A Day in the Mind of a Flight Attendant

By C. Roussell

Ever wonder what's beyond the smile of the person who hands you a half-full bag of stale pretzels? Well, sit back, relax and find out when a working stiff takes you on a pleasure trip packed full of playful and reflective insights into the various people he stumbles upon...and serves up plenty of revelations about himself along the way! Leave your baggage behind and get swept away as you spend 'A Day in the Mind of a Flight Attendant.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Roussell
• Release date: Nov 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311343444

C. Roussell

C. Roussell lives in Anchorage, Alaska with his wife and various dog children. He and his family spend the summer months hiking and exploring the beautiful and scenic trails that Alaska has to offer. When he's not staring at a computer screen, he tries his hand at guitar and singing, and is an advocate of keeping the 1980's relevant in modern-day society.

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A DAY IN THE MIND OF A FLIGHT ATTENDANT

C. Roussell

Copyright © 2015 C. Roussell

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Rise and S-h-h-h…

Chapter 2: The Only Creature Stirring

Chapter 3: Pay Me No Mind

Chapter 4: I'll Be Brief

Chapter 5: Bring it On

Chapter 6: The Difference Between Anna and Maggie

Chapter 7: Speak Now or Forever Wear Your Lapbelt

Chapter 8: Billy the Dog

Chapter 9: Emotional Support

Chapter 10: Whaddya Say We Amscray?

Chapter 11: Hit the Ground Running

Chapter 12: The Impossible Stranger

Chapter 13: Would I Lie to You?

Chapter 14: The Long Ride Home

Chapter 15: Warm and Fuzzy

Chapter 16: Sham, Pain and Roses

Chapter 17: Quiet Thoughts

Chapter 18: Put it on My Tab

Chapter 19: Lavatory or Purgatory: Take Your Pick

Chapter 20: The Honesty's Too Much

Chapter 21: Leggo My Ego

Chapter 22: Not If I See You First

Chapter 23: Two Turtledoves and a Partridge Near a Doubletree

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

RISE AND S-H-H-H…

Good Morning-Good Morning-Good Morning, the ringtone sings aloud and it makes my feet jerk hard. My eyes snap open to a dark room, and, without conscious thought, I reach under the pillow to turn off the alarm on my phone. I shake the other arm to life, numbed by the overnight weight of my torso.

Where exactly am I?

I reach back toward the wall and slide my fingers along the all-too-familiar headboard where my Yorkshire Terrier, Bela, has left her signature scratches.

I’m home, I sigh, shoulder blades pressing into the memory foam mattress, momentary blissful relief, when it occurs to me that I have to leave my wife and kids (all right, fine, my dogs) today. Feet fall from the bed, and the rest of me manages to follow them to the bathroom. At this hour, there's no amount of water pressure, be it an ever-so-humble shower head or Niagara Falls, that will jolt me out of the stupor where I currently reside.

Ten minutes later I’m equally tired but smelling fine. My feet wade through a creme shag area rug I begged the previous owners to leave, toes immersed, tiptoeing around the room while my family sleeps. I pack the necessities to get me through the next two days.

I want to kiss my wife goodbye, but she is sleeping so soundly that I kneel at the edge of the bed—in the least creepiest way possible—and watch her, emerged in slumber. I close the bedroom door with true prowler flare, grab my bags and look into the chipped full-length mirror near the front door.

I survey today’s attire, which does not distinguish from the day prior: dark gray slacks, a tailored jacket to match and slip-on black shoes with tips so shiny that I could be a foot model for an Armed Forces poster.

I'm 44 years old, but the creases highlighting my eyes add ten years. A thin face filled in by a set of mutton chops that would assuredly fetch me the lead role in an off-Broadway version of Easy Rider. The good fortune of a thick head of hair slicked back and to the side and a cool silver now illuminates the once warm shades of brown and red.

It's like the tide went out, seemingly taking my high school yearbook, a youth forever caught in the undertow, and replaced by a mild case of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

One more thing: I grab my badge and strap a set of wings across the chest area of my suit coat. I am a Flight Attendant.

CHAPTER 2

THE ONLY CREATURE STIRRING

Some people have their life's path figured out well before puberty has paid them a visit. Plans laid, futures charted and occupations hatched with the strategy of a formidable chess player. I wasn't blessed by such premonitions or insight.

I suppose I did choose this profession although it was never a dream to become a Flight Attendant. It's a job neither myself or my guidance counselor could have predicted (upon reflection, however, I could tell furthering careers took a backseat to the priority of his one true pastime: ogling female students passing by the post office box-sized window of his basement office).

The short version is that I bumped into this line of work. It was happenstance and timing. It was opportunity coupled with a leap of faith. And it was luck that the necessary qualities this job required of me were unearthed during the interview process. I've been flying for 15 years and, all things considered, I remain satisfied and content with my decision.

From a psychological standpoint, the commute to work might be the hardest part of my career. Here I am, driving in a sleepy-kind-of-limbo, that period of time where I pretend I have a choice in matters of gainful employment.

The song Rocket Man taunts me from the radio and I turn it off before it reaches the chorus. A sad song indeed. I relate to its lyrics—telling the tale of a man who, on occasion, must abandon his family for work.

It is a yarn I know too well, which overwhelms me and makes my head spin whenever I leave home. And, frequently, I get the compulsion to turn this '87 clunker (constantly forcing me into oncoming traffic) around, hang up my uniform forever and be one of the husbands portrayed in the situation comedies from long ago: the husband that was always there, even after a quick word from the sponsors. The man that fluidly entered the kitchen from the back door. Set your watch to him. Look—there he is! Count on him. Be that husband every day.

I have a wife that puts up with my absence like a champ because she knows this job makes me happy. And it is in knowing this which only compounds the sadness that fastens me in when I throw the car in reverse and watch the empty space in the garage slowly disappear before my eyes. She deserves a medal to endure such a lifestyle as this.

Do I deserve her?

That is a debate for the ages. But I'm thankful for her. More so thankful she didn't have our marriage certificate scribed on an Etch-A-Sketch.

Icy roads result in a slow drive to work. My fingers wrap around the steering wheel, squeezing the life from it. With a newly-fallen snow, mailboxes flank the streets in disguise, and the snowmen, which had been ardently gathered by children from the previous week's light dusting, stand taller and faceless.

Still dark out, I drive those same seven intersections and recall passing through only two of them. I drive past overgrown fields with real estate signs swinging in the wind, the faces on them—full beards inevitably reduced to goatees—casualties of the elements. I pass by the condemned moody aqua-colored house with half the roof scorched from a seven year-old fire. I pass it every time and never notice it.

My body feels slightly different, transitioning from a mighty sensation to a startling and unannounced state of mortality. I’m learning to compensate for my age through simple actions such as moving objects first instead of lazily stepping over them: a banal activity I discarded as a kid, and balked at toward my elders which, I concede, has caught up with me.

I feel occasional, subtle, hardly-worth-mentioning shards of pain move in and out of my shoulders depending on the various hand positions on the wheel. The zippers on my roller bag shake and rattle in the backseat, and the speed bumps in the employee parking lot cause me to ritually spill coffee all over my hand, dry and hazelnut sticky.

Surrounded by other vehicles covered with snow, I wonder if I'll be among the countless who forget where they parked when they return from that long-awaited tropical vacation.

How I love entertaining the illusion of a personalized parking space inside a warm garage with my name carved in granite.

A twist of the wrist and the ignition stops. The parking lot is silent. Lifeless. I step from the warmth into the cold white stuff, lone footprints sole evidence that I'm not timesharing this place with anyone. It's 4am and I’m tired. I feel like Jim Morrison just dropped me off at the airport.

CHAPTER 3

PAY ME NO MIND

I'm okay. Quite alright. Thanks for your concern. I've just fallen over the roller bag of a leggy gentleman whose abruptly swerved in front of me on the way into the airport terminal entrance. I clumsily contort, flail and spread eagle like a newcomer to ice skating. My upper half suspends above the floor with arms locked straight, and palm flat hands. Pushing myself up, I regain my balance and composure.

I look up. His phone is pressed tightly to his ear, and he pays no mind to look back to assess the damage. Doesn't bother to see me gathering the belongings that spilled out onto the sunburst marble floor, and the jarring echo of a small thermos that has fallen, smacked! and rolled the full length of the floor. His jacket bounces off the backs of his ankles as he walks and his voice fades away as he steps onto an escalator and vanishes.

I walk several feet away to retrieve my phone, and pick up a penny that's next to it. I was once told a found penny brings good luck. And if my tumble was any indication of what might be in store for me today, I thought it wise to go with my instincts and pocket it. Besides, I figured since I was already down there, why not take it?

After trudging the four-minute stomp of unplowed sidewalks, the wheels of my overnight bag have left a trail of slush. As the comfort of heat returns to my extremities, I listen to the muzak