This Flighty Attendant Isn’t Worth Peanuts

Recently, my husband and I needed to attend an out-of-town function. As our destination was several hundred miles away, we did what any other neurotic couple would under similar circumstances: He drove; I flew.

The reason is simple. My spouse, like one in six other Americans, is somewhat fearful of air travel--to the extent that he routinely refers to planes as “Satan’s flying machines of explosive, fiery, excruciating death.”

I have no problem with flying and firmly believe it’s far more dangerous for couples to travel long distances by car. On the last extended road trip my husband and I took, he passed the time by continually commenting on the wonders of roadside vegetation. I occupied myself by repeatedly mentioning that he’d have a much better view if I helped him out of our speeding motor vehicle.

My most recent airplane trip was especially pleasant. Perhaps by sharing this experience, I can calm the fears of those individuals who, like my husband, lump flying into the general category of Things I Refuse to Do, Even if the Only Alternative Is Listening to the Complete Recorded Works of Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute.

I had an aisle seat across from one of the little kitchens where meals are stored for those passengers without taste buds. Flight attendants spend much of their time in these areas, getting beverages, preparing food and tidying up. Or, as on my flight, they can be found diligently responding to all passengers’ needs by completely ignoring everyone on board while having in-depth discussions about their former boyfriends who, for various reasons, deserve to be loaded into fully operational chipper / shredder devices.

Actually, I found the flight attendants’ conversations quite educational. In addition to learning that these two women were less emotionally stable than your average Chihuahua, I discovered that they intensely hated their jobs. (While this was rather disconcerting news, it did help explain why a passenger who had requested a second bag of complimentary peanuts was later found in an overhead luggage compartment.)

Midway through the flight, one attendant--I think her name was Vicki--started telling the other a most delightful story. Seems that a few weeks back, Vicki was working a flight to Chicago. About 40 minutes before the plane was scheduled to land, the pilot had to slightly alter his flight plan, as often is the case when an aircraft is on fire and about to crash.

Apparently, an engine had blown, and the right wing looked surprisingly similar to a roasting marshmallow. As I listened to this terribly soothing account, I noticed that my row of seats just happened to be near the plane’s right wing. This amusing coincidence caused me to chuckle and develop a sudden desire to determine exactly how many people I’d have to push down, stomp on and otherwise prevent from beating me to the nearest emergency exit.

I really had no reason to worry. As Vicki helpfully pointed out, “The plane was exactly like this one.” Adding, “I’ve heard they’ve all had problems.”

OK, so I was trapped on an aircraft that quite possibly was constructed entirely of Legos. No big deal. After all, flight attendants are skilled professionals who know exactly how to respond in crisis situations.

Vicki is certainly proof of that. “I totally freaked,” she said. “I couldn’t think of a thing I was supposed to do, so I sat down and just sort of zoned out.”

The pilot managed to land the plane safely, a feat largely attributable, no doubt, to Vicki’s calm, courageous assistance. Even so, I spent the remainder of my flight highlighting an emergency instructions card, clutching a life vest and engaging in assorted other activities that involved hyperventilating.

I later asked my husband if he wouldn’t mind some company on his drive home. Seems I’d miraculously become very interested in roadside vegetation.

* Carrie St. Michel’s e-mail address is 74011.1235@compuserve.com.