Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Read online

  The ideal weight for each perspective trainee was determined by a calculation involving one's height. No one was ever told how the company settled on the accepted guidelines, but it was a rule that put the fear of God into the person who presently stood on the medical black and white scale. Tears flowed down the cheeks of an auburn haired girl who, to her great disappointment, registered two pounds over her designated limit. She was not plump nor gave the appearance of needing to slim down. At that moment I was introduced to the airline culture. Its regulations manifested complete dominance. Rules were rules and the young girl was informed in a cordial manner better luck next time.

  “You're next Mister...Valenciana,” the office lady hesitated in pronouncing my family name. I hopped upon the scale as she read the specifics on my sheet. She nodded as she began to extend the handle of the scale. My height was measured at 5'8”. At that stature my maximum weight was placed at 175 pounds. I began to worry. She slid the weight along the vertical unit until it balanced perfectly. “Let's see, you're one seventy three,” she stated in a somewhat disappointing manner.

  “Give me one second,” I requested. I jumped off the scale and removed my suit jacket and turned to face of my evaluator, her mouth dropped open in surprise. Wearing a short sleeve dress shirt I could see I had made my point. Sure, I was just two pounds shy of the maximum weight but I carried a slim waistline and a low percentage of body fat. This was the result of years of sports and weight training.

  “You know, if you were to be hired there is a weight check each and every month for flight attendants.” I would soon learn that violating the weight restriction meant automatic suspension and removal from the flight line for a month. “Would you be able to maintain the weight?”

  “Ma’am, I assure you, I'm in control of it. Also,” I added, “think of the advantage in the rare case of an emergency in-flight.” How unknowingly prophetic I was being. She nodded in agreement.

  Once the other candidates had completed their turn on the scale, they were graciously thanked for coming and informed that they would be contacted soon concerning the airline's decision. I naively followed the other candidates and began to exit when the kind office manager asked me to remain.

  “Valenciana? Is that Italian?”

  “Spanish,” I responded. She again glanced at my application. She spoke as she read the details.

  “Ethnicity, Hispanic. Have a seat Mr. Valenciana and someone will be with you very soon.” I could hardly contain my excitement. The possibility floored me. I relished the opportunity of having the ability to travel the world as a crew-member of a respected company. The deco style room displayed hanging posters and photos reflecting the airline's long and esteemed history. First mail service from Los Angeles, circa 1927, a photo revealed. There was a colorful poster boasting the upcoming anniversary of the company with the magnificent McDonnell Douglas DC-10 Spaceship displayed proudly in all its glory, right in the center.

  “There is my magic carpet.” But now I would have to make it happen.

  “Edmundo Valenciana,” a call rang out. I looked up at the sprite blonde who got my name wrong. I quickly rose and replied.

  “Eduardo, it's pronounced E-d-u-a-r-d-o.” I made sure to throw in the Latin accent in my pronunciation. I firmly rolled the “R”. In an instant she widened her eyes and gave a big smile. I sensed her acceptance. I read her thoughts.

  “Yes, Hispanic.” I stepped forward and was ushered into her office, thinking back to a decision made by my mother who, along with my siblings, had registered our legal names in Spanish. Eduardo is who I was christened, although I preferred Eddy.

  “Why do you want to be a flight attendant Eduardo?” Ah, here it was, the all-determining question.

  “I truly enjoy assisting people. I would relish the chance at making sure our passengers received the best flying experience they deserved.” It was the right answer for that moment, place and time. She asked about my background, where was I raised?

  Although Boyle Heights is not far from LAX, more than likely few flight crews would ever intentionally seek to hang out there. Unless the crew member was of Hispanic heritage and had family ties like I did, there would be no reason they would venture into our neighborhood. The exceptions were the restaurants. Where better to find the best Mexican food but in a town that is 98% Hispanic?

  The blonde interviewer seemed pleased. My education was in private Catholic schools. My base support was a strong family structure, fifth generation Mexican-American, salt of the earth.

  “Would you be willing to trim your mustache a little: more conservative?” she asked. “Trim your hair some?”

  I assured her that I had the discipline to fit right in line.

  “I would be committed to do ever what was required in maintaining the highest standards, dedicating my loyalty to this beloved airline.” In that last part of that statement I vowed to remain steadfast. I left the executive offices in a gleeful mood. A victory on one side also produced an obstacle on the other. I would have to explain my choice to my parents, my family. I wasn't sure they'd be as happy as I was.

  I was beaming with pride while driving, transecting through Los Angeles’ freeway system. I exited at 4th Street in Boyle Heights, the place of my birth. The multicolored billboards not found anywhere else in the Southern California basin advertised the products most desirable to the Hispanic culture, many written in Spanish. Many homes throughout the neighborhood displayed the flag of Mexico together with the flag of the United States. It is a known fact that there have been a multitude of Mexican American recipients of the Medal of Honor in the history of military service of the United States. There is no doubt of the population's commitment to our nation yet they also honor the country of their ancestors. I returned home to await my start date of my new new career.

  It greatly surprised me that I had been assigned to a flight attendant training class that was starting so soon after I was offered a position. The process, I'd heard from others, was usually much longer throughout the industry, though I was not complaining. My parents, as it turned out, were really not surprised by my choice but I could sense that becoming a lawyer, a dentist even a position with the county would have been preferable. At that time “Flight Attendant” was still registering in their minds as “stewardess.”

  By the time I began training, I had a vast resume of journeys to foreign countries I had visited since that first flight as a teenager. My father took to calling me the wandering gypsy. And so with my parent's semi-blessing I traveled to the Airport Park Hotel in Inglewood, California on the day the trainees were required to report. We would be housed there during the scheduled six week training period. I checked in, was assigned a room and told that the company bus to the first day of class would depart the facility in the morning at 7:30AM with or without me.

  Appearing early in the morning I got my first glance of fellow classmates, hopefully soon to be fellow crew-mates. All were bright, energetic young men and women who seemed to make up a good representation of the population in the domain served by what was now “our” airline. I also recognized in those first few moments there was a numeric, ethnic balance.

  “Let's see,” I thought to myself as the nicely dressed prospects stepped onto the company bus for a ten minute ride to the training center at LAX. “There are two African Americans, one Asian American, fifteen Anglo-Americans and one Hispanic, me.” I would later discover that in training classes after ours there were candidates that had interviewed months before I had but had their training dates delayed. It became obvious that each class contained the same type of ethnic balance. Maybe that sprite, little blond in HR that hired me really did need a Hispanic that fateful day. I was just happy to be there.

  Flight Attendant Training would become one of the most cherished periods of my life. Class “2” of that year's program brought together many faces and personalities from varying locations and cultures. By the end of the six-week training period, I would be blessed with bonds
of friendship that would remain with me always. There was one class that was a week ahead, and eventually many others that were staggered by weeks after us. But instantly for my classmates and me the world seemed to rotate around Class 2.

  We all were aware that acceptance as a trainee was no guarantee of a position with the company. There were classes to attend, exams to pass and more scrutinizing appearances before the management of the airline. If all tests were satisfactorily completed and I could measure up to the approval of my superiors, then there would come the promise of a graduation ceremony, presentation of my flight wings and I would become a federally certified F/A. They would then present me with a ticket to one of the yet-to-be determined “base” cities in the airline’s system. Arrival to such a city would begin a six month on the job probationary period. During that time, an F/A could be terminated for any reason.

  Introductions were exchanged on the bus ride from the domicile as the new kids grinned with excitement. Arriving at the Avion Drive offices, I stood to exit the bus when a young man sitting a couple of rows behind approached me.

  “Man, you're built like a brick shit house!” You could say I liked Kyle Tillman from the start. He was a muscular, athletic individual from the Midwest. He had attended a prestigious Big Ten school and his chalky white skin was a complete contrast to my olive complexion. Kyle and I bonded quickly and shared our hopes and concerns throughout the stressful training period

  On the first day, the “children” were ushered into the company’s “Champagne Room.” Formal introductions were made by each of us and our instructors. There were papers to read and sign. Class material was issued and upon opening the “Flight Attendant Manual,” I was enlightened as to what was expected of me. It immediately informed me that my life was no longer just mine.

  Kyle had taken the desk next to me and we both showed signs of concern as we briefly glanced through the manual. A regulation entitled “Flight Attendant Conduct while in Uniform,” laid down the law. I had attended parochial school for over thirteen years and this seemed no different. If any of the trainees objected to what they were reading it was not made evident. The students all seemed as clean and innocent as the company’s image. One thought filled our minds and that was, we all had come too far to screw up now.

  Every weekday morning, we pupils would promptly rise at 6AM and attire ourselves with our regulation pants, regulation ties and regulation smiles. From the start it became clear that Class 2 had been reduced to children attending their first day of kindergarten. That bus to the company’s headquarters was always on time and the students were expected to be also. Missing the bus was a sure sign to management of future things to come.

  “MIA, is the airport code for Miami.”

  “Hurray! Toddlers must learn to walk before they can run,” I thought. And so it was with us that first day in memorizing city airport codes. Any second grader could have mastered the exercise. Each correct answer was followed by jubilation and a show of tremendous pride by the person giving the answer. The reality was that each new associate knew that failure in a discipline that even a parrot could master could get you booted out. I went along with the program.

  “SEA is Seattle,”

  “Good job, Eddy,” the raven haired instructor commented. The kiddies of Class 2 studied those codes as if their lives depended upon it. One of our four instructors at any time might throw out three letters to challenge our memories and immediately hands would shoot into the air.

  “LAS is Las Vegas,” proclaimed a self-assured respondent. It was Janey, a snob of a lady from Northern California. She made it clear that she had all the answers. Even though she felt the disdain of most of the class, Kyle and I knew we would have to play it cool when in her presence. She sought to be the teacher's pet and certainly would be willing to inform them of any violations of the numerous restrictions that had been placed on us. The most obvious and the one Kyle and I intended to test was our nightly curfew. A good flight attendant takes full advantage of getting the proper amount of rest on a layover, so to perform to the highest standards the next day's duties, or something of that nature. Kyle and I knew instantly that Janey would have taken great pleasure in seeing these flyboys bounced out of the program.

  An obvious addition to complete our motley band was a freckled face, red-haired, saucy fellow from Minnesota, Mark Matsen. Four eyed and white skinned, he even made Kyle look tanned. Mr. Matsen displayed a wit about him that had the class in stitches. The exception, of course, was Janey who saw our antics as mere childish pranks.

  “Why did you join the airlines?” Mark asked me one early morning.

  “Well,” I hesitated, uneasy about whether he was being serious or setting me up for one of his now familiar pranks. To get to this point, every F/A candidate knew the reason like a catechism. I pondered what to say. “I enjoy helping people.” I gave the standard interview response. My face registered no reaction as my eyes locked onto the impish face of my friend. “Why did you join?” I countered. There was a long silence.

  “Why the f### do you think,” he replied, “so I can get free flights.” We paused in minor shock at his words then broke into laughter. The truth can be a hilarious thing at times. We reminisced later that evening with Kyle over a couple of cold beers, which were strictly forbidden during the training period.

  “The flight attendant is responsible for the passenger’s comfort, welfare and safety, performing all cabin services in accordance with company policies and procedures, as specified in the Flight Attendant Manual.” So read our Job Responsibility. Comfort and welfare were obvious to me but the word “safety” seemed to cause confusion. In classroom conversation, it was an accepted fact that if anything seriously went wrong on the aircraft while as a crew-member, and it “went down,” safety would be irrelevant. Nevertheless, all of the kiddies in Class 2 were anxious to view the films the company kept on file for the emergency procedures training. Watching those films would shove a taste of reality right in front of our faces. Although classes on uniform regulations and food service had been received and performed by the trainees with a sense of immature play, Emergency Procedures Training was dead serious and some of it was in living color.

  A soon to be familiar sight of twisted metal and charred seats projected right off the screen. Almost like a taunt, the pictures challenged us in an effort to destroy our dreams.

  “So you want to fly for free?” The metal carnage was a dominating factor that could not easily be dismissed. I gazed over at Kyle and could see that the broken fuselage of an airline embedded in a forest somewhere had him hypnotized. Even Mike was made speechless, a rare occurrence indeed.

  “What were the odds?” My final reaction was just like every other mind in the room. “It will not happen to me. Someone else maybe, but not me.” Then there was the fire. Always the fire. So you're lucky enough to survive the initial impact, rarely in one piece, but if you did you most likely won't escape the fire. Remember, a jumbo jet essentially is a flying bomb. And if the unthinkable happens on take-off, like some have in the past, it's instant incineration.

  Marilyn was our feisty little instructor. A flight attendant for over ten years herself, dark hair and angelic features were no indication of the seriousness that consumed her while teaching Emergency Procedures. Before class and after class, her personable character expressed her genuine warmth, but in the depths of the class material, her little nostrils would flare open in accompaniment with her piercing eyes as she related the gravity of the material she was preaching.

  “If the oxygen bottle is not properly stored on the aircraft it could become a deadly M-I-S-S-I-L-E, missile in flight during an emergency.” She presented material of what was left of a Southern Airlines jet after falling from the sky as a result of a terrible storm. We all lied to ourselves after viewing the films and photos made available to us by Marilyn. It was the only way to keep the truth at bay.

  Weather. That was one issue flight attendant training could do
very little about. Turbulence became a new word in my life's vocabulary. There was light, moderate and severe turbulence. Once on the flight line reality re-teaches you what you thought you learned in training. When the pilot informs the passengers that we are experiencing light turbulence he really means moderate. When he mentions the word moderate he really means severe. The worse scenario is reserved for when the captain asks the F/A's to remain strapped in their jumpseats for the remainder of the flight. The procedure is to sugarcoat the seriousness of any intense situation. As a crew-member you really do not want the passengers to know what you know and there is a legitimate reason for that.

  “No matter what, you must survive.” The command created a chill running right up our spines. She continued. “If you survive such an incident, many others will have a better chance of surviving.” That was the real reason for our existence. I knew that if that awful day came when I found myself in the cauldron of such a chaotic mess, I had to make it through. This training experience, Marilyn's flaring little nostrils and all, would help me be the tool by which others could be saved. That made all the jokes and infantile jests fall to the wayside. I would be on the plane so others could live. Somehow in between the self-denials, I listened. In retrospect, Marilyn's persistence paid off on my behalf. I owe her a great debt.

  “The P.A. system is to be used on the aircraft to communicate accurate information,” so regulation dictated. In the “real world,” one would hear various interpretations of such celebrities as Donald Duck, Richard Nixon and John Wayne in English and Spanish. If command of the microphone had been difficult for some of the ladies, my cohorts and I became obsessed with it. During one training session on the DC-10, two of our fellow classmates decided to emulate the voice and setting of an episode of the Twilight Zone. Kyle and I opted to take the service elevator to the lower galley where our instructor was conducting a serious discussion and explanation of its function.