Page 9 of The Woman in 3B
CHAPTER THREE
On Thursdays that month I was scheduled to fly back and forth between Detroit Metro and Chicago O’Hare on a small, regional jet. Because of the short time between wheels up to wheels down, there was no official beverage service; I was only responsible for safety demonstrations and in-flight announcements. These brief back-and-forth flights created a monotonous, mindless day where you could easily lose track of what city you were in, so I was happy to be scheduled with my friend Gemma.
After finishing the safety demonstration, Gemma and I strapped into our respective jump-seats at the rear of the plane for takeoff. The landing gear was barely off the ground when an older man, balding, with baggy khakis and a button-up dress shirt, stood up from his seat. The seatbelt sign was still illuminated, but more often than not, passengers regarded that instruction as a suggestion instead of a rule.
I watched the man open the overhead compartment door and then struggle to retrieve a duffle bag. The overhead space on the regional jet was smaller than what was typical on our standard planes. The man had obviously forced the duffle bag to make it fit and now he couldn’t pull his bag out. Technically, we weren’t required to help passengers with their carry-on luggage, but I couldn’t in good conscience watch the older man struggle mightily with his bag. He could hurt himself or any of the passengers seated in his proximity.
I could sense that Gemma was watching the passenger as well. I patted the top of her thigh. “I’ve got it,” I told her.
I unbuckled my safety harness and left my jump-seat. We were still ascending, so the airplane shook from slight turbulence. I used the headrests to keep me steady as I traveled down the center aisle of the narrow-body plane. By the time I reached the elderly man in the fourth row, he had nearly worked his bag free from its overhead container.
“Sir, we haven’t reached a safe cruising altitude yet,” I gently told him. “You’ll have to return to your seat until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign.”
“I just wanted to get my book,” he seemed to apologize.
Our flight was so short, we would probably be back on the ground in Chicago before he ever had a chance to open the book’s front cover. He looked so earnest, however, I didn’t have the heart to deny him.
I waited patiently in the center aisle while the older man rummaged through his bag until he found his paperback novel. He zipped the duffle closed again and moved to return it to the overhead container.
“I’ll get that for you,” I offered.
Even though it was in my job description to assist passengers, I sometimes hesitated before offering physical assistance to senior citizens, especially men. The passengers I met on my flights tended to be proud and sometimes took offense when offered help from someone who was younger and female.This man, however, was more than satisfied to let me put his bag back for him so he could return to his seat and dig into his newly-acquired novel.
The ceiling was low on the regional jet and so were the overhead compartments. I didn’t even have to stand on my tiptoes to shove the man’s duffle bag back into the overhead compartment. I had just slammed the hinged compartment door closed when I felt something graze my backside. I might have thought it an accidental touch until I felt a more aggressive hand firmly grab my right ass cheek.
I squeaked at the unwelcomed sensation and aggressively spun on my heel to confront my overly handsy assailant. I wasn’t necessarily used to being fondled on planes, but—sadly—it also wasn’t a rare occurrence.
A forty-something man with thinning dark hair smiled innocently at me from his Business Class seat. “Sorry. That turbulence is a bitch.”
I would have broken the hand of any man who touched me outside of work. Instead of making a fuss, however, I only forced a smile to my lips. We would be landing soon and then I’d never have to see this person again.
My phony smile slipped off of my features when I turned on my heel again. I marched down the center aisle to where Gemma waited in the rear galley. She’d unlatched herself from her jump-seat and stood at a slight angle, wedged in the limited area we were afforded on the smaller plane.
“That was nice of you to help that man,” she approved.
“Yeah, until someone else helped themselves to my ass,” I grumbled.
Gemma’s grey-blue eyes widened. “What?”
“Someone grabbed my ass.”
“No! Do you know who?” she demanded.
“Thegentlemanin 3B,” I gritted out.
“3B?” she echoed. “Isn’t that your bingo seat?”
I shrugged. “I decided that you’re right. The bingo game is mean and dumb. I’m not going to do it anymore.”
Gemma twitched where she stood, almost like she hadn’t heard me. “Do they think that’s acceptable behavior? Would they act this way if we were on the ground? Do they think they can treat us however they want just because they paid a little extra for their seat?”
I watched my friend struggle with her emotions. Her nostrils flared, and I could hear the heaviness of her breath.
“Don’t Hulk out on me, girl,” I tried to joke. “Your veins are starting to show.”
Gemma was a sensitive soul. I’d once seen her burst into tears because she’d found a dead ladybug on one of our flights. Her emotions ran both ways though—from tears to quick anger. I’d heard this particular rant before. Ugly, obnoxious passengers who showed no consideration for others tended to make my sweet friend snap.
She shut her eyes and shook her head from side to side as if trying to reset her emotions. When her eyes re-opened, a peculiar smile had taken residency on her pink, painted lips. She pulled a small, plastic tray from a compartment in the galley and—almost mechanically—set clear plastic cups on top of the tray.
