The Friendly Skies
Posted in rantings and ravings on March 7th, 2015 by skeeter
Joe Crosby was watching Brenda, our waitress, as she took our drink order. He and his wife Jenny had recently moved down to the South End from Minnesota now that he’d retired. “Jenny was a stewardess for awhile,” Joe was saying, dipping a chip into his salsa. “You know, back when it was considered glamorous, not just a sky waitress. She loved it for the first few years.” He poked a finger in the ice of the margarita he’d finished, gave it a twirl, I guess to chill his digit.
“One flight she got a woman in first class, asked her what she’d like to eat and the woman never made eye contact, didn’t answer. Jen thought she hadn’t heard her so she asked again. Same thing, just stared straight ahead. Maybe she was deaf, ya know, but finally the woman’s husband said, matter of fact like he was used to this, ‘She doesn’t talk to the Help.’”
“Nice,” I said before thanking Brenda for the second round she’d brought us. Joe nodded appreciatively. “ Yeah. The glamour went out of stewing real quick, I mean to tell you. Jen never got over it. I said screw those people, but she looked in a mirror after that and saw someone else. Quit a few months later.” We both shook our heads. “And you know the funny part? Sad, actually. She treats waitresses bad herself. Stewardesses too. Like I guess they’re just the damn Help. Go figure.”
The Pilot House was pretty dead this Happy Hour, just Mudflap Mike and some pal I’d seen around and us, not all that happy a crowd. Joe swirled his finger in the new icecubes. “Yeah, Jen and I don’t go out much. I hope that woman in first class needs a medic someday. See if she’ll talk to him when he asks if her symptoms are heart attack or stroke….”
“Strange world,” I said, pretty sure we’d be leaving Brenda a tip big enough to put her kid through college.
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