When youflyhigh, people will throw stones atyou.Don’t look down. Just flyhigher sothestones won’t reach you.
—CHETANBHAGAT
My roommate Brittany is working my flight home to San Francisco, though I’m not sure I’d call what she’s doing work. She sits in an empty seat next to me in the last row of the airplane, which she’s not supposed to do, and though she did offer a quick beverage service to passengers, she’s been gabbing with me ever since. At one point I ask if I should let her do a trash run or something so she doesn’t get in trouble, but she just laughs.
“I don’t care what that senior mama up front wants. She keeps turning the lights back on when I ask her not to. Like, let the passengers fall asleep already.”
Senior mamas are flight attendants who have been around a long time and appreciate things being done a certain way, even if that’s not how the company runs anymore. They usually clash with us newbies, who obsess about doing everything exactly the way we’ve been trained. Then there are the Brittanys, who charm passengers without actually doing anything and thus receive accolades the rest of us slave for. But as I’m a passenger of this flight, I’m being charmed.
“Have you ever forgotten to secure your galley?” Brittany whispers conspiratorially.
Upon takeoff and landing, it’s the flight attendant’s responsibility to make sure all latches are secured on every cart and bin. If they’re not, they can pop open, and the released flying objects can injure someone. It’s probably the most broken FAA regulation.
“No. Have you?” I peek over the seats to make sure the other flight attendant isn’t spying to report Brittany’s response. The coast is clear. Or more accurately, the other flight attendant frowns at us from where she’s knitting in her jump seat at the front of the airplane. That’s something I haven’t seen before, but at least she can’t hear us from there.
“On our last flight, I thought I’d closed the top door, but it didn’t latch securely, and as soon as the wheels hit the runway, it flew open. Stacks of plastic cups shot out like arrows. It was hilarious.”
I can’t help chuckling at the image, though I have a feeling the other flight attendant wasn’t laughing. “You self-reported, right?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Or Miss Senior Mama would have. Have you had to work with any awful people yet?”
I doubt her senior mama is that awful, but I think I’ve been lucky. “My last trip was pretty fun. The other flight attendant was a yoga instructor, so between flights she’d practice yoga in the aisle.” I pat my armrests. “She taught me how to do a handstand on the arms of the chairs and close the bins with my feet.”
“No way. Show me after we land.”
By the time we touch down, I’ve forgotten about her request. But since I’m at the back of the plane, I’m the last one off.
“Come on.” She grabs my arm and drags me to the front. “You guys,” she calls to the pilots exiting the flight deck, “this is my roommate. She’s going to show us how she closes the overhead bins with her feet.”
The pilots are both young too. I can see why the senior mama might feel as if she’s babysitting.
“Whoa. Seriously?” The captain sounds more like a surfer dude.
“In a walking boot?” The first officer had turned the edges of his mustache up in curlicues, reminding me of an old-timey boxer. It’s not an attractive look, but it’s definitely memorable.
Before my walking boot, I could do much more impressive stunts than handstands, but I’ll let them think I’m cool for this. Planting my palms on the armrests, I push upside down, hook my heels over the tops of the bins, and flex my hamstrings to bend my knees, slamming the bin shut.
The pilots clap.
“Yay,” Brittany cheers. “Hey, we’re staying overnight here, but I’ve never been to San Francisco before. We’ll walk out with you, and you can give us some ideas for exploring.”
The next crew is already waiting on the jet bridge. I do a double take when I recognize a flight attendant. Ha-Yoon has her hair up in space buns this time. She must not understand that the reason she got in trouble for her braids was because there were two of them. The rule is that when our hair is up, it has to all be gathered together. Airlines are strict that way. No visible tattoos bigger than our badges, no septum piercings, no chewing gum in uniform, etcetera.
“Claire! Brittany!” Ha-Yoon reaches to hug us.
Maybe she’s not as contrary as I’d first believed, or maybe she only comes across that way when she doesn’t feel as if anyone is on her side. It’s definitely nice to see friendly faces.
“Ha-Yoon is one of our roommates,” Brittany tells the pilots.
“Hi, Ha-Yoon.” I hug her back and whisper, “If you get audited, make sure to put your hair in one bun instead of two. I don’t want you to get written up again.”
She pats my back. “You’re too good, Claire.”
I’m feeling good. A lot better than when I first showed up in Seattle and gave bad directions to a passenger. Since I know my way around the SFO airport, I lead the crew through the remodeled terminal toward baggage claim. We nod to another passing crew.
“Claire. Brittany,” a sultry female voice calls. Vivienne nods haughtily from the back of another group but stops for more hugs, also happy to see us.
“More roommates?” Senior Mama deadpans.
