Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Read online

  JUMPSEAT

  A Tale of Twisted Fate

  E. E. VALENCIANA

  Mahalo for your kokua wahine

  Judy Ruiz Verhoek

  &

  Nancy Stek

  Disclaimer: This work is based on actual events in the life of the author as best I can remember and/or research. Some names have been changed for what I believe to be obvious reasons, one being privacy. Occasionally, dialogue has been supplemented and events compressed.

  “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” - Maya Angelou

  Prologue

  Anyone who says that time will lessen the deep-rooted pain in one's soul, lies. Those who preach patience and perseverance do so for their own peace of mind. Their words are a cruel excuse, a mere ploy allowing them to step back from the circle of plague of one who is damned, lest they be tainted by the misery apparent to all who gaze in. These were the thoughts that consumed my mind as I stood at the end of the Manhattan Beach pier. I searched the coastline northward a few miles toward Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), the home of my beloved airline. There was a brisk chill in the air that November morning in 1986. Winter had come early.

  They called me a hero. A miracle. I became the poster child for the airline and eventually, the target of the angry. You see, I had the good fortune and the bad fortune to survive.

  “Bury it away,” my own mother' constantly urged. “Just don't think of it.”

  “That's fine for everyone else,” I whispered to no one and everyone. They, the entire world, were safely outside the grasp of this vicious cocoon that continually tightened its grip on me, crushing my hopes and dreams. Its source was the first thing I thought of the moment I awakened on any given morning. Its agony was my last companion at night, always engaging to rob me of badly needed sleep, delighting in my imprisonment of relentless taunts.

  Suddenly, I spotted an aircraft soaring skyward just seconds after take-off from LAX. It was a Boeing 747. It was soon followed by a 737. I was very familiar with the characteristics of that aircraft. I was a certified Flight Attendant, a professional crew-member of my airline, one who saw to the safety and well-being of my assigned passengers. These were the golden days of aviation travel, pre 9/11, when a company identification badge and a gentle smile afforded a well-respected crew-member undeterred access from the employee parking lot, aboard the company crew bus, straight to the terminal building and appropriate departure gate. There, an unsold comfortable seat would be offered to an off-duty employee.

  My hands firmly gripped the metal railing of the pier as my anxiety grew. Then a McDonnelI-Douglas DC-10 shot into the sky. I focused in on its large red logo, the same trademark was planted in the center of my precious flight wings. I would be boarding such an aircraft later this night, bound for Minneapolis,(MSP). I could stand it no more. I was intent on forcing a conclusion to my despicable dilemma. I was a trusted associate of my airline; my true intent would have been unthinkable. Now, unexpectedly, this posed a big problem.

  “Forget about it.” My sweet mother's voice filled my head once more.

  “Don't you think I would if I could, Mom?”

  Everyone around me desired that this wicked quandary be controlled like a light switch, as if one could just turn the torment off. The psychosis convinced me that the rest of the universe believed I wished to embrace the ungodly pain and suffering. Like some masochist the emptiness became my new-found love. The malignant tumor in my soul denied me the ability to rationalize. The need for survival created the set of skills I needed to become a master of pantomime. No matter how grueling the anguish became, the smile would not fade, the consequences be damned.

  God was to blame, leaving me to do a job He should have taken care of that dreadful Halloween morning so long ago. The airline, the governments in all their hypocrisies, and all the corrupt little assholes looking to make a fast buck on the misfortune of others – they all shared in this hideous fiasco.

  “How in the hell did I allow myself to be reduced to such a level of disdain?” I asked myself. I slowly gathered my emotions and tried to recall the pathway, the people and events that had led me to this miserable point in my life. I recollected the years. God, I so enjoyed the thrill of flying. I drifted back in time to the day I entered the company's headquarters, the executive offices on Avion Drive, at LAX.

  Muerto: Death himself. A common element in culture and history personified in male form. He may cause the victim's death by coming to collect him. One may hold onto life by avoiding Muerto's visit, or by fending him off with bribery or tricks.

  Part I

  Earning My Wings

  Chapter I

  It was a more simple time, the 1970's. The nation was healing from the hangovers of Vietnam, Watergate and the oil crisis. An unknown peanut farmer from Georgia was hailed as a breath of fresh air in his bid to capture the White House. Freddie Mercury and Queen were rising strong on the rock music scene and The Sex Pistols sang of anarchy in the U.K.

  The employment department of the Los Angeles based airline was having a busy season. With the oil crisis receding, both business and commerce in general could focus on the future. Cheaper oil meant cheaper airfares. Cheaper fares meant more passengers and more money with which to purchase cheaper jet fuel. This meant a profit which led to the purchase of more aircraft and that required a need to hire and train new recruits as flight crews.

  What had primarily been accepted as a “woman’s job” prior to 1973 was now, by the opinion of the Supreme Court, being pushed by the aviation human resource offices as a career. Stewardess was no longer an acceptable term. “Flight Attendant,” was the phrase of this new age for aviation. With strong federal government regulations in place at that time, the future looked bright indeed. The industry seemed to reconsider its initial push for the male candidate by concentrating on the professional attributes of the vocation. It had become evident that there had been a shift midstream to change the image of flight crews as a whole.

  Arriving in the early morning at the executive offices, I signed in and was ushered into a large room with the other eligible candidates. We were advised to sit on one of the many basic black office chairs, with partial tabletop: the type one might find at a community college. They were all arranged in neat equally spaced rows. Some overly anxious prospects quickly moved to the front of each aisle. To these young individuals, this was more an audition than an interview for a job. The well-dressed young men and women were of a variety of backgrounds, ethnically and economically. A fashion model aura seemed to glow in all of them.

  A office worker passed out company employment applications. I looked down at the request for the names of the schools I had attended. As I emerged myself into the petition for details I reflected back on my past, my upbringing, and the events that led me down the road to this day, this airline. I thought of my parochial journey.

  I spent nine years attending Our Lady of the Rosary of Talpa School learning from the priests and nuns the morals and faith of my family, my heritage. Along with that, at a great sacrifice to my parents, I studied four more years at a prestigious all-boys Catholic high school. Then there was college, all in the hopes of my parents that I would make something of my life, have better opportunities than what was presented to them. How would I ever find the words to tell these two hard working people that all their sacrifice and all the education was so I could seek a position as a flight attendant.

  My mother, Alicia, was initially a stay at home wife, as were most Hispanic women of that time. Later, when we were older, she became a valued sales associate for J.C. Penney. Her first duty was always to the children, the family. I was the second of thr
ee siblings. I had an older brother, Miguel, and a younger sister, Alicia Jr. My father, Reynaldo, had come out of World War II taking full advantage of the veterans' education benefits offered to those who served. They struggled greatly in the beginning, my father doing whatever it took during the day and studying in the evenings trying to get ahead in the spectrum of East Los Angeles. His fortitude paid off as he rose to the position of an esteemed Engineer with Lockheed Aircraft Company, working in their highly secretive Skunk Works Program in Burbank, California. Once firmly established at Lockheed, my father made many attempts to tempt my mother to consider the possibility of relocating the family outside the boundaries of East Los Angeles. He suggested we move to the more suburban neighborhoods in the San Fernando Valley, closer to his work. My mother firmly resisted, opting to remain in the only way of life she knew, where she was comfortable.

  Like my father, I too had studied Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry and was enriched by the high quality of education made available by the sweat of my parent's hard work. The result of this, in their minds, was their belief that I would embrace an occupation of high standards, something they could be proud of. Once established in such a profession I was expected to remain in the Southern California arena, stay close to the family, perhaps marry a local Hispanic girl-preferably one from a family they were familiar with: better yet, one they had developed years of friendship with. I would have none of it.

  The first real indication that I was dead set upon another path came when I was a teenager. My brother Miguel, who was always called Mike, had made the decision that many young Hispanic men make after high school. He joined the military, the Air Force to be exact. Although his enlistment was right at the height of the Vietnam conflict, the family was much relieved to learn that he was to be stationed at Torrejon Air Base, just outside Madrid, Spain. I recall my mother in joyous prayers to all the many statues of the saints that were displayed throughout the house. I was surely happy that Mike did not have to go to Nam but I also saw a bigger picture. There was a dream I always had since childhood, an ambition to travel, venturing out into the glorious world. I was determined to escape my surroundings. I felt my excellence in athletics and studies would be a solid platform to garner my parent's approval in traveling abroad to visit my brother in Spain. My initial petition was shot down mercilessly.

  “Why can't you stay with your own kind?” My mother's voice pleaded. That is when I realized that my mother's reluctance of moving from the neighborhood was not so much a matter of dealing with distance but a real fear of other cultures. Growing up in a time of segregation in Los Angeles County, there were few opportunities for either my mother or father to intermingle with others of different races, religions or lifestyles. This revelation gave me a better understanding of my parents. I approached my father who sternly dictated the more logical argument of economics.

  “Do you know how much such a trip would cost, and who is going to pay for it?” But I was resolute; I was not going to lose this chance. Then along came Stephanie Rhinehardt.

  East Los Angeles Travel Agency was but a few blocks from the family home. I figured that every proposed trip had to have a starting point. I tried to develop a plan for an overseas venture. Stephanie, a tall blond woman from Germany was the proprietor. Her thick German accent was unusual for that part of town but she had built a strong clientele who trusted her for all their travel arrangements. I would speculate that ninety percent of her business was in arranging trips to Mexico or other Latin countries but her knowledge and experience covered any destination one might desire on the globe.

  I was an adolescent of my time and surroundings. I studied in an advanced curriculum at my parochial high school but when it came to international travel I was truly naive. I explained my dilemma to a very understanding Stephanie.

  “I wish to go to Madrid and at the very lowest, rock bottom cost. Can you help me?” I was about to get a lesson in travel 101.

  “Do you have a passport?” The smiling German woman asked.

  “A passport?” It never occurred to me that such a document was needed when one person of a certain country travels to a destination in another country.

  “Oh yes,” the travel agent continued. “And you will have to be immunized also.”

  “Immunized?” I was stunned. “You mean shots?” Stephanie simply nodded. Gosh, I hated shots but at that time travel to Spain required the forms documenting that such inoculations had occurred. I don't know why but the knowledgeable German agent took pity on me. Perhaps she saw the resolve in me to see this trip through no matter the price. It certainly was of no financial benefit to her as I was seeking the cheapest accommodations possible. She became my teacher, a mentor in some ways. I believe she respected my drive, my curiosity to seek what possibilities lay outside my current boundaries. I made a dear friend that day and she went to work in seeking the information I would need helping to make my odyssey a reality.

  I wrote my brother informing him of my great plan. After some time I received a positive response. We determined that the following summer, when I was out of school, would be the best time. My excitement grew. The first obstacle to overcome was applying for a passport. Getting the primary documents, birth certificate and proper identification was no difficulty. The real problem was that I was a minor and I would require the consent of one of my parents. The possibility of accomplishing that goal continued to look bleak.

  Concerning the details of an itinerary, Stephanie came through tremendously, informing me that a flight to Paris and a train ride to Madrid would be the cheapest way to make it happen. The entire round trip would be under five hundred dollars. Yet, it might as well have been five thousand for someone without the funds. I resolved to work and beg if I had to. I was determined to get on that silver bird and fly away.

  I continued to seek the blessing of my parents for my endeavor, but they were solidly against what they saw as just a fanciful fiasco by their disobedient teenage son. The months passed and I continued to make my plans with the aid of Stephanie. With continuous conversations my mother began to see my deep desire for this trip.

  “Why don't you wait till your brother returns and then plan a trip with him,” she recommended.

  “No.” I insisted. “He is there now. This is it, I go now or never.” I was appealing to a mother's inner sense for her son. My father remained adamant.

  “No!” He insisted. “No way, no how.” As time went on he resisted even more. Hispanic children do not defy the wishes of their father. That's the way it had been and that is what he expected, total submission to his will.

  Finally, there was a break several weeks prior to the planned departure date. My mother relented without consulting my father. She signed the needed document of consent for my passport. We both immediately agreed to keep the information from my father until the proper time. I endured the needed inoculations and paid Stephanie to the penny for the airfare and train tickets. Word was sent to my brother of the date and time of my arrival in Madrid.

  One evening I returned home to find my father in a rage. I knew that he must have found out I was going. My mother reasoned with him as much as possible but he would have nothing of it. He felt betrayed and held my mother accountable. For several days he would not speak to us but one night after supper, there was a phone call for him. It was an old family friend, making a social call. Such conversations at the time always included an inquiry as to how Mike was doing since he was so far away from home.

  “Well you know,” my father began to say. “Eddy is leaving next week for Madrid to see his brother.” I was shocked as he uttered the words. There was even a positive tone to his voice. This man with nerves of steel was exhibiting a moment of emotional pride to others concerning my upcoming adventure. I thanked him in my heart as I was relieved and grateful. Now I knew that my instincts were correct. This trip was the right thing to do at this pivotal point in my young life. I was home free, or so I thought. The next day the news on the televi
sion reported an outbreak of cholera in a small town in northern Spain. Anyone traveling to that country would now require additional inoculations, prevention against this very contagious and deadly disease. I gritted my teeth and endured the painful shots just days prior my departure.

  On a beautiful summer morning in the urban basin, I took a ride down the Santa Monica Freeway on what was to be my first visit (but certainly not my last) to Los Angeles International Airport. Because I spent almost all my money on the airfare and train ticket, I was leaving for an extended stay through France and Spain with a total of ninety dollars in my pocket. But I couldn't care less. I was certain that Mike would take good care of me because that's what brothers do for each other. As a teenager traveling solo I was about to take my first ride in an airplane. I left my tearful mother at the gate as I boarded a Pan American Airways Boeing 747 jumbo jet. I gawked and wondered with amazement at every aspect of the spaceship that would transport me halfway across the world. A great new sensation filled my being. I did not realize it at that moment but I had been bitten by the travel bug. I felt a rush of elation as the mighty craft lifted off over the Pacific, turning north over the pole and on to Paris.

  In the employment office of the airline on Avion Dr., I had just completed a written exam. This was monitored by a well-dressed, professional woman I assumed was the office manager who had been assessing all of us every minute we were in her presence. I was overcome with a feeling of confidence when I was told I had passed. I felt very fortunate when I was selected as one of a few who were asked to wait in another smaller room, which seemed like some type of first aid station. We were informed that we each would be weighed and have our height measured. At that time the airline industry had strict weight limits. While it was essential that one be fit in case of possible emergencies, some flight attendants believed the weight/height issue was just a tool used by the airline to conform to their vision of a perfect crew-member.