Flying with the Rich and Famous: True Stories from the Flight Attendant who flew with them (9 page)

When I first began to wait on the rich and famous, this kind of behavior would make me try harder. As I became savvier, however, I would remind myself that someone else’s behavior was about them, not me.

DON KING

Don King, the notorious boxing promoter, chartered the airplane to attend a boxing match in the Niagara Falls area. He had a wild reputation. He’s been sued many times, and he’s relentlessly the butt of many a comedy sketch or cartoon villain. You’d think he was a total “strong arm” kind of guy, but he was nothing like that with me. I had a great time during his charter.

When he climbed the stairs and boarded the plane, he was so big and tall that his hair went straight up to the top of the headliner. As he walked through the cabin, his hair touched the
top of the airplane and bent backwards like an upside-down “L” or the number “7” or better yet, like the way bumper cars attach at the top of the ride! My goodness, this was such an amusing sight, watching him walk through the cabin while his hair followed behind. I started giggling and grinning because it was just so funny looking. Silly really, but it was to set the tone for the rest of the trip.

Don King came onboard with his entourage and some boxers I didn’t know, but that the pilots were all keyed up about. He was a chipper fellow, very outgoing and gregarious. He reminded me of a black Santa Claus! He was definitely in his element, telling everyone where to sit and what to do, like the director of his own personal play, which I guess is what he does. After we had taken off and reached our cruising altitude, he began to wander around and chitchat with the crew. He asked all about the airplane and about each of us, and then he asked us if we would pose for a photo. We took turns sitting on the couch
with him, laughing and taking pictures and being captivated by his energy and enthusiasm. Then he went up to the cockpit, where he stayed for a long while. I’m sure he was entertaining the pilots and suffering through (what an oxymoron!) their admiration of him and interest in boxing!

Don King invited the crew to a party that night and the boxing match the next day. The party was in a huge banquet room inside a remarkably fancy hotel. Everywhere you looked there were massive spreads of food next to elaborate ice sculptures and enormous flowing champagne glass fountains. The room was decorated in all white with gold-covered chairs, white tablecloths with gold runners and napkins, and glitter strewn about. Looming over all this was a gigantic crystal chandelier. The effect was ostentatious, to be sure.

As I took in the scene, I was struck by the contrast of the pale white and shiny gold décor in the midst of a sea of black—black people, I mean. With the exception of the flight crew—we
were some of the only white people in the room.

Then something unbelievable happened. We were eating and drinking and having a groovy old time, when Don King came up to us and addressed us by our first names! With all he had going on, he remembered our names. It seems my dad was right: remembering someone’s name is powerful.

As we were departing for our return to LA, the pilots told us that we would be flying over Niagara Falls at an extremely low altitude. Apparently, Don King had thrown his weight around and had somehow managed what the pilots thought was an impossible feat: getting clearance to fly over this unique wonder of the world relatively low in the sky.

When we reached the Falls, you could have heard a pin drop on that airplane—a coup in itself, especially with that crowd. No one spoke. No one wanted to ruin the moment of beauty and splendor below. It was such an extraordinary and unforgettable opportunity. Not to mention the sight of rear ends
lined up butt-to-butt to gaze out the windows. “Only in America, folks”—a famous Don King quip!

On a side note, I also had the opportunity to get clearance to fly over the rim of the Grand Canyon. It became a restricted airspace after sightseeing planes kept crashing into each other, but somehow at that time we were allowed to fly just above it. It was spectacular! Everything looks more formidable from above.

During this trip we landed in Page, Arizona so the passengers could take a boat tour of Lake Powell. Page, Arizona is on Indian reservations time, meaning they observe Daylight Savings time. The rest of the state of Arizona does not. They are the only state in the nation that does not change their clocks- due to their weather.

They are not the only places that don’t change time. Some counties do it in various states. It is very embarrassing when the passengers ask you what time you are landing and the pilots give me the wrong answer! But, it has happened a few
times. Or like when Hugo Chavez changed the country of Venezuela’s time zone just because he could! I learned to listen to the people on the ground—they know. Ah, but I digress.

Now let’s shift gears.

LARRY FLYNT

One beautiful morning when I was just about to enjoy a lengthy bike ride, I received an urgent call to get to the airport as soon as possible. Screech, change gears, and put bike away. Throw more clothes in an already packed suitcase (chronically conscientious), struggle into my uniform and haul ass to the airport.

In 1983, Larry Flynt was running for president of the United States and had chartered the plane to hit the campaign trail. A “Larry Flynt for President” campaign ad went: “Good morning, I am your worst nightmare come true: a fabulously wealthy pornographer with the courage and willingness to spend
my last dime to expose how you are perverting the Constitution of this great land. Now let’s get down to business.”

Larry Flynt, publisher of
Hustler
, was the first pornographer to show, ahem, well, let’s just say “more detailed parts” of a woman’s body inside the pages of his magazine. A few years prior to his candidacy, he was shot in an assassination attempt that left him partially paralyzed and wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life.

He was brought up the stairs to the airplane in a stair chair, also known as “straight backs,” in an air of seriousness. He had more security than entourage, but I suppose after what he’d been through, one might be on the skittish side. All the security detail had guns—lots of guns—and the pilots took issue (go figure, huh). It took a long time, but eventually Larry Flynt, his security and mine - the pilots, finally reached an agreement about the guns. Let me just say, if hair was to set the tone for Don King’s charter, guns were to set the tone for Larry Flynt’s.

Once we were airborne, Flynt had porn showing on every television screen (there were several television’s on Regent Air). Then he asked us to put on his T-shirts: “Larry Flynt for President.” The very next thing he asked was if we would sit in his lap on his wheelchair and take pictures with him. This photo session did not have the same connotation as Don King’s. There was no laughter and no fun involved. It was quite the opposite. The air was tense. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, almost violated just by sitting on this guy’s lap.

There were strange activities going on in the staterooms too, but because of my tender age and unwillingness to go back there, I stayed in the front part of the cabin. I heard stories from the other flight attendants that I wanted no part of.

We traveled around the United States while he campaigned and as much as I love my job, I couldn’t wait for this charter to end. I felt I matured ten years flying with Larry Flynt and lost an abundance of innocence that had no place in
this environment anyway. Welcome to the real world, baby.

DICK CLARK

When I was flying for Regent Air, flight attendants bid on schedules, just like the airlines do. Normally, we’d spend one night in Newark and return to Los Angeles around the same time the following day. But when we left on a Friday, we had two nights and the whole of Saturday to enjoy the city, so this was the flight I always bid. Many times I’d have the same passengers on both flights going to and from NYC for the weekend.

One Friday night, I was driving to Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) for my usual Friday thru Sunday stint, and wondering what shenanigans might lie ahead because almost every flight or layover had some kind of craziness going on. When I got to our terminal, I immediately grabbed my manifest and saw that Dick Clark was in one of my staterooms, traveling with his father.

Dick Clark! “America’s Oldest Teenager!” Right on! Barely out of my own teens, I was thoroughly excited to be flying with this icon. Everyone has watched New Years Rockin’ Eve with Dick Clark at least once—you know, that one year when you stayed home ! He hosted that show through 2012, the year he passed away. I grew up with his TV show
American Bandstand
.

All the crew hurried about getting the plane ready for our flight, but everyone seemed to be working faster than usual. What none of us realized is that we were all doing it for the same reason: so we wouldn’t miss his arrival. Even the office staff was out in force anticipating his appearance. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, the pilots, the ground crew, everyone.

Dick Clark had a line of airline paparazzi waiting for him. In fact, it took him forever to board the aircraft because he stopped to shake everyone’s hand. When he finally entered the cabin, a few of the flight attendants and I broke into song, “Start
spreading the news, we’re leaving today. I want to be a part of it, New York, New York.” I began to kick my legs like a Rockette and the other flight attendants followed suit. We had a mini singing, dancing welcome party for Dick Clark and he loved it! So did everyone else; the whole plane was singing. It was truly a moment because he was the absolutely perfect person to perform that song for and yet it was totally off the cuff. We pulled off the ultimate improv that night and it was an ideal way to launch our journey across the continent.

Dick Clark was fabulous, very mellow, kind, and considerate, a wise man that seemed to me to be very peaceful. His father must have been in his eighties or older; he was extremely frail and moved very slowly, sort of shuffling along to get to his seat. With a serene smile on his face, Dick Clark was right beside him, very patient with obvious love, attention, and dedication—the ultimate respect for his father.

I had always wondered why New York was labeled “The
Big Apple.” I was sure Dick Clark would be the perfect person to tell me. So I asked him! He thought about it and started to say something, then stopped, took a deep breath, exhaled and sort of mumbled, “I really don’t know why.” He had this rather bewildered expression on his face and kept looking at me as if he was thinking, “What the heck, why don’t I know?” He was definitely puzzled and was at a loss as to why he didn’t know. He was returning with us on the Sunday night flight back to LA, so he assured me he would find out because he was curious as well, very curious indeed.

When he reappeared for the flight back to LA, he was beaming at me with the look of “
I know something you want to know
!” Naturally, he had found the answer. It had something to do with an apple being a symbol for freedom. When you took a bite of an apple, you were taking a bite of freedom. So in old Europe, they would relate America to freedom and an apple to New York (Ellis Island being the gateway to freedom). He
explained this with great pride and enthusiasm.

I believed this to be true for years, but have since been told that it’s not that at all. Apparently, it all started from horse racing in the 1920s. The prizes won for the races were compared to apples. New York, having the ultimate racetrack, had the ultimate prize and therefore “The Big Apple.” Okay, before you all start shouting at me—who really knows? In any case, this is what I learned from the time I got to spend with Dick Clark: the world should be about others, not yourself.

LOS ANGELES KINGS

While flying private jets, I was building my repertoire of flight departments that would request me and trying to prove my worthiness to anyone who would take notice. I was then given the opportunity to do something different.

Bruce McNall owned the Los Angeles Kings. Bruce McNall claimed he made his money in coin collection; he
eventually went to prison having plead guilty to five counts of conspiracy and fraud—he also defaulted on something in excess of $200 million in bank loans. He was also an airplane enthusiast and owned a personal airplane, a JetStar (Tail#199LA). The LA Kings were doing very well that year, so he bought an older Boeing 727 (Tail # 299LA) and asked my flight attendant broker to help him configure it for the transport of the LA Kings to and from Canada for their hockey games. She in turn asked me and two others to be the flight attendants with her.

We determined what the crew needed, what the players needed, what the owners and coaches needed, and went to work preparing the aircraft. We organized the galley and what our meal service would entail, evaluated safety equipment and adjusted accordingly, tackled a never-ending shopping list, acquired caterers in every city, and scrubbed every inch of that plane. Then we stocked and decorated the cabin with every piece of LA Kings paraphernalia we could find. We put our heart and
souls into making that aircraft ready to transport the athletes, the managers, the coaches, the doctors, the dentists, the press, and whoever else might show up.

And we had a system. We would leave Van Nuys airport in Southern California in the early afternoon to be in Canada for game time, and often we would return to Van Nuys after the game. If this was the case, the players would be starving, like they-hadn’t-eaten-in-a-week starving. We couldn’t feed them fast enough, so it didn’t take us long to figure out that we also needed snack baskets of candy, nuts, and cookies in between each two-seat section to hold them over until we got to a level attitude (attitude: when the plane flies straight, but I know what you were thinking) where we could then serve a huge, delicious dinner. My co-worker Stephen (of Liz Taylor story – who we hid in the galley) had the galley all prearranged with individual casserole dishes that the caterers would have filled, usually with lasagna or something of that nature. We three girls would serve the salads,
bread, and butter while he was heating up the entrées.