The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,7
like the cool kid in school—something I had never actually experienced while in school. I hadn’t been popular, but I also hadn’t been unpopular. I’d simply been present. There. My sister Dawn had been the one with the large group of friends who’d ruled the school hallways. But as a flight attendant, this was my turf. I fit in. I belonged.
Our plane was at the gate, but the captain and his or her co-pilot had yet to show up. Gemma, Kent, and I took a seat in the boarding area with the passengers while I discreetly inspected my monthly bingo card. In addition to ignoring Dawn’s texts, I’d spent the previous evening mapping out my plan of attack for bingo. I’d been competing in the underground game long enough that I knew which tasks were easily accomplished and which would take a little more leg work.
Some of the challenges could even be completed simultaneously. I could whip out a fake Southern accent while wearing a deflated life preserver without most passengers ever batting an eye. Everyone was typically too consumed by whatever electronic device was in their hand to pay us flight attendants much attention. We became an extension of the airplane itself.
Some of the bingo squares that the organizers had deemed more challenging were actually pretty straight-forward if you were creative and thought outside the box. For example, I was often tasked with getting a passenger’s phone number. One might think this would involve excessive batting of eyelashes, unbuttoning an extra button on your uniform shirt, or laughing at sketchy men’s unoriginal jokes, but I’d discovered a far less demeaning way to get what I needed.
The most important part of every flight was the moment passengers got on the plane. I would position myself in one of the exit rows and carefully inspect each passenger as they boarded and stashed their carry-ons in the overhead compartment. It was probably akin to a con-artist looking for their next mark, but I tried to not think too critically about it. For the phone number task, the obvious passenger was an ego-maniac. The self-important slick guy in the over-priced suit who continued to wear his sunglasses on the plane. The Bluetooth device in his ear was also a dead giveaway. He always ended up being a little too handsy and called female flight attendants ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’
I looked for a totally different kind of guy though—middle-aged, Midwest dads. But it wasn’t just a dad flying solo in his flat-front khakis; he had to be with his wife and kids. Families in matching outfits, especially sports-themed gear that indicated where they lived, was my specialty. When they struggled to get everything into the overhead compartments, I would swoop in to save the day. An innocent comment about their hometown and how I’d never been but had always wanted to go would inevitably result in copious chatter.
“Oh, you have to visit,” they’d gush as they struggled with their safety belts.
They’d eagerly offer up all of their favorite restaurants and non-touristy places to go. But I couldn’t possibly remember all of those details, so they should probably just text me all of that valuable insider information. And ta-da—I had their phone number. One more bingo square checked off.
“Fresh meat,” Kent quietly announced.
I looked away from my bingo card and toward the gate counter to see two young men in pilot uniforms looking over the passenger log printouts. I didn’t recognize either of them from previous flights, but I also didn’t actively work up a rapport with the flight deck crew. It was probably unfair of me to dismiss an entire group of people based only on their occupation of choice, but I didn’t particularly like pilots.
How can you tell if someone is a pilot?
He’ll tell you.
Kent sighed in disappointment. “I don’t see any wedding rings. Gemma, girl, they’re all yours.”
Gemma looked up briefly from her paperback novel, but apparently not interested in either of the two men, returned her attention to her book. She read more than anyone I’d ever met, always staying abreast of the newest, top-selling fiction to show up in the airport bookstores.
“So, Kent,” I said, resuming our earlier conversation. “First Class?”
Kent had slipped on sunglasses and was slumped in his chair. He waved his hand in the air like a monarch dealing with an annoying peasant. “It’s all yours,” he allowed.
“Yes!” I quietly cheered.
Kent and I only shared flights one day a week that month—Wednesdays from Detroit to Philadelphia to New