Coffee, Tea or Me? (9 page)

Our first flight together, as already chronicled, was less than perfect. But despite its many hazards, we did take away something of tangible worth—George Kelman.

George represented our first experience in accepting dates with passengers. Like every other girl seeking a career as a stewardess, we were fully aware of the reputation the corps had acquired. Our last days at home in Amarillo and Louisville had been filled with stern parental warnings. You had to be promiscuous to want to be a stewardess, was the consensus of family and friends. We would have to spend our days and nights warding off rape attempts of captains, passengers, and all those love-’em-and-leave-’em guys. Our folks harped on the dangers so much we almost found them appealing.

But George Kelman, our first passenger date, proved everyone wrong. He was, if there is such a thing, the perfect gentleman.

That night in Cleveland George took us to one of the city’s better restaurants. The more we ate and drank, the more George seemed to enjoy himself. We worried, of course, about sitting there drinking when we probably would have to work a trip back to New York in the morning. Stewardesses aren’t allowed to drink within twenty-four hours of a flight, and although our return schedule was unknown, it would most likely fall within the next twenty-four. But George was very convincing on this subject.

“Don’t worry about that drinking rule, girls,” he said as he poured us another glass of Beaujolais. “I’ve got plenty of Clorets. No one will ever know alcohol has passed your pretty lips. The only thing you have to worry about is a stew-spy. I’ve looked around the place and I’m sure there isn’t one here.”

“Stew-spy?” The thought was incredible, too much so to be believed.

“Yes. Stew-spy,” he confirmed. “You’ll find out all about them when you go to your first union meeting. In the meantime, just take my word for it and watch your step. You can’t trust any girl you fly with, unless you really know her. Even then, don’t be too sure.”

Rachel and I looked at each other with suspicion. Then we laughed and drank more wine.

We checked back at the hotel before leaving the restaurant and there had been no calls. We then proceeded to a nightclub on Cleveland’s outskirts, a barnlike place with a rock-and-roll band on a raised platform over the bar and two go-go dancers on the bar itself (much to the discomfort of a few hardfisted drinkers). It looked like a pick-up joint.

The music was terrible, its din jarring the brain with every rimshot and twang. We ordered drinks from a mousy little girl in a sequined bunny costume, and settled back to watch the action. Stray fellows and girls were everywhere, each trying to outguess the other. One of the girls, a muscular blonde with smeared eye shadow and dirty fingernails, leaned against the wall next to our table. Every so often, a young man with long sideburns and starched dungarees would come over to her, offer to buy a drink, and ask, “How’s about makin’ it outta here with me?”

She always replied, “Git me a Wild Turkey ’n Seven-Up and I’ll think ’bout it.” He’d trudge off to the bar and she’d wait, nursing the previous drink and scratching her nose.

One hulk of a guy, obviously not heavy in the mental department, came over to her and said, “Hey, sweets, whatta ya say we run ’cross town and do a couple lines a’ bowlin’?”

“Bowlin’?” the girl repeated. “Git me a Wild Turkey ’n Seven-Up and I’ll see.”

“OK, sweets,” the hulk replied and went back to the bar to fight the crowd for his order.

“I wonder if she’d go with me if I suggested weight lifting?” George kidded.

“Give her a try,” we suggested.

He did.

“Maybe,” she answered him with a straight face. Then she realized what he’d said. “You say weight liftin’?”

“Yup.”

“Buy me a Wild Turkey ’n Seven-Up and I’ll see.”

“Let
me
think about
that,
” George countered, keeping a straight face as he sat down.

The girl muttered, “Weight liftin’?” again, and called to the hulk who had offered bowling. “Hey Billy, come on over here.”

He gave up his spot at the bar and came back growling, “Now I lost my place in line.”

“This here guy wants to take me weight liftin’,” she told him.

He wasn’t sure he understood. But he felt safe in saying, “You some kinda wise guy?” George flinched.

The hulk became bolder. “Come on, fella, you bein’ a wise guy to this here girl?”

George looked gravely concerned. He fished a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and threw it on the table, and with firm pressure on our elbows made us stand up. He got up with us.

The hulk came close to George, their proximity emphasizing the difference in height and brawn.

“Look, no trouble intended,” George said weakly as he tried to slide past his adversary. “Just a little joke, you know. El joke-o, huh?”

“Where was you gonna go weight liftin’?”

“Nowhere, nowhere. Honest. Just a simple jest.”

“You don’t look like no weight lifter to me.”

“And you sure do. Look, I’m sorry. Buy yourselves drinks out of the ten on the table. OK?”

George’s generosity stymied the hulk for a moment, enough time for us to take large strides for the door. We heard him muttering, “Weight liftin’?” as we pushed past the bar crowd and onto the exit. A sweaty go-go girl waved good-bye without breaking stride in her jerking and frugging.

The air outside, and the quiet it offered, was welcome. “Someday I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut in these joints,” George sighed. “I should have known every guy in there was probably a weight lifter. Bad news, these places. Come on, we’ll go back to the hotel and have a nightcap. Better yet, we’ll find a bar near the hotel.”

We found a cocktail lounge near the hotel and went in. We were barely inside when a table of girls, definitely stewardess types, spotted George and gave him a big Hello.

“Hi, girls,” he beamed. We wondered how he knew them but didn’t ask. Why shouldn’t he know girls? But why stewardesses? Spies? Silly!

We each had a stinger, weak ones, and George insisted he walk us back to our room in the hotel. We expected the inevitable pitch to come in for a drink or, considering there were two of us, an invitation for one of us to go back to his room. But nothing like that happened.

“Girls, I really enjoyed it.” He fished in his pocket and came out with a half-used roll of Clorets. “Here, for the morning. Your supervisor will never know you’ve had a drop. Sleep tight.”

“Good night.”

“See you tomorrow on the flight, girls.”

“You’re going back with us?”

“Sure. I’m anxious to see how you do with your second flight. Should be interesting.”

“But we don’t even know what flight we’re working,”

“They’ll probably call you sometime tonight. They always manage to call when you’re asleep. They’ll call you and I’ll know, too. See you then.” He turned and walked back to the bank of elevators. We went into our room, very much up in the air about this whole George Kelman thing.

“He knows so much about being a stewardess,” Rachel mused as she struggled out of her girdle. Neither of us had been girdle-wearers until becoming stewardesses. The manual said you always had to wear one while working, and slipping into one had become habit.

“Maybe he’s some kind of spy,” I suggested.

“I don’t think so, Trudy, but maybe he’s with the airline in another capacity. No, that doesn’t seem logical. But he’s rich. That’s for sure. Imagine flying back with us just to see how we do.”

“I think it’s a big line.”

“Probably, but he’s kind of cute, though.”

“Uh huh. I wonder what he does for a living.”

“Me too. What about those other girls in the bar? They all seemed to know him.”

“Well, I suppose he meets a lot of stewardesses with all his travel and everything. He really is cute.”

Rachel had her pajama bottoms on and was slipping into her top when she noticed her bare bosom in a full-length mirror on the wall. Rachel was nicely built although on the small side.

“I wonder if he knows Betty Big Boobs,” she asked her mirror image.

“Who knows?” I answered. “He wouldn’t like her anyway. He doesn’t look like he has a breast fixation.”

We climbed under the covers.

“I like him,” Rachel giggled. “I really do.”

“I think he likes you, Rachel.”

“I don’t think so, Trudy. It’s you he likes.”

“Anyway, I’m glad we went out with him. He’s up for grabs. OK? No hard feelings when one of us runs off and marries him.”

“You don’t need him, you have Chuck.”

“Sure—in California. Good night.”

Everything was silent for a minute.

“Gee, Trudy, I hope he isn’t a spy.”

“Don’t be silly. Good night.”

“Good night.” (pause) “Trudy?”

“What, Rachel?”

“You don’t think he’s queer, do you? I mean, he didn’t even try a thing.”

“How could he with the two of us?”

“Well, he could have asked one of us down to his room.”

“Would you have gone?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you think he’s queer? He knew neither of us would have gone with him.”

“I guess you’re right, Trudy.” (Two minutes of silence this time.) “Have you ever gone to bed with a man?”

“Rachel, what is this? I’ve told you about Henry.”

“I don’t mean in a car, silly. I mean in bed. A hotel.”

“Of course not!”

“I was just wondering.”

“Well stop wondering and shut up. I’m tired.”

“Me too. Good night.”

“Good night.”

We’d been asleep about a half hour when the telephone woke us both up. Rachel picked it up.

“Howdy. Miss Baker?” a nasal voice asked.

“No, this is Rachel Jones.”

“Miss Baker with you?”

“Who is this?”

“This here’s Rob at crew scheduling. You two gals are gonna fly tomorra at noon. Reckon all the soup in New York’ll be gone by then.”

Rachel sighed and laid back on her pillow. “Have you told Mr. Kelman about the flight?”

“Mister . . . who?”

“Forget it. Thanks for the warning on the flight tomorrow. Good night.”

“ ’Night . . . Say, what are you gals doin’?”

“We’re sleeping. Good night.”

“You’re both brand spankin’ new, ain’t you?”

“Right. Good night.”

“You ain’t been breakin’ any rules, have ya?”

“If it’s against the rules to hang up on you, yes. Good night.” She banged the receiver back in its cradle and rolled over. “Creep.”

We slept a solid hour when a door slamming next door brought us both up to a sitting position. A man’s voice in the next room said, “Hurry up. I don’t have a lot of time.” The walls were paper thin.

“Afraid your wife will scold you?” a female voice answered.

“Don’t be smart,” he said, a little annoyed.

The next noise was a bed creaking. A few giggles, some scuffling, three minutes of silence, and then he said, “Good night, hon. Sleep tight. See you next time you’re in town.” The door closed quietly and his footsteps padded past our door.

“Who’s in the next room?” Rachel whispered.

“How should I know?”

“Is it a stewardess?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Let’s check in the morning.”

“OK. Good night, Rachel.”

“Good night, Trudy.”

The next sound was the telephone. It was 9:30 the following morning. I answered it. “Hello.”

“Hi. George Kelman, here. How about some breakfast?”

“When?”

“Right now. You’ve got to be at the airport at eleven. Noon flight, right?”

“That’s right. We’ll be a half hour.”

“Fine. Meet me in the dining room and we’ll cab it out to the airport. See you at ten.”

“OK.” I hung up and pushed Rachel out of her bed and onto the floor. I wake up when a pin drops, but Rachel can sleep through a machine gun duel in the next room. “Come on. George is buying us breakfast and picking up the cab tab to the airport.” Rachel just curled up on the floor and started to go back to sleep.

“Come on, Rachel, we haven’t got much time.”

It took a playful kick in the ribs to bring her to her feet. We managed to get ready, pack, and out the door by ten, and met George in the dining room. He was sipping orange juice and reading
The Cleveland Plain Dealer.

“Good morning, Mr. Kelman.”

“Hi, girls. I already ordered eggs, bacon, juice, and coffee for you. Have a seat.”

We raced through breakfast, hardly talking to each other, until Rachel responded to his question about how we slept.

“Great,” she told him, “if we hadn’t been party to a little scene next door. These walls are like cardboard. Some married man and his girlfriend. Kind of interesting.”

“Which room on which side of you?” George asked, never looking up from his reading.

“The one on the right,” I said. “I mean on the left. On the side furthest from the elevators.”

He laughed a little. “Lewis’s room, huh?”

“Who’s Lewis?” I asked.

He seemed annoyed at my slowness. “Lewis. Your senior stew on yesterday’s flight.”

We were shocked. “Miss Lewis?”

He was still annoyed, this time at our naïveté. “Yes. Miss Lewis. So she was swinging a little, huh? Interesting.”

Miss Lewis was already on board when we arrived to work our noon flight. Her face was as stern and unyielding as ever. The temptation was great to let something slip to show our knowledge of her extracurricular activities. Perhaps another few months on the line we would have that kind of boldness. But it was not prudent for two novice stewardesses.

George was quiet throughout the trip. He posed another temptation for us. Should we ask the obvious: how he knew where Miss Lewis was staying? That seemed unwise, too. But the more we thought of George Kelman, the more we became convinced there was something wrong with him. He either had to be officially connected with the airline, a spy for the stewardess union, a bring-’em-back-alive agent for The Amarillo or Louisville Chamber of Commerce, or maybe just a raving idiot who always wanted to be a stewardess.