Flying with Egypt

Egypt first thing when we sit in the jump seat shows me a photo of her being Tina Turner for Halloween. She expects me to compliment her, so I do, and then Egypt asks what I was for Halloween. “Jeffrey Dahmer,” I say, because several people have pointed out at different times that I resemble the guy, the cannibal let’s just say. Egypt for her part laughs too loud too long. She’s noticed the resemblance, but whatever. I wanna be alone with my thoughts, only the dialogue must continue. Egypt iterates and reiterates her itinerary, how she has an appointment to keep with her mulch service in Kalamazoo. She doesn’t discuss her love life, thank you Jesus. Instead she goes on about cruises, which I despise. A bajillion people shitting together under the same floating roof, the buffets, lines of buffets, all these people wasting money to try and relive some kind of bad Titanic scene.

Oh, and I learn of Egypt’s gardening project, blah blah, the flower types Egypt bought at Lowe’s, blah blah, hydrangeas, blah blah, the flowers in the pictures not matching the names she gives. The longer I sit with Egypt, the worse I feel. Egypt’s like a leaking orange Sunkist, her stuff everywhere all over the plane, under the jump seat and in the little compartments close by the galley. Disheveled is a word for Egypt, a potential landslide of miscellaneous paper. In her company you hear a shuffle of paper bag, like what you encounter at a Wendy’s takeout counter.

After mulch in Kalamazoo, Egypt’s tired, but to New Orleans we fly. We check in to Sheridan Metairie. I see Egypt in the lobby getting her two things of gumbo. I’m with the captain. He’s already bought me two beers. We’re chit-chatting about how we both are new to the corporation. My captain complains of overnights in Akron, a port that is pretty much on every pilot’s shitlist, and Midland/Odessa. We’re connecting on multiple issues. I’m having a fine time until I see Egypt step into the elevator with her two gumbo containers. As the doors close Egypt gives me a suggestive look, one that says she thinks I’m fawning over the captain. Ten minutes later Egypt messages me: “The Gumbo is good! Not 2 spicy with shrimp & sausage!”

Day three, leg six, we meet at noon in front of the Sheridan. We’re shuttled to the New Orleans airport. Out the window we see dread. We’re dreading the three and a half hour flight to Vegas. Here we gotta deal with the Bloody Mary lifers, the vodka cranberries, and the occasional dope wanting Bailey’s and hot chocolate—Cringe City. Slick, slippery New Orleans out there beyond the windows, sweat on everything in May. I’m kinda mad that I didn’t venture into the French quarter, visiting the seedier bars, like this one called the Phoenix that I’ve been to on several occasions, where just behind your head guys are getting blowjobs against the wall—I don’t know why I like it, it’s disgusting.

We enter the plane. We help the previous crew wipe the plane down, then on the jet bridge after the briefing we say goodbye to our fellows in flight, except for Vince Burnham, also known as Coach Teen Burnemdown, as I come to find out later. Vince Burnham is to fly with us across the next leg.

Vince is, oh, Andrew-Cooper-looking, a fit, moobless silver fox, though I wouldn’t call him a daddy. He’s older than me, and distinguished, professorish, you can tell he knows his stuff, doesn’t fuck around, is here to work. He’s the DFA. His main job is to help the AFA—that would be Egypt—with the boarding process and the pax, which is what we call passengers, though I have yet to figure out why. Vince’s face is messed up from a past with acne, but he is not here to talk begonias, which I’m glad about, and I notice his interest in my food bag right off—healthy food—I carry a large food bag—with whole carrots, one large zucchini, a cucumber, green onions, lots of little spices, apple cider vinegar, grains and beans, dried fruits and nuts, hemp milk, boiled eggs and ice packs.

Up in the air then we do snacks. It’s a snack flight. As CFA I bring Egypt’s snacks up front to assist with disbursement. Having been out of work a couple of months from the broken femur I sustained in Thailand, I’ve sorta forgot protocol—this is an 800, our largest aircraft—but I have prepared everyone’s snacks, brought Egypt hers. I see Vince in the middle of the aircraft getting stuff done so he can take drink orders. Clearly Vince needs help. The wicker baskets we use for snack disbursement are awkward, a weird size, it’s easier and quicker with two.

Okay, so Egypt’s section is 1 through 8, mine 9 through 16—I’m helping Vince between 23 and 19. “Hey Buck,” Vince says, “is your brother in prison still for extortion?” I come back with, “Yeah yeah, he’s enjoying himself there. He loves jail. They actually serve him Shrimp Scampi.” This amuses the pax. We’re cutting up, funning, being funny, trying to make the best of a lousy day ahead. My real brother is in prison for selling crack cocaine, but that’s neither here nor there. With Vince I feel a sense of belonging brewing up, a sense of being appreciated like for something more than merely what I look like. People tell me I’m handsome, and I guess I am, in that lazy-eyed, brooding Jeffrey Dahmer kind of way.

Egypt is looking over at us, steaming. Vince jumped the gun for sure. The way Egypt sees it, why not take drink orders at the same time while passing out snacks? It’s called a twofer. Makes sense. Vince’s go-getter approach is an improvement over the system in place, but Egypt is AFA, the one who calls it. When Vince and I go back to get the drinks ready, the interphone rings. Ding. I pick up. “Buck in the back.”

“It’s Egypt, I’m up here with the snacks. I’m wondering if you might help me disburse the snacks.”

“I’ve already done my snacks, and I’m getting my drinks out now. I’m in mid-drink service.”

Vince and Reba’s ears perk up a little.

Reba’s the BFA. She looks a ton like Elizabeth Taylor did her younger days, like in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof where she plays the lead role opposite Paul Newman, back when she had the shorter hair. That’s Reba for looks, big boobs, just she’s shorter than Elizabeth Taylor, and loves dogs.

Reba and Vince think why the hell is Egypt calling you about her snacks?

I get their point. It takes time away from my job—I got people waiting on their silly hot chocolates and spicy bloody Mary mixes.

“You’re supposed to help me with the snacks,” Egypt says.

“Oh, I’m sorry Egypt, uhm, do you think you need my help still?”

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” I say, “give me a minute,” and I hang up the interphone.

I’m thinking: You’ve been dealing with rows 1 through 8 for the last 2 days, which is about 48 passengers each leg, all needing both peanut and pretzel. The only thing changed is the incorporation of a cheese cracker. Like, why do you need my help? What is this about? It’s like you’re trying to make order out of the fact that you’re disordered. You’re starving for attention. Are you upset that I’m having fun with Vince?

Diva City here. The day before, as we exited the aircraft in New Orleans, Egypt lost her service pin that commemorated her years of service for the airline. She’s got the captain, first officer, me, and some general ops from the jet bridge looking for it from the front to the back of the aircraft. Nobody can find it. The captain miraculously finds only the backing of the pin. Egypt’s not happy, but she’s gotta disembark, so gathers up all her plastic bags, her to-go items, her remnants, her high heels, her hair clip, her Xerox copies of the announcements.

In the shuttle the captain was like, “We found the backing of your pin, Egypt, let’s cheer up, eh?” but Egypt was pissed, didn’t say thank you. “You know, Egypt,” I said, “you can go to the crew lounge, they’ll give you another pin.”

I hang up the interphone. Coach Teen Burnemdown says, “What the fuck does Egypt want?”

“She’s mad because I didn’t help her with snacks.”

My colleagues in air are like don’t help her, Egypt can handle it. Don’t go up there. You’re in the middle of your drink service. And I’m like, “I know, I’d love to finish it.” I call back, two chimes, ding-dong ding-dong. Egypt picks up, says, “Hey, it’s Egypt,” sexy in her voice. “Hey Egypt,” I say, “you know what? I am, actually, almost done with my drink service. Do you mind if I finish these off and then come up and help you out?”

 “Ughh, no, no, honey, that’ll be fine,” and she clicks things down.

I finish out my drinks. Vince and Reba think it’s appalling that Egypt’s even asked me to help her with hers. And Vince says, “You know what? I’ll go help her out.” He goes up to help and Egypt’s already finished. Coach Teen Burnemdown comes back. He says, “Seems like she’s finished.”

“Oh, good, I’ll do trash now.”

After trash I go up there—we’re about a quarter of the way to Vegas—to see Egypt like struggling to get her drinks out. Even though it’s not my responsibility to take Egypt’s snacks back, I can tell she wants me to. I know if I play into Egypt’s design, whatever it is, she’ll continue to use me this way. I have a job to do. I can’t do my job as well as filling Egypt’s void, so I don’t offer to take her snacks back.

Egypt is trying to milk me, for what I don’t know. It’s like we’re getting out of work into some kind of weird therapeutic zone. I want no part of it. I hate confrontation. I hate having to condescend to people. I despise anything that puts me in humiliating situations such as what transpired in Thailand, the broken leg and subsequent hospital stay. I blame the German for that. It was his damn room, and he hadn’t checked how secure the railing of his balcony was. It overlooked a plaza with a fountain in the middle. The railing busted loose. We fell from the second floor to the sidewalk. He had all his clothes on, but I was naked except for my socks, and was drunk. It brought on some shame. In addition to my leg I broke ribs, and was interviewed by the Thai police. The only harm to come to the German was the broken nose. He was proud of his aquiline-ass stupid nose. The German blames me for his nose getting messed up. Of course I was blocked from the German’s networks.

Now Egypt does this thing like, Hey, look at me hauling this trash. Nobody is helping me. Vince and I in the back of the aircraft meanwhile are getting to know each other. Vince lets out that he has a website called Coach Teen Burnemdown, where he provides advice to teenaged boys on how to “burn down the houses of persecution that surround” them—Vince’s words. Sounds great. I look it up on the net right then and there, and see it’s all about getting along in the world, excelling in life as a youngster. Vince is pictured bare-chested on a beach in Mexico with a fatherly smile, and I see, too, that Vince has quite the following. I say, “Wow, Vince, this is cool. I wish I’d had something like this when I was coming up,” and then we’re talking about what’s in my food bag, my probiotic pills and zucchini. We have similar approaches to working in the flight business and staying healthy. Vince loves deserts. And he and his “partner”—yes, it always comes out, they always have a partner—a Chinese guy, are gonna buy a church on the outskirts of Chicago, turn it into a bakery.

I love stuff like that. Vince wants me to see shots of the church, and I reveal that I’ve done quite a bit of design myself. He’s like “Oh, you do interiors?” and hands me his phone. He wants my opinion. I look at a couple photos. I’m saying, “You really got something here. It wouldn’t take much to turn this around, make it appealing to the public. The bones are good.” I scroll down while he’s talking. I’ve got a premonition. I just listen to the devil on my shoulder and scroll down further and there it is—Coach Teen Burnemdown in all his glory. He stands, leaning back into a hammock, its net spread out behind him, his feet in the grass and a lake moving off into the distance, mountains back there, and snow on those mountains. In that flash of a second I see his rocket ready for takeoff. Looks made of metal, and the tight balls.   

Egypt steams in earnest now, is mad while Vince and I talk. Reba and I talk. Reba and Vince talk. All of us talk, but nobody talks to Egypt. We know Egypt. We know her type can ruin our day. Vince is not trying to hide that he’s flirting with me. We’re getting closer. His breath is not so great, honestly, but Vince says he needs somebody to come out to Chicago to look at his church. “Yeah, Vince, I should give you guys my digits,” I say, and rip a piece of paper off my drink request. I jot down my number and hand it over. “Please text me,” I say, and I say, “then I’ll have your number too.”

Approaching the high desert, Egypt and I share jump seat, again. We sit side by side, strapped in. I put my best foot forward and ask how she’s doing. She rolls her eyes, says, “Shit didn’t have the shit in it.”

“I’m sorry, Egypt, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“The mulch,” Egypt says, “in Kalamazoo. They said it would have chicken shit in it but I didn’t see any.”

“Did they rip you off? How do you know it wasn’t in there?”

“I know. Some things you just know.”

“You had a premonition. I wish I was like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Knowing whether or not chicken shit is in a load of compost must be like seeing into the future. I wish I could look into my future.”

“Yeah, sure, fuck you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“If you’re gonna make fun of me, fuck you. I don’t have to listen to your shit, Buck. What I was trying to say was I paid money for something that I didn’t get. I feel violated.”

“I see you’re upset, Egypt, would you like to talk about it?”

“No, let’s get this over with. It’ll be over soon. We’ll never have to see each other again.”

“I know you’re not mad about the chicken shit,” I say. “Sometimes it helps if you talk about what’s really bothering you.”

“You have a big heart, right? You want to help people wherever you go. You gonna keep playing with me like this? Gonna act like you haven’t been ignoring me this whole flight and turning your damn nose up?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Egypt.”

“You slob.”

“What?”

“Drooling over the DFA in plain sight, totally not doing your job.”

“I was not drooling.”

“Go ahead and think that, Buck.”

“Egypt,” I say.

“Don’t say my name. I don’t wanna hear my name in your mouth.”

“Egypt, calm down.”

“What did I just say?!”

“I didn’t mean anything,” I say very soft, and realize that I need to humor Egypt. “I’m sorry, Egypt, if I offended you, I didn’t mean—”

“There you go again!” she screams. “I don’t want people who hate my guts saying my name, okay? I just told you that. Why doesn’t it register?”

A pax, I notice, has been filming us, and I have no idea how much of our conversation she’s recorded. With my current luck this video will go viral on YouTube. I don’t want to think about that, and anyway I’m upset over Egypt’s big reveal. I’m not thinking straight. I should stay quiet, but I’m afraid Egypt might put in more insults. In a soft friendly voice that makes it seem like Egypt and I are good friends and have just been funning with each other this whole time, I say, “My pay is getting a fifteen percent deduction from the student loans I took fifteen years ago. I’ve meant to hire a lawyer to help me figure things out. You know, I have dreams. With this job I was hoping to get my good credit back. I want to buy a chalet in Ireland, or get something going in the countryside outside of Paris, where I have some friends, but my debts are through the—”

“Yawn yawn yawn,” Egypt states, and pats her mouth.

In this tone of things we land, in silence. We facilitate the departure of the pax and Egypt says she’s hungry, wants Burger King. She dings the back, asks Reba would she like a Whopper Junior, which Egypt knows is Reba’s preferred BK item. Reba wants one, sure, a Whopper Junior, sounds good.

In Vegas we’ve got fifty minutes of ground time. Egypt aborts her cleaning duties, but in all fairness I gotta say I suggested it. I approved of the idea. I wanted to get rid of Egypt. I’ve had it with Egypt, and the BK order turned out to be the perfect device. Coach Teen Burnemdown, with his ripped abs concealed below the uniform, is pissed. “What the fuck does she think she’s doing?” he says, and says, “Is there time to leave the plane to go get a fucking burger?” and he storms off to the back of the plane with all his burning good looks. The guy’s ass is phenomenal to begin with, but looks twice as nice when he’s angry. Maybe Egypt is right, I’m thinking. I try to see the world through her eyes, how she may have sensed in me an unfavorable prejudice, a preference for dudes.  

Truth is I’ve lacked a dude in my life. I’ve done the airline gig for a year now, and it’s become increasingly clear I’ll never be in one place long enough to go steady. A guy in every port, never build a fort. My life is like one guy’s only available on weekends, the other guy has a boyfriend, but has an open relationship, some sparks going on with me, but nothing takes. As a result I end up doing stupid shit in bathhouses and parks with guys who I’ll probably never see again, like on my knees with the possibility that somebody is secretly filming, just to get a sense that somebody loves me, that I’m a part of the big of picture, that I am not dead.

It’s been a while. I feel the need for affection bubbling up within, but Vince is done for the day. Coach Teen Burnemdown has done his job, is free to go. I don’t get to say goodbye good. We sort of hug and that’s it. Vince walks off with his flight bag, taking with him that ephemeral sense of hope I get whenever somebody awesome shows me attention. It’s not fair, I’m thinking. This doesn’t have to end. I can control my future. I hurry out into the airport looking for Coach Teen Burnemdown. He is nowhere. Chances are slim to none Southwest will pair us up again. I scour the airport, nothing, then hit Starbucks. The line is taking too long, so I return to the plane with nothing. I am empty-handed, but Egypt is eating her burger. “Did you find him?” she asks, and smirks, gives me an exaggerated wink.

By the looks of things I’ve given Egypt the upper hand in our thing, in our relationship, as people call it. From now on I’m gonna be more open. In truth she’s beyond measure crazy awesome. Did I say Egypt rides a Harley? We chit. We chat. We smooth over our previous battle, and soon the new pax board. We help them into the tube, and alas our captain dings the bell, ding ding, clearing us for liftoff. Because Egypt doesn’t like to fly A, I do the announcement. I say: “Ladies and gentleman, double-check those seat belts. The captain has cleared us for departure.”

John Oliver Hodges lives in East Orange, New Jersey. His fictions have appeared recently in Thin Air Magazine, Pacifica Literary Review, Molotov Cocktail, and Black Scat Review.