Coffee, Tea or Me? Page 13

  Rachel was too tired to go into detail about the second happening, Meat Meet. It consisted of five men and five women, each wearing only a loincloth, getting on the blanket and rolling all over each other. It was a great big tangle of arms and legs and other things. Lucius was one of them. Pretty soon the spectators started getting up from the floor, dipping paintbrushes in cans of paint, and dabbing the colors on everyone on the blanket.

  The bodies on the blanket were in a constant state of motion while Muddy Waters’ records played in the background. Soon, everyone was covered with the multicolors of the paint. Then, out came the nude girl in the mink coat carrying a big bucket full of ketchup. She dumped it on the mass of bodies. They spent a half hour rubbing it into each other. Finally, the happening was over.

  The bodies then disappeared into corners where they wiped each other off with burlap bags. Lucius came back to where Rachel was sitting on the floor and plopped down beside her. He was still covered with paint and ketchup. All around were couples—men with women, men with men, women with women.

  “Oh, you were really in luck tonight, Rachel baby,” Lucius informed her proudly. “Things really happened, didn’t they?”

  “It was . . . wonderful, Lucius. Just great.” She felt horribly uncomfortable in her woolen dress and heels.

  With those words of encouragement, Lucius grabbed Rachel, pushed her onto her back, and climbed on top of her. He kissed her and ran his hand up her leg.

  Rachel is no lightweight, and she pushed him off. “Stop that, Lucius. Don’t touch me again.” She looked down at herself and gasped when she saw the paint and ketchup smeared on her dress.

  “Look what you’ve done to my clothes,” she shrieked. “Just look, you . . . you . . . you happening director.”

  “Shhhhh, baby. No scene. Don’t sweat the color. And don’t ruin the total happening. Oh, don’t do that. I mean, the happening’s happened, and now’s the time for the big impact. We’ve got to fulfill the magnetic cosmos of two forms, two human elements, two sweaty, salty bodies. You and me. Now!”

  “You’re nuts,” Rachel yelled. Everyone was watching.

  “Beautiful,” one tall, slender Negro parted from underneath his white companion. “Beautiful happening.”

  A girl whistled her approval. “Oh yes, girl-girl. That’s the way it is. Tell it that way. Make it happen.”

  Rachel fled the room to a thunderous ovation.

  “It was the best happening they’d ever seen,” she told me as she finished her tale.

  “I’ll bet Betty Big Boobs would have been a better happening,” I teased.

  “I was going to say she was there but didn’t think you’d believe me.”

  “Or Cynthia,” I further suggested.

  “You know, Trudy, that’s what that damned stewardess school needs. A happening. A Lucius Dumbarton happening. Let’s put it in the suggestion box.”

  We didn’t, of course. But visions of Big Momma, the meat man, Cynthia, Betty, and the faggy hairstylist being painted as they rolled together on a blanket provided a whole day of inner grins.

  Yes, we’ve had them all on board—wealthy men, poor men, imaginative men, dull men, men who offer jobs, men who give lavish gifts just for the fun of it, and men who give little gifts with many strings attached. Yes, we meet interesting men. And good or bad, meeting men is the name of the stewardess game.

  CHAPTER IX

  “The Radar Is Built In”

  As we’ve mentioned, captains rate highest on the list of stewardess dangers. Second on that list are married male passengers.

  We have, out of necessity, developed an inner radar system that is part of the game we play among ourselves. To keep long flights from becoming boring, we use the radar to guess the marital status of each male passenger, his nationality and profession, on the basis of the kind of approach he makes to us. The nationality and profession portions of the game are described in Chapter XIX. This chapter deals only with the “Is he married?” sequence.

  As the men come aboard, we make snap judgments as to their state of freedom. Then, as the flight progresses, we have the opportunity to verify our initial opinions. The most obvious tip-off is that common and widely used banner of matrimony: the wedding band. Not that we accept credit for correctly identifying a married man who’s wearing one. Men who wear a wedding band are automatically disqualified from competition.

  We’re referring to the man who removes his wedding band just prior to boarding the airplane. He’s kissed his wife good-bye in the departure lounge and, as he walks up the loading ramp, he slips his ring off and places it in his pocket. He boards the airplane secure that he’s removed all traces of his spouse and the restrictions she places on him.

  But he underestimates the ingenuity of his stewardess. We’ve trained our eyes to detect the slightest trace of pale flesh on his ring finger. And in 99 percent of cases, that ring in his pocket has left just such a pale mark. Of course, the more he’s out in the sun, the more pronounced the mark is likely to be. But even men who only see the sun on their walk to the train will fall victim to this giveaway.

  I suppose he doffs the ring when his mind begins to reflect back on all those stewardess stories he’s heard. He remembers hearing from Joe, a guy in his office, how he made a stewardess in the backseat of the airplane on his last business trip. He recalls the office boy telling how he is pulled into strange stewardesses’ apartments and raped nightly. He pictures the stewardesses who will be working his flight as busy, lusty, quivering mounds of flesh just waiting for him to come aboard so the bacchanal can begin. He figures he’ll have a better chance if these sexpots of the sky don’t know about his wife and seven kids. So, off comes the ring, exposing maybe a year of lily-white skin. He might as well wear a sign.

  When he comes on with a big wave of the hand, we automatically check him off as married, on the make, and devious to boot. But let’s give him credit for being imaginative. Let’s assume he’s gone so far as to carry a small tube of flesh-colored makeup. Or maybe he wears gloves all the way. Or never takes his hands out of his pockets.

  That brings into action our second method of determination. We ask a simple question when he’s off guard.

  “Do you live right in Manhattan, sir?”

  “No, I live in Smithtown. Out on the island.”

  That’s it right there. A bachelor will generally live in the city. Only a married man with grass-loving kids would live so far out and put up with the rigors of commuting. Sure there are exceptions. And many times this married man from Smithtown, realizing he’s come up with the wrong answer to our question, will try to make himself one of those exceptions.

  “Yes, I decided to leave the city and all its dirt and noise. I love nature and the outdoors, the horses I keep, the dogs, the tranquillity. I love the country.”

  But we don’t buy that rationalization. He’s had it as far as we’re concerned, unless we’re looking for a married man to date.

  Now let’s assume we’ve still not been able to make a positive classification of this unidentified flying object—the male passenger with the leer in his eye.

  Go to stage number three. How does he make his approach? Is he aggressive or cool? Does he force the issue or make it casual?

  Married men don’t have a great deal of time to wine and dine a girl they’re after. They can’t afford to pursue her casually over a long period of time. They want her now. And their approach reflects this pressure of time.

  But a single guy will take his time. He’ll make it sound interesting, fun, and exert little or no pressure. There’s an amazing difference between these two species of men, and the differences are quite pronounced.

  Now, we’ve ascertained their marital state. Or maybe they’ve freely admitted they’re married, and even owned up to a couple of children. At this point they begin their talk campaign, hoping to win us over to their side. Some of their conversation goes as follows.

  —“My wife just doesn’t understand me.”
(This ancient line is only used by very out-of-touch men.)

  —“My wife loves me too much. It’s stifling. I’m smothered by her love. I need to be with a woman who doesn’t love me, like you, someone who can face me objectively.” (This is fairly enlightened and can be so refreshing in its absurdity that you might fall into the logic.)

  —“Once the children came, my wife forgot I was even around.” (Another old line, but valid in too many cases.)

  —“We bought a dog and ever since my wife has forgotten I exist.” (Come on, fella.)

  —“It’s the bomb. Tomorrow may never come.” (That’s a good reason to get a good night’s sleep, as far as we’re concerned.)

  —“I went to Sweden once.” (Is he trying to tell us he’d had an operation?)

  —“It’s good for a man to have different sexual experiences. Why, Doctor Joyce Brothers says . . .” (Why don’t you call Dr. Brothers?)

  —“This is the twentieth century.” (He’s fairly bright, at least.)

  —“It’s good for a man to stray once in a while. He appreciates his wife more.” (Flattering to us, huh?)

  —“My wife is so immature. I need a mature woman, someone with insight, understanding, someone to confer with on an intellectual level.” (Who, me?)

  —“My wife and I have an agreement. She knows I run around a little.” (It’s a sure bet he’s scared silly of his wife and the last thing he wants to happen is for her to find out.)

  —“If you do go out with me, promise to be very quiet about it. My wife would kill me.” (At least he’s honest.)

  —“We’re getting a divorce soon.” (Call me from Mexico.)

  —“My wife is frigid. That’s not easy for me, you know.” (Her either, Charlie.)

  —“I’m writing the great novel of our times and I need to live, to experience all of life.” (Have you ever been to a happening?)

  —“I’m seventy and still need love.” (Have you written your will yet?)

  And so on.

  No matter how we feel about dating married men, each of us ends up with at least one in our careers. The only time I’ve become really involved was when I truly didn’t know he was married. My radar completely broke down and I believed everything he said, including the fact that he could only date me on Wednesday because he went to school every other night of the week, including Saturday and Sunday. I hate to tell you how I found out about his wife. It was one of the darkest experiences of my life. Thank God she was the calm, reasonable woman she was.

  I was at home reading a book a captain had given me, a gripping novel about the peacetime army, Stockade, when the telephone rang. I picked it up, still engrossed in the book.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, I’d like to speak with Trudy Baker please.”

  “This is Trudy Baker.”

  “And this is Mrs. Pearl.” I was elated. The book I was reading was written by Jack Pearl, and for a moment, this woman seemed connected with him. But that fantasy lasted only a fraction of a second. Then I realized I knew another man named Pearl. His name was Bob Pearl, a draftsman, the man I’d been dating every Wednesday night for the past six months.

  “Bob Pearl’s mother?” I asked timidly.

  “No, his wife.”

  What do you say in such a situation? I said nothing and let her continue.

  “Miss Baker, I’ve known all about you and Bob. Don’t ask me how. It’s really irrelevant. But what I do want to say is I’d like to stay married to Bob. But I won’t if he’d prefer to continue seeing you. I’ve offered him a divorce but he’s declined.”

  “Mrs. Pearl,” I said slowly, “I’m sorry. I did not know Bob was married. He said he wasn’t and I believed him. I’m sorry.”

  “Didn’t you find it unusual that he could only take you out on Wednesday?”

  “Yes. At first. But I stopped thinking about it. I was happy with Wednesday.”

  “Well, at any rate, I do demand that either you stop seeing him or I’ll start divorce proceedings. Bob says he doesn’t want that and I now leave it in your hands.”

  “Mrs. Pearl, I want nothing to do with your husband. Believe me, nothing.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry he lied to you.”

  Quite a woman. That was the end of that.

  Actually, there’s one kind of passenger any girl will date, or at least go to dinner with, whether or not he’s married. That’s the man who sits there quietly, behaves himself like a gentleman, but you know that he’s aware of you. You’re sure that he wants to ask you for a date but doesn’t know how. As he’s leaving, he’ll often say something like this: “That was a very nice flight. I enjoyed it and you’re a nice stewardess. I’d like to have you on my flight again. The next time I’m on your flight, maybe I can buy you dinner.”

  That’s fine. Even if he’s married, most of us will go out with a guy like that, have dinner, enjoy his company and that’s it. No wild time. No big sex thing. But we’re both in a strange city, away from home, and we want to spend a pleasant evening. There’s no harm in that. Of course, it can happen that from such a casual beginning there can develop a very deep and complicated attachment. That’s a risk we take.

  Yes, the radar is built in. What we do with its findings is another matter.

  CHAPTER X

  “They Looked So Normal”

  There isn’t a great deal you can say about homosexual men and women you meet on a flight, except maybe to comment that there are more of them than you might think. Just as we’re able to size up a man’s marital status, profession, and nationality, we’ve become quasi expert in labeling the gay guys who fly with us. It really isn’t difficult when you think about it.

  Some make it easy for us through their outward mannerisms. It’s a fairly safe bet to say, “Here comes a fay one,” when the subject of your comment floats up the loading ramp, his feet six inches off the ground, twinkle-toes past you, and lightly settles in his seat, one leg daintily crossed over the other in best feminine fashion.

  Much tougher to recognize are those with big biceps bulging under their coats, rugged faces, and harsh, manly ways of speaking. They’re dangerous, if only because you can fall in love with one before you know he isn’t capable of returning the affection.

  Certainly, there are times and conditions when a homosexual is preferable. Many girls working foreign lines testify that a good portion of the male stewards working their flights aren’t as masculine as you might expect, and this very lack of drive for the opposite sex ensures these girls a relatively safe trip, especially in the close confines of the galley.

  Then, too, a fay fellow can be valuable simply as an escort, when escorting is the sum and substance of what you expect on a given evening. There are many girls who maintain a warm friendship with a homosexual man, and enjoy his company on those occasions when all she wants is a pleasant fellow to take her to dinner, the theater, and to bring her home without pawing and panting. But as a steady diet, none of us wants that man around.

  We’ve found that most effeminate men on our flights are extremely passive. They generally possess a high degree of intelligence, are witty, too polite, and offer no trouble to a stewardess. But despite these apparent advantages, their very presence is unnerving and disconcerting.

  The biggest problems with a homosexual on a flight come when he’s an overt one, a practicing queer with little discretion for the time and the place. We’ve all been involved in these cases, and they can leave you shook for days.

  I remember one young man, neatly dressed and from all appearances a gentleman, on a flight from Dayton to Houston. He sat in seat 6B.

  We were airborne and just leveling off at cruising altitude when a passenger signal light flashed in the galley. It was for seat 6A, occupied by an elderly businessman who had settled down to paperwork the moment he came aboard. I walked down the aisle to answer his signal, and as he saw me coming, he got up and met me in the aisle.

  “May I have a word with you?” he asked, his expressi
on one of disgust.

  “Of course, sir,” I answered, and led him back to the galley.

  “Look, Miss, I don’t want to be a complainer or prude. But I wonder if there isn’t something can be done about the young man sitting next to me.” He was referring to the neatly dressed young man in 6B.

  “What’s the problem, sir?” I expected him to say he had excessive body odor, or was playing a wooden flute, or maybe he was even reading Playboy. Perhaps the sight of the center foldout was bothersome to this businessman trying to work.

  “I don’t even want to get into a description of it with you, Miss. I think the best thing would be for you to go down the aisle and look at what he’s reading. You’ll understand then.”

  It seemed a reasonable request, and I did as he suggested. I wish I hadn’t. There was the young man in his seat, his eyes focused on a magazine he had in his lap. It did have a centerfold like Playboy, but this one had nothing to do with girls. Folded out was a full-length photograph of a nude man posed against a tree. He was the pinup of the month. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a man in the nude, but the setting and timing left me in a slight state of shock.