Flying by the Seat of My Pants: Flight Attendant Adventures on a Wing and a Prayer (8 page)

I
n all my years of flying, I have to confess at least a third of my flights are held up by some kind of delay. The average customer does not realize that on any given day many variables can affect the on-time departures and landings of the two thousand flights on my airline alone. Variables having to do with things like weather, mechanical issues, crew, luggage, and cargo.

No matter what the delay, once we do take off, passengers ask me the same question, and they ask it the same way: “Am I going to make my connection?”

I have never seen them before and don’t know what their connections are, so I look at them and say, “No.”

Wait, I
don’t
say
no
. That would be rude. Instead I explain what I hope is the case—that we have notified the gate agent of our late arrival and that often, if one flight is delayed, their connecting flights are delayed also.

But the passengers do not see me as a mere mortal. I know this because after I answer them with all I know, they get angry and say, “Perhaps you don’t understand!” And then they tell me in detail why they need to make their connection. “We are going to a wedding” or “We have a connecting flight to catch to our cruise.”

The passengers assume that if I understand they are going to miss the first day of their cruise or their Uncle Jeff’s wedding or something more important, I’ll say, “Well, why didn’t you tell me? In that case, I’ll just rip the wings off and we’ll become a rocket.”

Or that I’ll say, “Oh! You didn’t tell me it was your
first
cruise. Rachel, call the captain! Tell him to run every red light!”

I
n early 2003 I arrived at the airport in full flight attendant uniform, ready for my flight. I had to go through the extensive security and waited in line with the other passengers. Then I was told to step aside, as I was randomly selected for further screening. This isn’t too big a deal. When you travel for a living, it happens quite often. Usually, they wand your bag (running a little screening cloth over it), and you’re back on your way.

This time, however, I didn’t get my bag back. In fact, I watched as more and more security guards were called over. They all started talking nervously and repeating, “Extra tests.” Then they began chattering in low tones, and several of them looked at me as if they now recognized me…from
America’s Most Wanted
.

Then I noticed that police with guns that might be loaded were moving toward me.

But this was all a huge mistake. I was confident there was nothing actually wrong. I mean, come on, I’m a flight attendant who writes like Shakespeare—if Shakespeare were a flight attendant. And as for being patriotic, I couldn’t be more patriotic. I loved God, country, and Dave Barry. I was sure my name would be cleared in moments.

Then suddenly, a huge, scary guy was spitting words at me. “Ma’am,” he said with barely controlled anger, “we’ve got a problem here. Your bags test positive for bombs.”

“You’re nuts,” I said. (May I just say here that I now know it’s not a good idea to tell a spitting guard he is nuts.)

I saw the guard start shaking with fury.

“Retest the bag!” I said. I was disgusted. This was ridiculous.

“We’ve tested it six times.”

Now more guards were looking down on me. (They hated me. They knew I was evil. They had the proof. And they weren’t
about to be charmed away from the facts—not that telling someone he’s nuts is charming.)

Still, I wasn’t that nervous. “You have to be joking,” I said, wanting to elbow them to show I got the joke.

“We are not joking,” said Sergeant Friday. “We are not joking at all, ma’am.”

They wanted me to confess. They kept asking me questions about how positive indicators of copious amounts of explosive residue could appear on my bags. “Weapons residue, ma’am”.

Every time they said “ma’am,” I couldn’t get over how it came out sounding like “scum.”

“There is,” they said, “even residue in the
contents
of your bag. Your bags are coated in it.”

I had no explanation, but I stopped telling them they were nuts. After half an hour of their accusing me, I had begun to realize an actual arrest could be in the works. That thought drained my sense of humor.

It was so hard to believe this was happening. I mean, I watch the Crime Channel, but I never expected to be part of what was obviously a false accusation. Nobody seemed to believe there was no way this could all be true.

“I don’t even own a firearm,” I said. “And
no
, I don’t really know anyone who actually carries one. And
yes
, my husband
goes on pheasant hunts—but they don’t use TNT to kill the birds!”

On and on they questioned me, and for the first time in my life, I understood the forced confession syndrome. I was almost willing to say anything they wanted to hear just to get out of there.

Other passengers going through security heard their questions and were now narrowing their eyes, as if to say, “Where there is smoke, there is fire,” or in this case, “Where there is bomb residue, there is an evil flight attendant.”

Thirty minutes into the interrogation, I asked for a phone and called one of the in-flight supervisors. She was new on the job and didn’t know my clean record. She simply advised me to get myself a lawyer.

The thing was, I wanted a lawyer, but I was afraid if I asked for one they would assume my request was an admission of guilt. I was terrified by then—one hour into the interrogation—and I began to cry. Still they wouldn’t let me go until
two hours
later, after they told me I was considered a threat to the aviation industry and had to leave the airport immediately. (I was only allowed to leave because no actual bombs were found—just residue.)

I was shaking when I got home, and when I went to bed that night, I couldn’t sleep. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I called the twenty-four-hour security desk at my
company and told the whole story. I was patched into someone who handled problems like this, and with a quick look at my prior flight schedule, she solved the whole conundrum.

“Marsha, why didn’t you tell them about your flight last month? You know, the one where you volunteered to work a military charter with two hundred armed soldiers and weapons and ammunition all over the cabin?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “That was when I was trying to bring peace and love to all mankind. To do my good deed for my country.” (It seems, every time I try to do something good, it ends in a Lucille Ball-type episode; for example, volunteering to work a military charter and subsequently being declared a threat to aviation and banned from going within five hundred yards of any FAA facility.)

“If you had them call us,” the security person said, “we would have explained you are a qualified, specially trained, military-charter flight attendant volunteer.”

“I’ll do that next time,” I said.

Corporate security soon cleared things up. After recommending I use rubbing alcohol to clean my bags, the powers that be decided I could be allowed back into the airport.

And as I write this, I have almost completed the therapy necessary to cope with the day I was deemed a threat to America and especially the aviation industry.

W
e were working the Los Angeles to Las Vegas turns again, and this was before the days of the “fast break” (abbreviated) service. Passengers did not realize that thirty-seven minutes of flight time minus ten minutes for landing and another ten minutes to level off after takeoff left approximately seventeen minutes to serve 170 people.

Some passengers get very excited when they see the beverage cart in the aisle. Maybe it’s their first flight and they want to take full advantage of the experience. Or maybe they just think, “Wow, a full beverage cart. I wonder what’s on it.”

On this flight, I was working with my friend Kay. We were rushing to get through the entire cabin in seventeen minutes.

Kay would look at each passenger and ask, “Would you like a beverage?” And the passengers would look at her as if she had asked them if they would like a winning lottery ticket.

“What?” they would answer.

“Beverage?” she’d ask. “May I get you a drink?”

“What do you have?”

Instead of saying “soft drinks, juices, and milk,” which is the fast answer, Kay would list every soft drink and every juice, wearing out herself and the passenger. The person she was talking to would always listen to her all the way through and then say, “I’ll have a Coke.”

I wondered how we were ever going to finish this service with Kay listing every beverage every time. Then I heard her lose it. Just flip out.

The poor passenger who happened to be the forty-fifth passenger to answer Kay’s question with, “What do you have?” got an answer that was not according to flight attendant training.

“What do I
have?”
Kay’s voice was beginning to rise, sounding a little like a car taking a corner on two wheels.

“What! Do! I! Have?!”
She was definitely screeching now.
“What I have is twenty minutes to serve 170 people! Now! What do you want?!”

“Coke,” said the passenger in a small voice. “I’ll have a Coke.”

Kay looked at me. I looked at her. The entire plane was silent. Everyone was staring at the two wicked flight attendants, even though I was wicked only by association. “Kay,” I said, waving my hand in a backward motion. “Could you go up front and get me a tea?”

Kay turned and walked into First Class, and I tried to make a joke. “She’s just out of prison. You know, on a work-release program.”

The lone voice of one passenger rang out: “What was she in for? Killing a passenger?”