GATE A2
JAKE
New York (JFK)
“This is the final boarding call for Flight 1487 with service to San Francisco.” “Passenger Alice Tribue, please return to Gate A13 for your passport as soon as possible.” “American Airlines Flight 1781 with service to Toronto will now depart from Gate 7.”
The familiar sounds of John F. Kennedy International welcomed me home as soon as I stepped off the jet bridge a week later. Despite two sixteen hour flights, I hadn’t slept well since my interview in Dallas, and I didn’t feel the slightest hint of exhaustion.
I walked through the terminal, pulling my luggage close behind as the most cliché song in the history of aviation sifted through the speakers. A cover of Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly with Me,” complete with an orchestra, was inspiring the most tone deaf of passengers to sing along as they rushed past the gates.
Pilots from other airlines walked on the other side of the hallway in their freshly-pressed uniforms, giving slight nods as they passed me by. The flight attendants at their sides blushed and smiled, offering me small waves and winks that went unanswered and ignored.
All I could think about right now was how today officially marked the lowest of lows in my career. A fresh start of all the bullshit I thought I’d escaped.
When I first started flying gliders at sixteen, everything in regards to aviation was an art. Every facet, from the engineering of a plane, to the actual flying itself, held intrigue, creating a perfect balance of craftsmanship and allure.
Newly designed aircrafts were something to clamor over, new routes were planned and praised for pioneering the unthinkable, and each move an airline made received its rightful due in the press. Spectators stopped and stared at the new Boeings and Airbuses in complete admiration from below, passengers acted like they actually gave a fuck, and flight attendants were more than pretzel serving waitresses at thirty thousand feet. For pilots, there was even an art to effortlessly jetting from city to city, landing in hotel after hotel, and fucking a different woman every night.
Yet, somewhere between new regulations, greed, and even with the advanced technology, all of that changed. Now, a pilot was nothing more than a bus driver who shuttled ungrateful-ass passengers across the sky. And that perfect balance of craftsmanship and allure was no longer seen; it wasn’t even remembered.
“Excuse me, Captain?” A man wearing an ‘I Love NY’ shirt suddenly stepped in front of me. He held up his cell phone, extending it toward my face. “Would you mind taking our picture? We’ve tried to do it ourselves, but I keep cutting my head off in the frame.” He laughed and pointed to his family—two young boys and a woman in a yellow dress. They were laughing and posing in front of a blue “Welcome to New York” sign.
I didn’t take the phone from him. I stared at his family, their laughter becoming more and more unbearable with each passing second. One of his sons waved at me, holding up a toy plane in his other hand, smiling and waiting for me to smile back.
“Captain?” The husband looked at me. “Can you please take our picture?”
“No.” I stepped back. “No, I can’t.” I noticed a flight attendant walking toward us and nodded in her direction. “But I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”
I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I walked away and headed straight for the parking garage.
I needed to get the fuck home.
***
Later that night...
I parked my car in front of my condo, The Madison at Park Avenue, and waited for one of the valets to approach the window.
“Good evening, sir.” An attendant dressed in a grey tuxedo opened my door. “How long do you expect to be in town this time?”
“Four days.” I stepped out of the car and tossed him the keys. “Keep it close to the front, please.”
“As you wish, sir.”
I walked up the stone steps that led into the building and glanced up at the night sky. For the first time in as long as I could remember, the stars weren’t shrouded by a film of grey clouds. They were bright and blinding against the darkness, probably giving false hope to some optimistic dreamer who was falling in love with this city.
“Welcome home, Mr. Weston.” The doorman, the one constant in my life, opened the door for me. “How are the skies treating you these days?”
“The same as always, Jeff. The same as always.”
“Coming back from anywhere interesting this time?”
“Singapore.” I pulled a small satin bag out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Currency. For your collection.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, smiling. “By the way, there were five business class tickets to Belgium in my mailbox here last week. I don’t recall ever mentioning my birthday wish to you, so would you know anything about this secret gift? Who I need to thank, perhaps?”
“I have no idea,” I said, moving past him. “But those should have been first class tickets, not business, so whenever you figure out who gave them to you, tell him he needs to make the airline fix that mistake.”
“I will.” He laughed. “Have a great night, Mr. Weston.”
“Thank you.” I walked into the lobby and stopped, slowly letting my eyes adjust to the harsh light from the new chandeliers. The owners were always renovating or unnecessarily adjusting something different every month, and that was the main reason why I never felt like this place was truly home. The popular chain hotels I spent nights in during stopovers always seemed far more familiar and welcoming.
I headed straight to an open elevator and swiped my key card at the panel. When I was sure no one else was coming onto the car, I held my card against the panel once more and pressed “80,” the penthouse suite.
Every resident in this building was one of New York’s esteemed elite—judges, politicians, doctors, lawyers, but they were all paying exorbitant prices to simply rent one of the four massive units offered on each floor. My floor, however, was mine and mine alone. It had a long history and had always been owned. Although I hardly ever used it, I refused to sell it back to the building’s owners, no matter how large and lucrative their offers grew year after year.
The second the elevator doors opened, I stepped off and disabled the security cameras that were hidden in the hallway vases. I double checked their wires to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with and returned them to their hiding spots.
Unlocking the double doors that led inside my apartment, I took off my jacket and hit the lights. For the most part, everything was just as I left it—except for the usual shit the housekeepers insisted on rearranging.
Annoyed, I realigned the collectible Coke cans on my counter, returned my chilled wine bottles to their original positions, and re-latched the windows that lined my living room and parlor room walls. I tossed a few misplaced “Welcome to The Madison” tour brochures into the trash, and turned the air on high to tone down the new strawberry scent they sprayed onto every single surface. Then I moved my parlor chair far away from the window where it belonged.
I walked through room after room, already knowing what was out of place since I went through this routine every few weeks.
When I was sure everything was alright, I walked into my private library and damn near lost it. All five hundred of my books were now rearranged by color instead of alphabetically. To make matters worse, my favorite three books were spread wide open on my desk, with several of their pages folded and creased. An unforgivable offense.
I pulled out my phone and sent an email to the housekeeping manager.
Subject: My Goddamn Condo.
To whomever this may fucking concern,
For the umpteenth time, I don’t appreciate your incompetent and defiant staff rearranging my things while I’m away. I also don’t appreciate you continuing to use my unit as a tour site and “test suite” for potential renters—letting people pretend like they live here whenever they please.
Stay the hell out of my space if you’re not cleaning it.
(And stop using that strawberry spray shit. Go back to lemon.)
J. Weston
The manager’s response was immediate.
Subject: Re: My Goddamn Condo.
Mr. Weston,
With all due respect, and for the umpteenth time, we have only used your suite for a tour once, with your permission. We do not use your unit as a “test suite” and we would never let any potential renter pretend as if they lived there.
We’ve given in to every single demand you’ve requested for your privacy—extra cameras, ensuring that no one on the housekeeping staff outside of myself knows your name, and private parking. In fact, just for you, we’ve recently installed an additional set of cameras above your exterior entry door to ease your worries, and per our security team, there has been no access to your space (outside of cleaners) while you’ve been away.
However, we have noticed that over the past few weeks, YOU have come back more frequently than normal, and during odd hours of the night.
I am not insinuating that you don’t remember these times, but perhaps you’ve moved things around your apartment during those hours and are simply forgetting how you left them?
I apologize if anything I’ve said is offensive or out of line.
We truly enjoy having you as a resident here at The Madison, and if you need anything more, or anything else, let me know. (I will be sure to remind the staff, once again, to stop using the “strawberry spray shit” in your place. We no longer have lemon, though...Would you like fresh linen instead?)
Mr. Sullivan
Head of Housekeeping
The Madison at Park Avenue
I didn’t answer. I needed to think.
The last few times I slept here, I hadn’t really “slept” at all. I’d woken up in a cold sweat and stumbled out of bed and downstairs. Damn near sleepwalking, I’d staggered around a near desolate Times Square, staring at the bright and blinking billboards, listening to the late night conversations of straggling tourists.
Each time I found my way home, I did move things—but not in a rearranging type of way. In a shattering whatever I could get my hands on type of way. Whatever I broke, I quickly replaced the next day so no one on the staff could be blamed, but I couldn’t remember ever having the patience to mindlessly rearrange simple shit.
The few other times I returned at odd hours of the night were the result of me coming back after meeting a woman in a hotel. Those nights always ended in sleep, not senseless redecorating.
At least, I didn’t think so.
I took a seat on the sofa that faced the window and mentally rewound the past few months again and again, slowly recalling a few more wandering, sleepless nights. I started to send the manager a “My apologies for the miscommunication” email, but I spotted an open crossword puzzle tucked under my seat cushion. A completely filled out, not-in-my-goddamn-handwriting, crossword puzzle.
I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.
I knew he was full of shit...
I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.
Subject: An FCE.
Dear Mr. Weston,
My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.
Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.
An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.
I truly hope you’ll enjoy flying for us.
Dr. Owens
Chief of Personnel Affairs, Elite Airways
I opened the attached document and only managed to read through the first paragraph.
Son of a bitch...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
Six years ago...
Oh, New York!
New York, New York, New York!
Everyone in my family warned me about you, this city. They said you’d lure me here with your dazzling lights and glittering billboards, with the sweet scent of success that wafts through every open window on Wall Street, and with the high hopes and dreams that flow up and down the Hudson River.
Then they said you’d pull me deep into those waters and drown me...
“You won’t survive a month there,” my mother said. “It’s only for the people who actually have something going for themselves.”
“You don’t have what it takes and you never will,” my oldest sister said.
“Just don’t get mad when we say, ‘We told you so,’ when you beg us to come back.” My father sent me those words via text message the day I left. Then he added, “You’ll definitely be back, Gillian. After a month at most.”
Well, I’ve survived more than a month. It’s been SIX MONTHS, and I’ve proved the three of them (and everyone else in my discouraging family) wrong. Dead. Ass. Wrong.
At only twenty-three years old, I’m living my wildest dreams. I’m staying across the street from Central Park in a fully furnished Lexington Avenue apartment, having weekly coffeehouse dates with nice guys who actually believe in chivalry and romance, and working at one of the most revered places in all of Manhattan. (Yes, I’m mainly making very lengthy coffee runs and drowning in endless hours of grunt work, but this is the place I’ve wanted to work since I was thirteen years old, so I don’t care.)
And if that isn’t enough, just this morning, I received some amazing ‘this-can’t-be-my-life’ news that I can’t share just yet. Nonetheless, I have a feeling I’ll be writing about that soon.
Until then, I simply wanted to start anew with a fresh blog since my previous one died from neglect. What better way to begin than by saying life couldn’t be any better right now?
I hope this never changes.
Write later,
Gillian Taylor
Gillian
G.T.
T.G.
TayG
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GATE A3
GILLIAN
New York (JFK)
Present Day
I think I hate my life...
“Have a great day in New York City!” I smiled as the first class passengers walked past me and stepped off the plane. “Thank you so much for flying with Elite Airways! Enjoy the Big Apple!”
“Hope you enjoyed flying with us today!” The other flight attendant onboard, Christina, joined me in the farewells. “We sure enjoyed having you!”
One of these days, I was actually going to believe the gleeful words that came out of my mouth at landing, but today was not that day. Even though all of the passengers on this flight were quite polite, today’s trip was nothing more than a repeat of every flight I’d been assigned over the past year. It was a reminder that I wasn’t a ‘real’ flight attendant yet, that I was still on ‘reserve.’ Still trying to figure out when the promises in the monthly employee magazine would come true for me.
Every third Sunday, like clockwork, that glossy “How We Fly” magazine arrived in my mailbox—taunting me with broken promises and pretty pictures, reminding me of all the reasons I’d first applied. It was the idea of traveling to places like London, Milan, and Tokyo within the same month. The high possibilities of traipsing across vineyards and countryside roads on my days off. And also, the slightly va
in wish of walking through the airports in one of their famous blue uniform dresses and custom airline-issued Louboutin heels, looking just like the glamorous women in the commercials.
Alas, I missed the fine print. There was only a “chance” of flying to beautiful places night after night. The only “traipsing” occurred in the five steps from the airport shuttle van to the stopover hotel. And until I was off reserve status, I would continue to receive last minute, short trips while the flight attendants with seniority picked all the best routes first.
“Is it me, or is this the slowest group of passengers you’ve ever seen?” Christina muttered under her breath.
“They’re definitely the slowest.” I noticed that rows fifteen through thirty had yet to open their overhead bins.
I am definitely going to be late tonight...
“Have the schedulers finally allowed you to bid on lines or are you still on reserve, Gillian?” she asked.
“Reserve.”
“Really?” It’s been a year since I last saw you and you’re still on reserve?” She looked as if she didn’t believe me. “Don’t tell me they’re still giving you that, ‘Wait until we finish all of our mergers’ excuse.”
I gave her a depressed look and she laughed.
“Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, at least you actually live in New York. You don’t have to share a crash pad with a bunch of other reserve attendants that you don’t know.”
“I guess...” I said dryly, and she shot me a sympathetic smile.
We remained at the front of the plane for what felt like forever, keeping our voices cheery and light as the hockey team at the rear continued to move like molasses.
When the last player finally exited the plane, I grabbed my bag, said a quick goodbye to the pilot and Christina, and raced through the jet bridge. I had exactly twenty minutes to catch the next bus to Manhattan.
Emerging into Terminal 7, I rushed past gate after gate, dodging hordes of travelers with every step. As I ran, the numerous restaurant signs, gift shop displays, and coffee stands all became a bright blur. The conversations between tourists, the arguments between gate agents, and the announcements from the speakers were all background noise. All I could hear was the sound of my heels clacking against the newly buffed floors.