted my sun hat, and was immediately stalked by this nice guy, who identified himself as also attending the
“big conference”—and who seemed to have a great desire to carry my luggage.

I couldn’t believe it. I asked him what he did, and he said he had won some screenplay competition in Sun Valley, Idaho, and had a new screenplay entered in the competition here.

“That is so cool,” I said. I was too intimidated to say I had never entered a contest in my life, had never written a screenplay, and at that time, didn’t have any books published.

“Yes,” he said respectfully, as if he were talking to someone who could affect his career—in a big way. Then he paused, waiting for me to speak.

I didn’t speak. I was pondering why he had such a solicitous attitude. And just when I had decided it was because he was genuinely a nice person, he spoke again. “You work for NBC?”

The question struck me as weird, completely absurd.

“What?”
I said.

“For NBC?” he said and pointed to my luggage tags.

I doubled over in laughter. “No,” I said. “Honestly…I’m a flight attendant. I just bought those tags at the NBC store in New York.”

He dropped my bags so fast I tripped over them. And then he left. My first taste of Hollywood.

I began to schlep my own luggage and ponder the shallowness of people who treat people they think can help them with respect and people they deem unable to help them with
disdain. The whole incident had deep psychological and spiritual ramifications, but mostly it was just funny.

For a long time after that, I didn’t use those luggage tags. They were buried in one of our many boxes from our three moves in the past two years. But I recently discovered them again, and now you’re getting the picture of how I think this Sandra Bullock thing could play out.

My dear husband, who is, as I’ve mentioned, from Lincoln, Nebraska, would like me to insert here that the behavior I have described in this chapter is, “Soooo
not
Midwest behavior.” He does not mean this remark as a compliment. He means it as a caution. In fact, I had to make a pact with him that I would not do anything weird like sitting for hours in this restaurant where Sandra Bullock has been sighted. (Like no one else has ever done that at a celebrity hangout.)

To keep peace in our family, I had to agree to some basic legal-type rules: at no time will I resort to putting anything—a screenplay, for example—in Sandra Bullock’s mailbox, which I think is some sort of federal offense. But, if I had the screenplay finished (I mean written someplace other than in my mind), I’d be tempted to leave a screenplay sitting on the table of her favorite restaurant with her name on it, official-looking. I bet someone would get it to her. Hold on—I’m not going to do that. I’m only explaining a temptation here.

Also, Tom asked me to promise that at no time will I even
try to follow her car or anything like that: we’re talking staking not stalking. Tom said I had to promise this last thing after one day I simply asked him to drive around the area where she is said to own a home…for eight hours or so. He drove for eight minutes. When we didn’t see her car, he insisted on driving home. But, I said, what if she had some sign up in her lawn that said,
Marsha, I know you’re looking for me, and I want the screenplay
. That, I think, would be a sign from God.

I actually don’t even know where she lives, but if I did, I’d be walking up and down in front of her house with my script in hand and my NBC tag in plain view. Carrying groceries or something so it looked like I lived in the neighborhood and just happened to have my script with me.
Hey, wise as a serpent
.

My husband didn’t need to tell me those rules. I want to be creative in my approach, not weird.

This is how I imagine this latest scene of hanging out here at Sandra Bullock’s favorite restaurant playing out: I don’t even plan on speaking to Sandra first. She will speak to me. It’s cooler to let them be interested in you.

I’ll be sitting here in her favorite hangout, typing on my laptop. On the table in plain view will be what looks like a finished script, and in even plainer view will be my NBC tag, and she will walk up to me and say, “So you’re working on a
feature?”
(And I’ll know what she means.)

Then as I try not to pass out because my dream is coming
true, I’ll casually tell her the truth. “Sandy,” I’ll say (I’m sure her friends call her Sandy), “I’ve got the funniest movie for you.

She will love it. And the reason she will is that she plays me, someone who can be a funny nut. Sandra is good with funny nut-type characters.

It isn’t that I ever dreamed of being a funny nut. In fact, I take myself quite seriously. It’s just that I seem to end up in situations that cause people to ask me if I’m nuts. And then, when the situations work out, people seem to be shocked. You want some examples? I just gave you a whole book of them.

But just so you can be on the inside of this deal with me, I’ll tell you the opening lines to the screenplay. First the setting:

And then the rest of the movie will be stories in this book and from, you know, other books and future books.

And now I’m done, hoping that I’ve left you wanting more. You have to leave them wanting more. Always wanting more. Because my life’s motto, which I have waited till now to tell you, is, “Only in heaven is fullness of joy. On earth we are always left wanting…wanting more.”

So, I hope I meet you one day on some adventure, when I’m flying by the seat of my pants.