If you could just send some good energy to this man...well, he needs it.
Love and optimism,
Heather
BRAWN, BLUSTER and BAWLING
Heather McKeown-Inflight
Stationed at the rear end of an airplane is not good placement for someone who thrives on customer contact. Tasks to achieve in the aft galley range from accounting and taking stock inventory to replenishing bags and baskets with whatever our airline offers as high altitude gastronomic experiences. Yes, the end game does include serving snacks and drinks but there's no meet and greet at the front door or heaving of bags into the overhead bins mid-cabin during boarding. Nor, if there's no rear deplaning employed, are there hugs and 'Goodbye's' at the end of a flight. Being relegated to the anonymous work of a clerk is tough for me because I gain renewed energy from interaction with humans rather than hand held devices that keep the profits tallied on board. Inanimate objects just don't do it for me! Nonetheless, this flight from Fort Lauderdale to Nassau was to be one of the most intimately rewarding on a personal level, ever enjoyed by this granny.
I heard him before I saw the man. “ARE YOU SITTING HERE?” he bellowed at the little man pointing to the window seat.
“Yes, I am...”
“WELL, YOU SURE CAN'T CRAWL OVER ME!” came the laughing response from an enormous man sitting in the aisle seat. The vocal mountain looked around to see who might be watching and that huge head swiveled just enough to catch me in his peripheral sight. “WOULD YOU BELIEVE THIS GUY BROUGHT A PIPE PAST SECURITY?” Accompanying this tattling bellow was an exaggerated expression of, “Well, I knew and HE knew and we got something naughty past TSA!”
“You mean a hash pipe, Sir?”
“A friggin' PIPE! You know what I mean!” he guffawed.
“You aren't carrying drugs now, are you?” I asked.
“Naw. This idiot brought a stupid PIPE!” hahahahahahahaha
I watched as the smaller fellow did, indeed, lift one leg very high and, in a hurdling, straddling fashion not lacking in a certain grace, somehow made it over the mountain and to the other side. It was entertaining and, as I've never been to the Cirque de Soleil, I figured my Big Top needs for the year had been satisfied by the time the small-by-comparison man had climbed and scrambled his way over the giant. As I stood, no doubt smiling and shaking my head, this monolith turned to me and returned my smile. His face suited his body. Enormous, pale blue eyes and the coloring of a Scottish Highlander, I could imagine him, huge calves bulging, kilt a'flying as he barreled and leaped down a heather covered hillock to slay marauding invaders. It was a face that was lit up and gleeful that topped off the bulk of him. Everything was in proportion, but the man was one of those larger than life individuals that wouldn't be ignored. Yet, I could see that the bluster was coming from something inside that broke long ago. The loudness and imposed familiarity erupted from a tuning fork set to one note, one key, one vibrations: Help me! Help me! I'm drowning! Help me! Seemed to be the resonating message behind every outburst of loud laughter or bombastic intrusion into anyone's mannerly shield. Did I judge too quickly as I listened to him laugh uproariously at his multiple oral editorials, uttered over the period of mere minutes? It wouldn't be too long until his armor cracked and the true man behind the boisterous extrovert's act flowed out of a newly opened wound.
As boarding continued, the big man called me. A quick study, he'd read my name tag. This easily identified sales tactic has, no doubt, been employed with tremendous success throughout his foru or five decades on this planet.
“Heather, honey. Come on over here.” I approached and saw a wad of bills in his gigantic hand. He peeled off a hundred dollar bill and proffered it. “Heather, darlin', get me a double scotch wouldja'?”
“No, Sir. I'd get fired.”
“Aw, now, darlin', I'll never tell...you just do it for me, wontcha'?”
“No, Sir, I can't.”
“OK, then...take THIS one and fix me up now, wouldja'?” as he peeled off a fifty dollar bill.
“No, Sir.”
He put away his money but didn't pout. He'd wasn't used to being turned down, though. I live in Vermont and money doesn't buy much there. Oh, it can put food on your table, gas in your car, a roof over your head and some heat for your old house, but it can't purchase a soul. It's a private matter, this money thing. Money can't buy respect there. It can't impress anyone. It can't make one Vermonter better than the next. Money's just part of a very old, very stoic survival ethic that has nothing to do with who you are, how you're treated or what's most important. Yup, we work hard to make a dollar in the Green Mountain State, but we don't let it define us. You have it? I'm happy for ya'. You don't have it? Well, better days are coming, just don't quit trying! It's a good life in my little village. Yessir. I think it's because we're not all broken inside. We know who we are, deep down and the contentment from this little nugget of knowing makes us realize that, no matter what the economic times may bring, we'll get by, make do, survive and get up every morning to work just as much as we need to. If somebody whipped out a wad of hundreds and fifties at our local store, we'd wonder what the hell was wrong with that person that made him want to show off like that. Then we'd feel sorry for him. “There's got to be something going on deep inside so-and-so if he thinks his money's going to impress us.” is what we'd say if such an occurrence ever happened. I've never seen it in Franklin County, so this is just conjecture on my part. I've often encountered such people 'away', though. Poor souls, I want to bring them home to my house for a two-week debriefing in what's really important in life. My neighbors would help, too, I'll betcha'.
As the plane continued to fill, the loud commentary continued to entertain or embarrass the people around him. The braggadocio was being amplified and delivered with a somewhat unsavory timbre skirting the general theme of his life. LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE! HEAR WHAT I'M ABLE TO DO WITH MY WEALTH!!!
As he realized that few were mirroring his enthusiasm for himself he resigned himself to reading a paperback about a famous race horse and I commented on it. “Sir, it's good to see you relaxing a bit with a book.” Little did I know that this would be the catalyst for another barrage of bragging.
“Come over here and let me show you somethin', sweetheart.” he commanded, but without residual rancor from my original refusal. “Lookee here. It's signed by my good friend, the author! Lookee here, it's got my name inscribed right'cheer! I know this guy! He signed it special just for me! I KNOW HIM!”
Being impressed with knowing an author, eh? That gave me an idea.
“You're from Texas, aren't you, Sir?”
“Well, yes! How did you know that?”
“I know these things.”
Anyway, the woman working mid-cabin joined me in the back galley and reported, “That guy embraced me in a personal way when he passed me during boarding!” Victoria has to be one of the most stunning among our many beautiful air hostesses. Tall, the figure of a Goddess and a confident demeanor makes heads turn no matter where she is. The physical encounters thought about aren't usually acted out by male travelers but, in this case, boundaries were crossed and, even though the incident was fast and harmless, I decided educational intervention was in order.
I took out my own copy of ABOVE AND BEYOND, a book released in January, 2012. “Sir, may I borrow SECRETARIAT from you?” I took his book so I could copy the correct spelling of his name in an inscription in the book I was about to give him.
For C____S________ Jr. followed by some phrases to a man that represents Texas in the eyes of the world in hopes these words would inspire a respect for flight attendants. As I handed him the book, I said, “Flight attendants are people, sir...” I tactfully didn't add that we couldn't be bribed, bought, cajoled, corralled or cornered into doing a Texan's, or any man's, bidding. We aren't to be stereotyped, stigmatized, traumatized or familiarized at the whim of people who don't understand what it takes to be a flight attendant. The old adages coined by the ignorant still rear their ugly heads even as we save lives, protect, defend and provide succor to the emotionally needy while serving drinks and snacks.
“YOU wrote a book?” he asked with open incredulity.
“Flight attendants can read and write, Sir.” I smiled.
“Wayall, Ah'm gonna read this right NOW!” he said, laying SECRETARIAT aside and opening his new book. I went back to Victoria and said, “I don't pass out books for self-promotion, but he needs to know that we're people who don't appreciate being objectified.”
After take off, when I was up and moving around the back galley, the man turned to look at me. He was silent and his face looked like some words were about to burst out of his cheeks and eyes, not to mention his tightly pursed lips. Yet, silent he remained. I just nodded and continued with the necessary puttering. Victoria joined me and soon service was in full swing.
As I was about to start delivering drinks, C. S. Jr., stopped me beside his seat. He reached up both of his gargantuan arms and tears began pouring down his cheeks. He pulled me against him and held me, his tears now drenching my cheek and neck. “OH. OH. OH. OH. Thank you. I didn't know. I didn't know. You've given me the best gift, ever. I didn't know about your mama. I lost mine on 11-11-11. I was one of five children and they're all dead and gone. I'm the only one left. OH. OH.” he held me and kissed my neck like a baby boy would an old granny after a bad dream. That's what he was to me from that moment on. Throughout the flight he revealed more about his terrible losses. His sister, August 13th..a brother, August 23rd. Different years but the dates were branded on the Texan's heart and he was carrying the hurt around like a wrecking ball; one that kept bashing up against his Texas manliness and chipping away at his sanity.
After many chats throughout the flight, most while holding one of his hands and each followed by the embrace of a desperate man that smelled of yesterday's drinking with eyes that couldn't focus on a happy tomorrow, he got up and came to the galley. He was immense. It was 'Hoss Cartwright meets the Incredible Hulk' but with a sadness that was eating him up from the inside out.
“I'm not getting over it. I can't seem to get by these last losses.” he cried openly. “What am I gonna' do?”
I looked up at him wishing I could perform magic. Before the deaths began, he had the world by the tail but, like he said, he 'wasn't getting over it'. His face was streaked with tears and I just said, “You won't get over it. Don't even try. You'll just learn to live with it. Take all the time YOU need to mourn.” He'd read in the book that I missed my own mother but didn't know how to grieve when I was a teenager. He assumed that I could relate to his own bottled up sadness. Explaining to him that crying was a good thing-even for tough Texans-seemed to help a bit, but he has so much time before him and old habits, like 'being tough', die as hard as a brother lost to suicide, or, in his case, a sister. The exchange of information we shared in that back galley was accelerated because we both knew it would be our only chance. One flight time to share a world of hurt with a stewardess. One flight that was only supposed to be thirty-five minutes long. It's amazing how hearts and souls can jump out and be counted when time's a factor. I call it accelerated vulnerability and emergency honesty.
He'd mentioned vast amounts of money won and lost in business, games and such. “I dropped 800,000 dollars one night!” and other such needed markers on his graduated tube of what's even more important in life. Before he sat down for landing, he gave another desperate and mighty hug. I patted his arm like a granny would and said, “Now, go and sit down.” I gave him a copy of THE OPTIMIST NEWSPAPER (a subtle counter-suicide publication for teens all over the US and Canada) saying, “Maybe you'll read this someday...”
After landing, while waiting to deplane, his body filled the entrance to the back galley, totally blocking my view of the cabin. He wanted it that way. The tears had stopped and he said, “Heather, you've done something for me tonight. More than anyone has in a long, long time. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing.”
He'd never heard this response before, I'll bet. But, having got to know me and observe the rest of the crew throughout the flight, I do believe he understood that flight attendants were people who do much just because it's our 'pleasure to serve'.
“Right now, you're the biggest person I know.” he said in a very hushed voice.
I stepped back when the last hug was imminent. Putting a hand on each enormous arm, I held him back and said, “I'll never forget you.”
He turned and was the last one in the aisle . Halfway up the plane he turned and yelled, “HEY HEATHER! YOU KNOW WHY I'M HERE IN NASSAU???” then he mouthed the word, 'REHAB'. Then in a raspy but audible whisper, he added, “It's not drugs. It's alcohol! Two weeks of detox here!”
“Please let me know how you're doing!”
“I will.”
He won't. He's told me too much and cried too much on a woman's shoulder and, keeping in touch with someone who knows all about this Texan's soft underbelly wouldn't be easy. Yet, I hope he stays sober. I hope he heals. I hope he always remembers the crew that was more than Victoria's body against his as he passed her the first time or a stewardess he thought could get him a drink for a couple of big bills. We are, as flight attendants, still so much more than some would expect. So are our amazing passengers, eh?
I'll never forget him.
Thanks Heather
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