Confessions of a Hostie (6 page)

The rest of the crew barely have time to bitch about Gabrielle as we are swamped with drink orders. Moreover, the turbulence is becoming more severe, and walking straight is becoming an almost impossible thing to do.

As I stagger through the aisle, carrying every imaginable combination of alcoholic drinks on the menu, I feel as if I'm the ball in a pinball machine. I bounce off the seats. I bounce off the bulkheads. I bounce off passengers' shoulders, elbows and knees. Yet, somehow, I manage not to spill a drop.

Aircrafts are designed for making maximum revenue. Seats are crammed into a small vessel, and the aisles are narrow. Moreover, the average seat has been designed to comfortably fit an eight year old. As most of the passengers are surely larger than an eight year old, body parts spill out into the aisles.

I can understand that some people cannot help but take up more space than others. What I cannot understand, however, is how some passengers lack spatial awareness and stick their elbows, knees and feet out into the aisle. If the cart bumps into them, it doesn't hurt the cart. I am, however, not quite as sturdy as a metal cart.

There are usually two of us on a cart, so the odds are you end up spending half your service time walking backwards, and going backwards makes it all the more difficult to dodge passengers. Flight attendants, therefore, train themselves to get really good at walking backwards. If they ever introduce a backwards-walking obstacle course at the Olympics you can bet that a flight attendant will take home the gold medal.

Walking through the cabin with a cart or a tray of drinks is difficult, yes, but add to it the additional challenge of a moving, vibrating, shaking floor and it becomes almost impossible. Much of the time we use the cart like a walking frame, to keep ourselves standing and stable in these turbulent times.

Unfortunately, turbulence has been rough and persistent for most of this flight. I actually feel a little squeamish, and I know I can't be the only one. Onboard are dozens of men who have spent many days getting drunk in sleazy Manila bars, and are now continuing with this habit on the aircraft. Add constant bumps and shaking to the alcohol intake and something has got to give – and it does.

It takes only one man to start the show: one man throws up, then another, then another one, and so on. It is like someone lined up a row of bicycles and pushed one over, for it to fall into the next and push it over, which then falls over. Once it starts, it never stops. The drunken passengers are going down like flies.

I have never thrown-up onboard before, but this flight might change that. I have cleaned up vomit more times than I could care to count, yet, I feel I've never felt this way before. I'm sure that even if I do as much as see a stray carrot, I would lose control. I am not the only one feeling this way, I discover. Most of the crew are feeling the same way. ‘What do we do?' we wonder nauseously.

Only one thing can prevent the passengers from drinking, we soon realise, and this one thing will also prevent us from cleaning up messes while we are feeling sick ourselves. We call the flight deck and ask the pilots to turn on the seatbelt-sign.

I scurry into my crew seat quicker than a rat does up a drainpipe. I am so thankful for the break. This turbulence is not severe, but just extremely relentless.

I have been in severe turbulence before; it is sudden and unexpected, and clinging onto something usually helps in such cases. One time I was out in the cabin, handing out meals from a cart, when sudden turbulence hit the flight. Before I know it, I am flung to the ceiling. When I crashed down to earth again, I fortunately landed on what was possibly the world's fattest passenger.

‘Sir, would you like a lap dance with your dinner?' I almost blurted out.

It is easy to laugh off things when you avoid serious injury by sheer luck. Sadly, on that same flight, several other crew members were not so lucky. One guy broke a bone in his wrist, another hostie hit her head and several passengers also sustained minor injuries.

Ever since that flight, whenever I feel that little shudder, which indicates that a major jolt is about to follow, I wrap my foot under the nearest support bar located under the passenger's seats and hang on for dear life.

Though I am confident that this flight won't be as turbulent, I am not looking forward to facing the vomit-drenched masses when the seat-belt sign goes off.

I'll get the disposable gloves and the spill kit, and then hand them over to Gabrielle, I think to myself.

I have a little chuckle as I imagine myself approaching Gabrielle and saying, ‘You've had a nice little rest, haven't you dear? Now get your lazy butt out there and clean up all that vomit!'

Just as I am praying for the seat belt sign to stay on for the whole flight, the dreaded ‘bing' sound goes off.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and mutter, ‘Oh God, here we go.'

The next six hours are pure torture. The entire crew, with the exception of Princess Gabrielle, work like dogs to clean the cabin and feed the passengers. Just as the annoying turbulence subsides and the last of the vomit has been cleaned up, guess who miraculously recovers? Princess Gabrielle, of course.

It must have been hell surely for her, sitting there and taking rest, while we were busy doing work that felt as terrible as having our teeth pulled.

Most cabin crew are extremely diligent and work harder than is required of them. The few members who don't do any work, like Gabrielle Reiner, almost always stick out like a sore thumb. Being a flight attendant is truly about working in a team, and if someone doesn't pull their weight it becomes noticeable immediately. All the crew members have noticed Gabrielle, and none of them are happy.

None of us tell the Princess what we really feel about her though. Most of us just avoid her, but I can guarantee that nobody will forget her or her actions – or the lack of actions. When I get home I will do everything in my power to forget this flight. However, I cannot forget Gabrielle's laziness, no matter how hard I try. My blood boils as I think about how the princess gets paid as much as I do, but gets away with doing half the work I do. And it is not just me who gets short changed by her behaviour. All the crew members need to work harder, and the passengers ultimately receive proportionately less service. For every action (or lack of action) there are consequences. I am so angry.

I once read a great quote in a comic strip: ‘I know the world isn't fair, but why isn't it ever unfair in my favour?'

that's what friends are for

When I finally arrive home, I am completely shattered. My body still feels like it is going up and down with the turbulence. I have been seasick before, and this feels similar to that. The one saving grace is I now have four glorious days off before my next trip. For now I sleep, and then I will enjoy every precious second of being at home.

The bed feels like it is rocking from side to side, but I am so exhausted that I could probably sleep on a roller coaster. When I wake up, I do absolutely nothing. Sometimes doing nothing is vastly underrated. I enjoy every second of that nothingness.

At least until the phone rings. It is Mary-go-round on the other end, and she is hysterical.

‘What's wrong?'

When you ask a question like that to a crying woman, you just know that you're going to be listening to her answer for a long time.

Mary is obviously drunk or drugged or both, and she is home alone. She shares an apartment with a gay guy, who also flies, but he is away on a trip. Thank god, she doesn't live on her own, I think to myself. This woman just couldn't handle that.

Mary tells me that she and Mike have just had the world's biggest fight and – whoever saw this coming (everyone) – it's all over between them. You don't have to be Nostradamus to predict this would happen, I want to tell her. However, she is threatening to throw herself over her balcony. Mary makes a lot of bad decisions. One of them is choosing to live on the tenth floor of an apartment block.

Although this is not the first time she has made such threats, I know I should go over to her place and calm her down.

The first thing I do when I get there is lock the balcony door. The second thing I do is take the glass of pure vodka out of her hand.

Just as I begin to calm her down, the phone rings. It is Mike, she tells me when she picks up, and he wants to apologise to her. She is absorbed in the phone call for over an hour, while I sit there thinking, ‘Of all the things I could be doing right now …'

After a point, I realise that Mary has forgotten all about me. She doesn't even remember I am in the room with her anymore. I go up to her, indicate that I am leaving and ask for her to call me later. She breaks the conversation with Mike for a heartbeat and looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes, ‘Mike still loves me.'

I am out of there before she can say something else.

Is this the last time I will get a suicidal call from Mary? Of course, not.

Will I rush over to her place to help her again, if I have to? Of course, yes.

I desperately need a dose of reality, so I call Helen.

We meet at our usual café, and she listens patiently to all my stories about Mary although she has heard them before. Helen has met Mary only once, at a party I threw years ago. Mary, as one would expect from her, ended up getting sloshed and having sex with a man, whom both Helen and I know, in the toilet. I know Helen doesn't have any respect for Mary (In all fairness, Mary doesn't have any respect for Mary).

Helen still cannot fathom how anyone would want to have sex in a toilet. If Helen only knew that this happened all the time (particularly with the likes of Mary), and at 35,000 feet too. The Mile High Club is not a myth after all – and if they ever elect a president, I am sure it would be Mary.

Like Helen, I believe that toilets – especially toilets in aircrafts – are the last place in the world I'd want to have sex in. Yet some people do just that. I've been on flights where it is obvious that a couple is planning to go in there, but the crew members generally turn a blind eye if the couple is subtle about it.

However, sometimes, couples are not so subtle and that's where we have to intervene. I've seen things that a single well-bred woman like me should never have to see. And it is not just heterosexual couples who are up to no good. The most trouble I have ever had was with a lesbian couple – they didn't end their action in the toilets, but brought it back to their seats.

And it's not just the passengers who misbehave.

There is a story about Mary that I haven't told Helen yet. A year or so ago Mary was in all sorts of trouble with the company over an incident in our crew-rest area. A 747 usually has a rest area with little bunks in the tail of the plane. Mary was up there with another crew member, who just happened to be married to another flight attendant, although his wife was not on that flight.

Apparently Mary climbed into his bunk in the crew-rest area, at his request, and the ensuing shenanigans were seen and heard by another not-so-impressed crew member. That member then reported the incident to the company, and both offenders were dragged into the office.

Mary has been caught red-handed on a number of occasions and on a number of charges, but this was the first time she has been caught having sex on the plane – the key word here is, of course, ‘caught'. Both she and her married lover didn't deny being in the bunk together, but did deny doing anything sexual, thus going with the Bill Clinton ‘I did not have sexual relations' defence. With only the verbal evidence of the crew member against them, both offenders were let off with a warning.

It is very hard to get sacked from this job – just ask Mary.

There are plenty of married guys who work as hosties. A few are married to other hosties, most are not. But, married or not, not all of them are sleazy like Mary's crew-rest buddy. In fact there is a terrific married man that I have done a few trips with. Coincidentally, his name is also Danny. He calls me Danny L. and I call him Danny W., as his last name is Weily. Along with the matching first names, we also have a lot more in common. He is not a bad-looking guy, but there is no way he would ever cross any line with me. I trust him implicitly, and he trusts me just as much.

We travelled to Rome once, years ago, and I don't remember ever laughing as much as I did with my namesake while on the trip. I haven't seen Danny for a while, but I have a trip with him later in my roster, and that trip is one I am really looking forward to. Helen does not want to hear about well-behaved married men like Danny. She wants to hear juicy gossip.

‘Have you seen any celebrities?' Helen asks as she usually does, and breaks me out of my thoughts about Mary, Danny and sex on airplanes.

I decide to talk to Helen about what she wants to hear, celebrities.

‘Did I tell you that I had Hugh Jackman onboard?'

Helen moves to the edge of her seat, excited. ‘Hugh Jackman? You mean ‘Wolverine' Jackman? ‘Van Helsing' Jackman? I love him. What was he like?'

The reality is I did have him on board, but it was probably two years ago. Hence, technically, this is not a lie. I know how much Helen loves these stories.

‘He was such a nice guy.'

Helen gushes, ‘I thought he would be.'

Helen's favourite celebrity story, which I have told her and she has then retold to everyone she knows goes something like this: a particular celebrity singing-diva, with a reputation for being difficult, was sitting in first class and arguing with a crew member over a simple safety-related request he had made.

‘Do you know who I am?' the diva protested.

The flight attendant turned to his passing supervisor and simply said, ‘Can you get me the passenger list, please? This woman doesn't know who she is.'

I wasn't actually on that flight, and this may as well be an urban myth, but Helen lives for such stories. As I have explained already to Helen, most celebrities are great onboard – most, but not all. When we spend as much time as we do with them, we often catch them with their media-guard down, and thus get to see the real person behind it. Sometimes that real person isn't so nice.