Page 7 of The Woman in 3B
Our plane was at the gate, but the captain and his or her co-pilot had yet to show up. Gemma, Kent, and I took a seat in the boarding area with the passengers while I discreetly inspected my monthly bingo card. In addition to ignoring Dawn’s texts, I’d spent the previous evening mapping out my plan of attack for bingo. I’d been competing in the underground game long enough that I knew which tasks were easily accomplished and which would take a little more leg work.
Some of the challenges could even be completed simultaneously. I could whip out a fake Southern accent while wearing a deflated life preserver without most passengers ever batting an eye. Everyone was typically too consumed by whatever electronic device was in their hand to pay us flight attendants much attention. We became an extension of the airplane itself.
Some of the bingo squares that the organizers had deemed more challenging were actually pretty straight-forward if you were creative and thought outside the box. For example, I was often tasked with getting a passenger’s phone number. One might think this would involve excessive batting of eyelashes, unbuttoning an extra button on your uniform shirt, or laughing at sketchy men’s unoriginal jokes, but I’d discovered a far less demeaning way to get what I needed.
The most important part of every flight was the moment passengers got on the plane. I would position myself in one of the exit rows and carefully inspect each passenger as they boarded and stashed their carry-ons in the overhead compartment. It was probably akin to a con-artist looking for their next mark, but I tried to not think too critically about it. For the phone number task, the obvious passenger was an ego-maniac. The self-important slick guy in the over-priced suit who continued to wear his sunglasses on the plane. The Bluetooth device in his ear was also a dead giveaway. He always ended up being a little too handsy and called female flight attendants ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’
I looked for a totally different kind of guy though—middle-aged, Midwest dads. But it wasn’t just a dad flying solo in his flat-front khakis; he had to be with his wife and kids. Families in matching outfits, especially sports-themed gear that indicated where they lived, was my specialty. When they struggled to get everything into the overhead compartments, I would swoop in to save the day. An innocent comment about their hometown and how I’d never been but had always wanted to go would inevitably result in copious chatter.
“Oh, youhaveto visit,” they’d gush as they struggled with their safety belts.
They’d eagerly offer up all of their favorite restaurants and non-touristy places to go. But I couldn’tpossiblyremember all of those details, so they should probably just text me all of that valuable insider information. Andta-da—I had their phone number. One more bingo square checked off.
“Fresh meat,” Kent quietly announced.
I looked away from my bingo card and toward the gate counter to see two young men in pilot uniforms looking over the passenger log printouts. I didn’t recognize either of them from previous flights, but I also didn’t actively work up a rapport with the flight deck crew. It was probably unfair of me to dismiss an entire group of people based only on their occupation of choice, but I didn’t particularly like pilots.
How can you tell if someone is a pilot?
He’ll tell you.
Kent sighed in disappointment. “I don’t see any wedding rings. Gemma, girl, they’re all yours.”
Gemma looked up briefly from her paperback novel, but apparently not interested in either of the two men, returned her attention to her book. She read more than anyone I’d ever met, always staying abreast of the newest, top-selling fiction to show up in the airport bookstores.
“So, Kent,” I said, resuming our earlier conversation. “First Class?”
Kent had slipped on sunglasses and was slumped in his chair. He waved his hand in the air like a monarch dealing with an annoying peasant. “It’s all yours,” he allowed.
“Yes!” I quietly cheered.
Kent and I only shared flights one day a week that month—Wednesdays from Detroit to Philadelphia to New York LaGuardia and back to Detroit—so I would have to accomplish most of my seat-specific challenges on those days. Gemma and I were tag-teaming a regional jet on Thursdays, which gave me a second opportunity.
I doubted that any other pursers with whom I would be working that month would be as accommodating as Kent to let me work First Class in their place. I normally didn’t mind working in the Village though. In my experience, passengers tended to be more high maintenance and self-entitled the smaller their row numbers. Economy class were my people—especially the poor, single riders who got stuck in the middle seat.
Once the gate agent gave us the go-ahead, Kent, Gemma, and I gathered our wheeled luggage and other belongings and boarded our morning flight. Meeting up with the other crew members for pre-flight checks included making sure all emergency equipment is present and operational. We go through the cabin to make sure it’s clean, and we check the galleys to make sure drinks and snack numbers are appropriate for the flight. After that, we give the okay to the gate attendants in the terminal that the plane is ready for boarding.
Kent and Gemma staggered themselves in the middle sections of the plane while I positioned myself in the front galley. It allowed me the opportunity to greet our first passengers while simultaneously getting ready for pre-flight beverage service. My airline provided an extra round of beverage service to passengers seated in First Class. While the rest of the plane boarded, our premier passengers received a complimentary glass of water at the same time that I recorded their first beverage request.
I easily balanced in one hand a tray of short plastic glasses, each filled to the top with bottled water. I’d waited tables in my hometown during summers when I was in high school. Going to college was supposed to be my ticket out of there—my escape to make sure I didn’t have to go back to waitressing in my small town. College had been a bust, however, and now I was basically a waitress in the sky. But at least I got to travel, even if I typically didn’t get to see much of the country beyond the insides of different airports and hotel rooms.
I had decided to conquer a relatively simple, seat-specific bingo-card challenge that morning: to make it appear as though you’ve accidently dropped a beverage on a passenger’s lap. I started from the back of my section and worked my way towards the front of the plane. Since I had been assigned the seat 3B on my bingo card, it made better strategic sense to spill on that passenger when I was near the end of my water service instead of the beginning. I would have less eyes on me. And if I dumped water on this person at the beginning of the flight, they still had the entire trip to Philadelphia to clean themselves up.
I bent slightly at the knee as I delivered each glass of water. Few passengers acknowledged me as I routinely pressed the plastic cup into their hands. They were already hooked into their noise-canceling headphones or were finishing up last-minute phone calls, emails, and texts. First Class passengers were typically commuters, traveling for business, rather than honeymooners who’d splurged on their once-in-a-lifetime tickets. Flying for these passengers was old hat, routine, like what riding the subway during morning rush hour was for some people. I was part of the scenery, like a piece of the airplane. Aisle seat. Oval window. Landing gear. Flight attendant.
My tray was nearly empty by the time I approached seat 3B. I kept my eyes on the seatback, keeping my target in sight. I couldn’t see much beyond the top of a woman’s head. She was compact; nothing else spilled beyond the perimeter of her assigned seat. I bent at the knee to drop myself closer to the passenger’s level. The woman’s attention was concentrated on a tablet she held in her left hand, away from the aisle.
I noticed her lower body first. Her heels were higher than mine, but she also didn’t have to be on her feet all day, or so I assumed. My attention raked next over the slender, naked ankle. Dark grey dress pants. No noticeable wrinkles or creases although the material appeared to be linen. I thought it was a bold choice considering how poorly the fabric withstood traveling, but at least after I poured water into her lap, it would dry more quickly than denim or wool.
My gaze traveled farther up. A cream-colored shell beneath a dark grey blazer. The shell was unbuttoned enough to see a hint of collarbone. A thin string of pearls hung around her neck. Her head was tilted down and to the left, just slightly. The downward angle had caused her long, dark hair to fall forward, forming a curtain around her face and blocking her features from my view. Her hair was nearly black and incredibly glossy, like an actress from a shampoo commercial, with visible caramel highlights streaked throughout.
“Water?” I benignly offered.
A slim wrist snapped up to meet the pro-offered water glass. Thin gold bracelets jangled together with the movement.
I stretched my arm in her direction. My fingers lightly flexed around the flimsy plastic cup in my hand. Her long, delicate fingers stretched in the air to barely touch the bottom of the glass. All I needed to do was let the cup slip from my grip and I’d be on my way to completing that month’s bingo card.
I had just made my decision to let go, when the woman in seat 3B turned her head to appraise me.
