frowned and pouted her lips. “Y’all look so scared and lost, honeys.”
Then she smiled. “Nothin’ to be scared of.”
Then she frowned. “They probably canceled your flight, anyway.”
Then she smiled bigger than ever, “Mine’s been canceled ’causa weather in Atlanta.” She kept smiling this time and whispered, looking around to ensure privacy, “But ah’m goin’ to dinner with the captain. He models for cigarette commercials, sometimes.”
She giggled furiously, the bosom in violent action. “Ah’m gonna love it to death here.”
She turned and hurried through the crowd toward a gray-templed pilot lounging against the wall, a cigarette professionally held between his lips. Her bosom made contact with at least a dozen male elbows on her short trip through the crowd, and her fanny, sufficiently oversize to counterbalance the excess weight in front, waved like a storm-tossed rudder.
We signed in hurriedly with the stewardess dispatcher, a thin, quiet fellow with large glasses and eyes that never made contact with ours. He looked down at our trip number and said, “You girls are awful late. Better hurry down to the gate.”
We took his advice and pushed back through the crowd toward the door. Betty O’Riley was leaning against the wall with her captain, both of them right off the back cover of Life. I don’t think he ever smoked that cigarette. He remained in perpetual rehearsal should J. Walter Thompson call. Betty, smiling at us, sort of flexed everything at once. We just passed by.
Our flight was to depart from Gate 16. We hurried under the signs directing passengers to the higher numbered gates. Suddenly, Rachel stopped, beat her fists against her thighs: “Damn, damn, damn.” In our rush we’d left our luggage and purses back at operations. We spun around in formation and ran back up the endless corridor, people turning to watch as we passed. We grabbed the forgotten items, received another automatic smile from Betty, noticed her captain was now trying it with a cigar, and ran back through the door and up the corridor. It was now 12:30, just a half hour to flight time. We were twenty minutes late.
The departure lounge at Gate 16 was from a De Mille epic. Two ramp agents stood firmly behind their fortress of the ticket counter, their faces mirroring their determination to keep things in order according to the book. (Why would all these people want to go to Cleveland, we wondered?)
We walked up to the ramp agents and announced we were the stewardesses for the flight. One of them never bothered to look at us. The other, a chubby redhead with acne, just glanced, curled his lip, and went back to checking in the passengers. It was obvious we weren’t supposed to check in with the ramp agents. We remembered our keys, one of which was supposed to fit the steel door leading from the gate’s lounge area to the aircraft’s parking ramp. Unfortunately, the confusion at the terminal that day necessitated parking the 727 at a gate without the enclosed jetway tunnel. After some fumbling, we opened the door and went down the stairway. We reached the door at the bottom, threw it open, and were greeted with a blast of blowing rain.
“Damn, damn, damn. ”
We ran across the parking ramp and tripped up the portable stairs to the front entrance of the airplane. At the top, safely inside from the rain, stood another stewardess. She partially blocked the entrance, and we had to push past her to reach the dry cabin. We splattered her pretty good.
“Sorry about that,” I said with a friendly smile.
“Where have you been?” she countered.
Both of us began chattering about our cabdriver, the rain, the baggage in operations, and any other reason we could think of.
She cut us off in mid-sentence. “Forget it. Just do a fast job of picking up this cruddy bird. The passengers will be boarding any minute.”
We followed her orders without hesitation. After a minute of picking up cigarette butts, paper
Then she smiled. “Nothin’ to be scared of.”
Then she frowned. “They probably canceled your flight, anyway.”
Then she smiled bigger than ever, “Mine’s been canceled ’causa weather in Atlanta.” She kept smiling this time and whispered, looking around to ensure privacy, “But ah’m goin’ to dinner with the captain. He models for cigarette commercials, sometimes.”
She giggled furiously, the bosom in violent action. “Ah’m gonna love it to death here.”
She turned and hurried through the crowd toward a gray-templed pilot lounging against the wall, a cigarette professionally held between his lips. Her bosom made contact with at least a dozen male elbows on her short trip through the crowd, and her fanny, sufficiently oversize to counterbalance the excess weight in front, waved like a storm-tossed rudder.
We signed in hurriedly with the stewardess dispatcher, a thin, quiet fellow with large glasses and eyes that never made contact with ours. He looked down at our trip number and said, “You girls are awful late. Better hurry down to the gate.”
We took his advice and pushed back through the crowd toward the door. Betty O’Riley was leaning against the wall with her captain, both of them right off the back cover of Life. I don’t think he ever smoked that cigarette. He remained in perpetual rehearsal should J. Walter Thompson call. Betty, smiling at us, sort of flexed everything at once. We just passed by.
Our flight was to depart from Gate 16. We hurried under the signs directing passengers to the higher numbered gates. Suddenly, Rachel stopped, beat her fists against her thighs: “Damn, damn, damn.” In our rush we’d left our luggage and purses back at operations. We spun around in formation and ran back up the endless corridor, people turning to watch as we passed. We grabbed the forgotten items, received another automatic smile from Betty, noticed her captain was now trying it with a cigar, and ran back through the door and up the corridor. It was now 12:30, just a half hour to flight time. We were twenty minutes late.
The departure lounge at Gate 16 was from a De Mille epic. Two ramp agents stood firmly behind their fortress of the ticket counter, their faces mirroring their determination to keep things in order according to the book. (Why would all these people want to go to Cleveland, we wondered?)
We walked up to the ramp agents and announced we were the stewardesses for the flight. One of them never bothered to look at us. The other, a chubby redhead with acne, just glanced, curled his lip, and went back to checking in the passengers. It was obvious we weren’t supposed to check in with the ramp agents. We remembered our keys, one of which was supposed to fit the steel door leading from the gate’s lounge area to the aircraft’s parking ramp. Unfortunately, the confusion at the terminal that day necessitated parking the 727 at a gate without the enclosed jetway tunnel. After some fumbling, we opened the door and went down the stairway. We reached the door at the bottom, threw it open, and were greeted with a blast of blowing rain.
“Damn, damn, damn. ”
We ran across the parking ramp and tripped up the portable stairs to the front entrance of the airplane. At the top, safely inside from the rain, stood another stewardess. She partially blocked the entrance, and we had to push past her to reach the dry cabin. We splattered her pretty good.
“Sorry about that,” I said with a friendly smile.
“Where have you been?” she countered.
Both of us began chattering about our cabdriver, the rain, the baggage in operations, and any other reason we could think of.
She cut us off in mid-sentence. “Forget it. Just do a fast job of picking up this cruddy bird. The passengers will be boarding any minute.”
We followed her orders without hesitation. After a minute of picking up cigarette butts, paper
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