TARA MAHER

Somewhere in the middle of July, I worked a flight that landed past midnight in Detroit after a grueling five-hour trip from LAX. The passengers, red-eyed and slow to pack up, looked as beaten as I was. It was summer, and storms raced across the country, causing havoc to the travel industry. 

After saying farewell to the frayed flyers, I scanned the departure board and prayed for a miracle. But all flights home to Chicago had either long departed or been canceled due to the dismal weather. The next flight to O’Hare departed at 5 a.m. I was stuck in my company-assigned base city for the night, where I began and ended all flight sequences.

I eyed the uncomfortable metal chairs in the gate area and ruled out staying put. Then, I contemplated the other choices I had. The employee crew lounge wasn’t terrible, with a dozen lazy-boy recliners dressed in first-class blankets and pillows. But it stank of diesel fuel and would be crammed due to the numerous weather-related misconnects. That left the crash pad, a cheap two-star motel that housed a pair of double beds. Like many crew members, I’d signed a month-to-month lease for emergencies like this. It wasn’t glamorous, but the rent was right since ten flight attendants divvied the cost. 

I held the keycard to the door pad, and a light flashed green. Not wanting to disturb anyone resting in the blackened room, I angled the company-assigned flashlight toward the floor and peeked over at the beds. A tangle of covers and soft breathing came from the bed closest to me, where a human mound slept. But the other bed looked promising, with neatly tucked sheets and fluffed pillows. 

Too tired to strip off the uniform dress, I tugged bobby pins to free my hair from its topknot, stepped from a pair of black concourse heels, and crawled under the covers. As I burrowed beneath the comforter, a creak, followed by a slice of light, interrupted. A uniformed figure with shoulder-length hair crept into the room. A flashlight clicked, and a spotlight cased both beds. 

I took slow and even breaths, praying the newcomer would choose “Mound” in the other bed, whoever that was. I’d signed the crash pad contract without learning the identities of the other nine flight attendants who had room access, which was common in the airline industry. A place to sleep was a place to sleep. Who shared space while trying to get shuteye mattered little.

When the scent of perfumy jasmine closed in, I knew the newcomer had chosen my bed. The covers pulled back, and “Jasmine” crawled onto the bed, settling beside me. Too tired to care about the new arrangement and resigned to sleeping with a stranger, I relaxed. In a few hours, I’d head home, where I could nestle alone in my bed. For a second time, I drifted toward sleep.

“Are you awake?” asked Jasmine.

At first, I ignored the question, but something in her tone, desperation, had me answer her honestly. “I am.”

“I’m in love,” Jasmine said.

“That’s beautiful,” I answered. And it was. I loved love, but I wasn’t in love. I’d hardly dated since the last bad breakup, where I’d been stalked like prey. But I was happy for her.

“And married.”

“That’s great.” The woman wearing the perfume was in love and married and talkative. Why wasn’t she in love, married and sleepy?

“It’s not. The man I’m in love with isn’t my husband.”

“Okay, that’s not great.”

“I’m in love with a guy in the Navy. He’s been away in Japan for two years and just returned.” 

Jasmine began to explain her state of affairs, and her tone dove from dreamy and wistful to a soft quivering. Navy-guy was sixteen years her junior and soon leaving the States again for a multi-year tour. She had three kids; one was still a baby. Her husband stopped buying her flowers years ago and slept in the guest room; worst of all, she didn’t really care. I stared into the darkness, digesting her sticky mess, ready to listen now with compassion, shoving aside the need for sleep. I’d been on the needing end of an ear a zillion times over the years, and in fly-world, your fellow crew acted as confidants, pseudo-family, and sometimes more if Cupid were involved.

“Are you going to see him?” I asked. In the faint glow of an alarm clock on the bedside table, I could make out that she rested on her back like I did. A position of contemplation.

Jasmine began to cry. “I don’t know. He’s The One. I never really expected to meet him.” She sniffed, and the mattress shifted as she rolled towards me, propping herself on an elbow. “I’d run away with him if I could. But the kids….it would ruin everything for them.”

When she began to bawl, her head dropped to the pillow. I considered taking her hand that had plopped onto the bedding and now brushed against mine, but there was something fundamentally wrong with holding hands in bed with a person you’d only just met. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said. Instead of physically reaching out, I pushed tonal sincerity and hoped verbal comfort would suffice. I was used to this type of “on-the-road counseling,” coined by airline insiders as “jump seat therapy,” but it usually occurred on the airplane. 

“Me too. Five years into marriage, two toddlers, a house in the suburbs, and I meet my soulmate.”

The hiccup sobs intensified to a low wailing. Maybe Mound in the other bed would wake and join in on the therapy. Perhaps she––or he––would rattle off soothing words to console my bed companion. But despite the intense and loud weeping, Mound remained still as a corpse, sleeping or pretending to sleep, leaving me to do the calming. 

Despite my single status, I knew the trials of the heart well and would try to help. By my mid-thirties, I was a few ex-fiancés deep and had a plethora of romances in the rearview mirror. Plus, I had experience dating somebody in the “wrong” age category, so I could relate to my bed buddy in that area. I hadn’t found a soulmate, or soulmates yet, though I believed it was possible to find someone who wholly understands you and comes with dynamite chemistry. I was the type who didn’t easily let go of the idea of Santa Claus. More awake than tired now and curious to hear a “love of my life” story that hadn’t yet ended, I prompted her. “How’d you meet him?” 

“In Corpus Christi a few years back. A couple flight attendants and I rented a condo on the beach for the weekend to relax….” Her hushed voice, teeming with passion, tumbled in the dark, unraveling her magnet-to-steel attraction to the military guy, detailing her year of layovers in San Antonio near where Navy-guy was stationed. 

I listened carefully and offered words of commiseration or consoling where I could, mostly chiming in at the familiar heartbreak parts. I was invested in Jasmine’s dilemma. I had a long habit of thanking military personnel for serving our country. I hadn’t dated any but found men in uniform appealing.

Mound snored softly nearby, and Jasmine whispered about her under-the-covers-thunder that didn’t exist in her marriage as she detailed the sailor’s talents to the point where my face warmed, embarrassed for her over the intimacy she painted in the pitch black of the room.

Then, at three o’clock in the morning, pairs of footsteps pounded along the corridor. Would Mound get a bed companion or two, making it a full house? Something like that had happened a few years back when I’d been New York-based and sharing a crash pad in Queens. During a winter storm, fourteen stranded crew members––flight attendants and a few pilots––showed up to the crowded one-bedroom. Most claimed bunk beds, futons, or spots on tattered couches. A few watched movies or played cards. I made microwave popcorn and listened to an old playlist on repeat with headphones, mouthing the lyrics about being caught between the moon and New York City while falling in love until the sun rose, revealing a whitened world and a brand-new day. 

The footsteps in the hallway passed, then echoed in the distance. For now, it would just be the three of us. Jasmine had fallen silent, suggesting she’d cried herself to sleep. But then she stirred and moved closer to me, her breath warm on my face. “I didn’t tell him about the baby’s blue eyes.”

Whose baby? Rest wasn’t in the cards. I sidestepped, not wanting to get into who had the baby blues, her husband, or the Navy guy. “Where’re you headed tomorrow?” 

“I’m supposed to go home to Indiana–––I wasn’t going to see him after he returned from Japan.” Jasmine began to cry again, this time with complete abandon. “But I can’t not be with him. And I don’t want to get a divorce.” 

“That’s tough.”

“I know. My husband’s a good guy and a great dad. I should go home, but a flight to San Antonio departs in a couple hours.” The longing in her voice was back. “I know I shouldn’t go to Texas. Or should I? What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, answering her honestly. The Catholic upbringing in me had an opinion, but so did the hopeless romantic. “I guess follow your heart.”

“You’re right.” Jasmine sat up then, taking the thin blanket with her. “Thank you. I’m going to the terminal to wait for the San Antonio flight. Sorry, I kept you awake.”

“No worries––and good luck.” 

“Thanks,” Jasmine said and slid from the bed.

After she slipped out the door, I didn’t sleep. My thoughts rested on fated love. Love that sparked then flamed between two people and knew no bounds. The Romeo and Juliet tale. The Bogie and Bacall story. The Tristian and Iseult saga. The want or need of one another, never to be satiated because of circumstances. I wondered how Jasmine’s story would end, and I realized that I could never find out. Though my bed partner had divulged her deepest secret, she hadn’t mentioned her name, nor had I given mine. Not knowing any of her physical details like hair, eye, or skin color, I couldn’t pick her out of our airline’s ten thousand flight attendants, even if we crewed a future flight together.

***

Months later, I was working on a plane that had departed San Antonio, heading for Detroit. I arrived at a row with a uniformed man in the middle of the cabin service. He was turned toward the window, seemingly lost in thought, staring at the blue abyss.

“Hi,” I said, attempting to get his attention to take his order. “Would you like a beverage?” Gorgeous is a word I rarely use to describe men, but the guy fit the bill. Angled jaw, blue eyes the color of the Baltic Sea, and a body that wouldn’t stop. He was wearing a US Navy uniform.

He shook his head, smiling politely.

“Thank you for serving our country,” I said to him, suddenly remembering the up-all-night affair at the crash pad in Detroit. I released the cart brake, pushed forward, and addressed the next row. The Navy guy probably wasn’t Jasmine’s fated love. Then again, maybe he was––anything was possible. 

The encounter left me stuck on the fact that everyone has someone out there waiting to be met, which elevated my mood. I poured two Pepsi’s and mixed a gin and tonic, smiling genuinely at the customers, which I often did. The day was young, the sky was blue, and the air teemed with possibility.

That day, the captain steered the plane westward through a clear blue sky. The sardined public, pressed in rows, waited with tapping fingers for drinks and snacks. Due to moderate turbulence the service had been delayed for most of the flight, so now in only an hour, the Airbus 320 would touchdown in Los Angeles and end the four-hour journey.

When we finally appeared in the aisles, some folks painted on polite expressions. Others wore the starved-skinny dog look edging in on fresh kill. A few lucky souls slept through the bumps and wait. With a loaded cart, I trolleyed down the aisle, front-to-back, offering Pepsi and pretzels like any other flight, on any other day.

A couple rows beyond where I served, a young woman with bookish glasses, along with her companion, squeezed past the knees of their seatmate and moved into the aisle. This couple––he with the height of a basketball great and she, curvy-figured, grabbed hands, and joined a few passengers already queued outside the working rear lavatory. The only other bathroom for main cabin passenger use sported a mess of yellow caution tape slapped on prior to the flight because an airline mechanic couldn’t locate the part needed in time for takeoff.

Like sheepdogs who snooze guarding their flock until a distressed lamb mews, flight attendants monitor passengers, ready to act when needed. So there I was, out in the aisle, feeding and watering the masses. Eyeing the happy, He-tall and She-curvy, couple whose hands found the other’s pockets. They kissed. Whispered. Giggled. I made a mental note of the duo, kicked off the cart brake, and rolled up a few rows.

“Drink or pretzels?” I asked a mother who had the frayed look of someone who could use a glass of wine, or maybe something stronger. On her lap, she rocked a baby who wailed. Her toddler twins, seated at her sides, squirmed, whined and kicked the backs of the seat row in front of them. After I poured her some water––that’s all she wanted––I placed a mountain of pretzels and enough apple juice for a week on her tray table.

“Drink or pretzels?” I asked the next row of passengers. This batch was the undecided type. The “what do you have to drink” question popped from a mouth. I rattled off the list: Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Sierra Mist, Diet Sierra Mist, Club Soda, Tonic, Orange Juice, Apple Juice, Beer, Wine, Mixed Drinks, Water, Coffee, and Tea.

“Do you have Coke?” I bristled, then settled. How many times had I badgered some poor waiter at a restaurant with a similar question? Too many to respond to this passenger with, “did I say I had Coke?” I smiled instead. Then I apologized for not having Coke onboard.

“I guess I’ll take a tea with cream and sugar,” the passenger said.

Tea. Of course, the Coke passenger required a tea. The only beverage we didn’t keep on the beverage cart was tea. Had the airline crew schedulers had enough staff available for the trip, a fourth flight attendant might have run to the back galley to fiddle around with the hot water spigot. But today’s flight carried the minimum number of crew required; only three flight attendants worked the leg. I’d have to get the tea myself. Brake set in park, I sucked in and scooted around the cart. I excused myself to the crowd lined up for the bathroom––now eight passengers deep––and noted He-tall and She-curvy, were the next two.

When I emerged from the galley, He-tall and She-curvy, had disappeared. The next up, a middle-ager wearing a suit with a pinstripe tie, raised his eyebrows in a “what are you going to do about it” challenge. I smiled in an “absolutely nothing” kind of way and walked the tea up the aisle to the passenger who’d requested it.

I kicked off the cart brake and rolled forward. “Drink or pretzels?” In this row, only one passenger paid attention to my question. A window-seat woman kept her eyes glued on a book. The Time Traveler’s Wife. I made a mental note to buy it. The middle seat slept. The aisle guy nodded but asked only for pretzels since he needed to use the bathroom. I backed up my cart to let him out into the aisle, noting the baker’s dozen now lined for the lav, and bumped up to the next row.

“Drink or pretzels?” This trio had the hungry-wolf look. Three pairs of red-lined eyes, either from lack of sleep or too much booze, shot in my direction. When they ordered, each used the magical “please.” I handed off cans of tonic and extra pretzels to complement the liquor mini collection I deposited on their tray tables.

Before I could address the next row, a sour stench filled the air. Someone from behind tapped my shoulder. I turned to find the mom with the twins and infant wailer. She had the baby––now covered in puke––in a strapped-on carrier and grasped the hand of each toddler.

“Can I get by you to use the bathroom?” she asked. I wasn’t a mom. But I knew the face of desperation when I saw it. This mom was near crumble.

I contemplated three choices, all bad. 

One, steer the woman to the first-class cabin where two passengers hovered outside of the only bathroom. This was a major no-no since strict rules prohibited a crowd outside the flight deck. 

Two, let the mom with children squeeze by my cart and wait in the impossible, not-moving-forward-any-time-in-this-century line. 

Or three, march the woman to the head of the frozen queue that hadn’t moved since He-tall and She-curvy had taken up residence, and bang on the bathroom door.

Like any other compassionate human, I chose option three and paraded the mama and her ducklings down the aisle. I excused us around the other agitated bathroom waiters, begging forgiveness with verbal apologies and a smile.

As my fist balled to knock, the lav door handle jiggled. Laughter from within lifted above the hum of the engine and the door pushed wide. 

He-tall emerged first. Sweat beaded on his brow as he puffed to catch his breath, reminding me of someone who’d sprinted through an entire 5K. He shrugged. No apologies. A proud look on his face. Next, She-curvy spilled into the aisle. I couldn’t decide at first what shade of red best described her face when she scanned the line for the lav. Not crimson. Or scarlet––though that shade described the rouge lipstick smeared around her lips. As She-curvy muttered something about her man helping while she got sick in the bathroom, I nailed her cheek color: corvette red.

I nodded. Smiled. I didn’t ask her what kind of sick had been going down for the past fifteen minutes. The details of her mile high extravaganza were for the ears of her closest friends. Neither I, nor the dozen folks listening in, needed a blow-by-blow report.

The line for the lav cleared in under five minutes. Even the mom with the puked-up kids was quick. With beverage service complete, I trotted down the aisle to collect trash and check on the passengers. He-tall and She-curvy, had settled into each other, spent from their mid-air adventure. 

As I passed by, I considered offering congratulatory drinks, suddenly wishing for the first time that smoking on flights was still a thing––I’d have given them both a cigarette. But then a better thought formed. I could give them each a set of plastic kiddie wings. This would be the perfect souvenir for their firsts. Or perhaps a sticker might mark their accomplishment. Something similar to I VOTED with the check mark, but more in the flavor of a Red Bull ad, like a sketch of a winged toilet with a grin.

In the end, I skipped offering any fanfare to highlight the lovebird’s moment and continued to pick up the cabin. Before long, I said my “have a great days’’ to the passengers. When He-tall and She-curvy stepped from the plane into a sunny-sky day, I gave my farewell extra gusto and grew my smile into a grin. This brought the corvette red shade back to She-curvy’s cheeks. Even He-tall pinked up a little.

I didn’t know what lay ahead for the duo––maybe a baby later in the year christened “Skye” ––or who I might shepherd on the return ride to the Midwest. Each flight carries its own unique set of passengers. But what I did know is I’d witnessed a twist on a popular quote. At 30,000 feet, “love is in the air” is much more than just an expression.