“Poor terrorists.” And this is why I’m an FFDO—a Federal Flight Deck Officer. I’m licensed to carry a firearm in case my flight attendants aren’t able to halt hijackers with a knee-high sock and ginger ale.
“What do you suggest I do?”
I roll our bags off the escalator and next to a bench, and check the street for a white shuttle displaying the Marriott name in cursive script. It comes by every fifteen minutes. With the way her day is going, we probably just missed it.
“We’ll wait here for one of the many shuttles that will take us to the hotel next to your condo. Drivers don’t mind giving flight crew a ride if we tip them. Rideshare apps charge an airport fee, which makes a half-mile ride much more expensive than it should be.”
“Oh.” She parks her luggage, then looks up and down the roadway filled with vans and buses. She faces me again. “Okay. But that’s not what I meant. How do you suggest I fend off an attacker instead?”
She really wants a self-defense lesson right now? “What else did they teach you in training?”
She shrugs. “They basically turned on the song ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ and let us practice beating up dummies.”
From now on I’m giving all flight attendants the fundamentals before we take off. “You know about a knee to the groin, right?”
She nods vigorously. “Want me to demonstrate?”
“No!” I reflexively step backward and cross my forearms to block. “Uh, no. It’s very effective, so I just wanted to make sure you’re aware of it.”
She brings her fists up in front of her face and bounces in place for a moment. Then she stops and shakes out an ankle, like she twisted it. “What else?”
“Well, a knee is great if you have the room. Same with a palm strike. It’s easier on your arm, and also, the attacker won’t be expecting it the way he would a closed fist.”
She uncurls her fingers into jazz hands. Unless she’s performing a fight scene inWest Side Story, she needs more help.
My lips twitch. “We’re not singing showtunes.”
“I’m a ballerina, not a singer. Or, I was.”
“Makes sense.” The grace. The bun. The entertainment. “May I?” I step behind her and gently wrap my arm around her neck to demonstrate a choke hold.
“Please.”
Her response concerns me for her safety even more than the sock-and-soda thing. But at least she’s not accusing me of being a serial killer anymore. I adjust my elbow underneath her chin without squeezing.
She smells sweet like cherry blossoms, and suddenly it’s spring on the UW campus. Much more inviting than the exhaust that normally scents the parking garage. I can’t help wondering if there are cherry trees where Claire’s from and if that’s why she picked this scent. My ex preferred lavender from the farms we visited during their annual festivals. I exhale the bad memories to keep from actually choking Claire.
“If your attacker comes closer, you don’t have the room for a full palm strike. So you use your elbow. It’s the sharpest point on your body.”
Claire flaps like a chicken, which could also work. She’d be able to break free because her attacker would double over in laughter. Or be swept off his feet by her overwhelming adorableness. I resist the urge to do both.
“Put the full force of your body into it. Step one foot behind you and pivot with an elbow out.”
She splits her stance and braces herself.
The Marriott shuttle hisses to a stop in front of us. Its accordion door squeaks open.
“Get off her.”
For the first time I realize how we must look.
I barely have time to glance up before a large Samoan driver charges down the steps with vengeance in his eyes. Protecting myself from him is going to be a lot tougher than from Ninjarella here.
Releasing my hold, I jump back, hands wide.
He continues like a linebacker. If I don’t explain fast enough, I’m going to find myself on the ground with little Seahawks flying circles around my head.
“Wait.” Claire jumps in front of me, reflexes quicker than I expected given her history with jazz hands. “He was training me in self-defense.”
