Category: work

ABOUT THIS BLOGSPOT

Back in the early nineties I had an injury that kept me from full time work for two years. During that time I kept telling myself that I wanted to start writing a book. I had a basic topic, short story horror, and even a few story ideas. But I was young and foolish and wasted my time watching the Munsters and partying with my roommate and his buddies.

When I started working again I wished I hadn’t wasted so much time. I spent the next ten years thinking about writing, coming up with new stories to tell, developing characters and plots. But I was working too hard to have the energy or patience to sit down and write.

Then I got a job with a lot of time off. “Finally, I can start to write,” I thought. And I did. However, I had new fodder to write about now. Oh, I fully intended to start writing my fiction, but my life was so much fun now. You see, I had gotten a job as a flight attendant. It wasn’t what I set out to do, but the job had fallen in my lap, and I was looking to travel anyway. So I thought, “Why not?”

I was coming back from trips all over the world and telling my family and friends about it. They kept asking for more. My uncle in New Jersey, told me that I should keep a good journal of my travels, something to look back on or share with my children. But I thought, well, if I’m going to write about all this, why not do so to share with the world. And my non-fiction was born.

I started writing this book two years ago. It shouldn’t be taking me this long but I just finished editing my 23 chapters (299 pages as of this post) and I’m now ready to share it with publishers. It’s been a blast writing it and has been the single biggest project I’ve ever taken on. I’ve had jobs last shorter than the time I’ve spent on this.

I really hope you like it. Please let me know at brogott101@aol.com. I often wonder if what I am writing is really interesting enough for people to want to read it. Is it easy to follow along? Am I writing at a comfortable reading level for the audience? Am I wasting my time?

I’m only including bits from ten of the chapters. They don’t tell the whole story, but hopefully they show my fledgeling writing abilities. Hopefully those abilities are good enough for a publisher to share in my dream of showing the world what my life has been like for just over a year of it. Hopefully you will read these posts and yearn to read more, champion my getting the book published, and rushing out to buy it, along with your friends and family.

So on to the book, I’ll start with part of chapter one. I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER 1 DEATH OF A HARLEY MAN

All good books start at the begining. While the begining of this chapter in my life started as a passion borne into the young ideals of a child, the actual story began with a job interview that took me to Chicago. It was a trial, not just an interview. It was the sort of event that I wrote about, long before I ever thought of turning my writing into a book. While I’m not going to post the part about the interview here, I thought I’d start my posts by giving you a history lesson of the beginnings of my passion.

The end of a long day had finally arrived. I was glad. I was tired. One of my employees had been working a little late and had just said good night before slipping out the back door, leaving me alone in the building. The distraction from what I had been working on was a welcome one. My desk was a mess, full of advertising material and files of work, financial statements and reports. I sat for a moment looking over it all and then swiveled my chair to face the back wall, where a model of a Boeing 737 sat on a bookshelf. It seemed out of place amongst the binders and books. But I loved to look at it.

I studied the plane and its lines, making it so aerodynamic. I looked at the miniature windows of the cockpit and could envision the white-shirted captain sitting in his seat flying it. I smiled and felt calm. I had just come off a plane the previous day, ending a three-day travel ordeal that was all still very fresh in my mind.

Needing a break, I rose from my chair and walked out of my office and onto the showroom floor. The smell of rubber mixed with gasoline and leather. The room was dark except for a few florescent safety lights that stayed on all the time. The sun had long set and through the front windows I could see a few cars go by, creating a show of white and red lights. I looked around at the motorcycles parked side by side on the slick floors. I glanced over the walls with mirrors and signs advertising Harley Credit services. To my right was the women’s MotorClothes section, to my left, the men’s. Racks of tee shirts and jeans sat full of merchandise, some of which I had personally ordered from various vendors. On the walls hung leather jackets, vests and pants. I walked back towards the office but turned left and walked to the lower half of the store.

I thought about how I had helped tear down the wall that once stood where this step was. I took a step down to the other half of the showroom and remembered the people who had tripped on that step, not realizing that it was there. That was the winter of early 1996 and we’d just opened the new store. People were not yet used to the high walls loaded with shiny merchandise, like motorcycle parts and specially painted fenders and tanks, and were distracted from watching where they were walking. It always gave me a chuckle and no one was ever really hurt. But we finally had to put in a ramp and block off the hazard with boxes of motorcycle oil and racks of clothing.

Along the front of this section was the lounge with windows that looked out onto the parking area and the street. The lounge was where customers could congregate and where the employees took breaks. It was home to the vending machines, a few tables, customer photos and a small kitchenette. When walking from the lounge towards the rear of the store, one passes the display area and then reaches the parts counter. Behind the parts counter wall is the large parts storage area with rows of shelving and a loft above for large parts storage. The walls around the display area were covered with motorcycle parts and high up, out of reach, were more fenders and gas tanks for sale. Neon lighted signs helped customers locate the parts department as they would walk into the front door. They illuminated the area in a strange red glow at night.

I now stood in this display area, with the lounge to my left and the parts counter to my right. I looked at the motorcycle accessories and the collectibles displayed neatly in cases and on the display racks. I stood there looking at everything in the darkness, taking it all in, thinking back on how I had made much of this happen.

This place had become my home and all that I had known for the past five years. I was the general manager of this Harley-Davidson dealership. I had moved here with my father in the late summer of 1995 to help him run this business. I had spent more hours in this store than I had spent at home. I had hired over 95% of the people who worked there. Over the years, I had fired many as well. Much of the inventory was either ordered by me or was signed off by me. It was my advertising and marketing skills that attracted people to shop here and it was my signature on the checks that paid our staff. The hours were long but the pay was good and I was enriched by the personal growth I had experienced over the years.

But I was starting to say goodbye to it all. Most nights I could be found there long after closing, working on marketing ideas or sales events, writing articles for our newsletter or working on reports for headquarters. Now I would often stand in the dimly lit store at night to look over it all, like an artist saying goodbye to his art before it was to be hung on someone’s living room wall.

Travel was in my blood and it was affecting me more and more. The business had switched hands in 1999. My father returned to Texas, but I stayed on to continue to run things. The new owner was mostly absentee, so my business trips almost dried up completely, and I could take it no longer. I had given notice and was searching for a new job. One that would take me all over the world. And it wasn’t until I had gotten home from that long, hard trip, just the night before, when I realized I had found that job. I chuckled to myself as I began to think about how it all started for me; this passion for flying.

I was a small boy, maybe five years old. At that age I spent a lot of time with my grandparents in Borger, a small town supporting a Phillips Petroleum refinery in the Texas panhandle. My grandfather was a company man who would eventually retire from the position of Pipeline Superintendent. Borger was often a smelly place due to the oil refinery at the north edge of town. Coming from Houston, which was so much larger and aroma-free, I always called it “Little Stinky Borger.” My grandmother said the smell was that of money. When we would pass a Phillips gas station, she would tell us to bow our heads. “That’s our bread and butter!” she would say. So she would counter me by calling it “Bigger Better Borger.” It would be a running thing between us for many, many years. Still is today, all though she now lives in Houston.

My mother would take me to the airport for my trips to Borger and would be able to walk on the airplane with me. She would make sure that I had a seat by the window, buckle my seat belt and give me a kiss goodbye. There was always a nice lady behind her smiling. I would look at the wings on her uniform and smile back. The lady would make sure my mom got off the plane before the door would close. I don’t ever remember being upset or scared and I would spend the next ninety minutes looking out the window. I loved to see the other planes, feel the speed as we took off down the runway, and watch the ground drop below until the clouds took their place.

Itsy, (that’s what I call my grandmother), tells a story of going to the airport in Amarillo to pick me up so many years ago. “And here you would come walking off that plane with that ugly, dumb rabbit under one arm…”

She was talking about Buns, my childhood security blanket. Buns was a scraggly green rabbit with long legs and ears. I took him everywhere I went, much to Itsy’s dismay, “But you took to flying on those planes back and forth like it was nothing. You always loved to fly.” Indeed, to me, it was just a normal thing, like getting in the car to go to school.

Years later, my father was living in Chicago with his third wife, Kitty. I would go to visit in the summer and in the evenings we would sit outside on the back patio when my father got home from work. He and Kitty would talk about their day and I would play with toys. They would drink gin and tonic and I would drink cherry flavored sugar water. The heat of the day was lowered to a cool breeze, which we enjoyed sitting in. Overhead flew the planes going to O’Hare International. I would always look up and watch them. Seeing this, my father would look up and name the type of plane, a 727, a DC10, a 747. I remember specifically, seeing the many bright colors of Braniff airplanes. I think they were my favorite.

When I was about nine, Dad and Kitty left Chicago and moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. They had a place high in the city, near the base of Sandia Mountain. In the back yard my father had built an elaborate vegetable garden with railroad ties to keep in the dirt. At the top, and in the corner of the yard, he built a fort for me to play in on my summer visits. It was two levels high, the top being open with a railing for safety. He also fashioned a flagpole with a pulley so I could raise and lower a flag. From up there, one could see the whole city spread out below, towards the valley. But what caught my eye from up there was the airport. With binoculars I could see the terminal itself and the planes moving around on the tarmac. I would watch them fly overhead until I could see them touch down and taxi to their gate. Then I would watch others as they sped down the runway and lumbered into the air. I tried to watch them until I could no longer make them out in the huge sky.

As would most kids with a fort, I made a Jolly Roger flag for the flagpole, with black cotton for the flag, and white felt for the skull and crossbones. But I also made a second flag. This one was more simple, yet meaningful, with the letters G.A.L.O.P. My father came home from work and I showed him my new flag. When he asked what the letters meant, I told him, “Gibson Aviation Look-Out Point.” I don’t know who was more impressed with my ingenuity. I have no idea of what ever happened to that flag, but I’ve never forgotten it.

So my love for airplanes and for flying had been with me since some of my very first memories. Now I had grown used to making about twelve business trips a year with the Harley business, and then having that number dwindle to only a few. I had amassed a collection of civil airplane models, books and metal signs. And the collection grew as my passion did. I even made quick friends with several customers who were pilots. They would come into the store and I would hit them with all sorts of questions about things I saw at airports, parts of airplanes, how things worked. But I had never once thought seriously of trying to get into aviation for a living.

I left the dark showroom and returned to my desk to get on my computer. The past three days had been so amazing. I wanted to write about it so I would never forget the experience, and so my friends and family, both here in Annapolis, and back in Texas, could read about what I had just gone through.

I began to write an essay on how I had gotten my new job with a major airline. I had no idea that what I was about to write would start something that would occupy my free time for over two years and would eventually turn into this book.

CHAPTER 2 THE COMPOUND

Training was tough, long and not without stress. There was a lot to learn. Turns out I didn’t just learn how to be a flight attendant. I learned a lot about living in close proximity to others who I normally wouldn’t sit next to. Note, many names in this book have been changed to protect the innocent. Or at least me.

The rest of training was not free from stress. Part of that was due to being surrounded by some of the same people for six weeks. Many of us had not had to share a room with three other people since college. And that was a really long time ago for some of these folks. Things were still a little stressed in our room between Drew and the rest of us, even though I continued to put on a friendly front.

At the end of week four, one of my classmates, Terri, was having her birthday. A group of us decided to head downtown to celebrate with her. We found a few bars to enjoy; when one got boring we would move to another. By the end of the evening we had been to a few bars and were feeling quite comfortable. One of the girls in our group, Aura, had gone to the bar for another drink. Terri followed her and they wound up spending a lot of time at the bar, just the two of them.

When they came back to the table, it was clear that Aura had been crying. Someone else at the table asked what the problem was and she spilled it all.

“Last week in the mockup, Drew made a demeaning sexual comment to me and slapped my ass. He knows I am married and I didn’t do anything to provoke him.” Did she tell anyone about it? “No. He’s got a family. I’ve got a family. I don’t want this to get all blown out of proportion. But I made it quite clear to him that I didn’t appreciate his advances and that if it happened again, I would kick him in the nuts.”

Apparently, Aura was not the only one at the table to feel uncomfortable with my roommate. Others had overheard him making questionable comments and felt a bit uneasy around him. The conversation turned to him for a while but as all conversations do, eventually evolved into other things. I felt badly for Aura but really thought nothing else about it. The night moved on and we eventually made our way back to the compound. My roommates were already asleep when I got back.

The next morning I went down for breakfast in the cafeteria. The room was almost empty but there were a few of my classmates sitting at one table with Drew. I started to pass them by for a table with more room, but was beckoned to join them. I hesitated, but sat down reluctantly, giving into peer pressure. I never did feel much better about Drew since that first impression, and now I felt even more distanced from him.

As soon as I sat down, I realized that everyone was leaning in towards Drew and that his eyes were red. In an instant I knew what was happening. And it would drag the entire class into an abyss for the remainder of our time at the training center.

“Aura is going around telling people that I sexually harassed her and it’s all a lie,” he said. I acted somewhat surprised. I actually was. First of all, I knew she was not going around making that false accusation. Aura was a very attractive woman. Her complexion was flawless, and her body was in perfect condition. She did not need the attention and it was quite clear to us the night before that she had dealt with it and only wanted it to go away. The only reason we knew about it was that we practically drug it out of her at the bar. And she certainly wasn’t lying.

I searched the faces at the table. There was one who was at that bar last night and I knew it was her who told him about it. I’m not going to mention names. I never have to anyone I confided in while I was in training. At this point it’s all water under the bridge and I don’t need any aggravation to come back and haunt me from training.

Drew stewed about it some more and I finally admitted that the subject had come up the night before, but I didn’t believe it was her telling people. He got up and stormed away exclaiming he was going to find her and talk to her right now.

It does nothing but get messier from here. Word got to the supervisor on duty who called the two of them up to the office. They each gave their side of the story and then were told that more would be done on Monday by our supervisor. In the meantime, neither of them was to discuss it with anyone else. I only know all of this because the first thing Drew did was to come to our room and tell me everything that happened in the supervisor’s office. The funny thing was that when he told me her side of the story, as she told it to him, it matched exactly what she had told me at the table in the bar.

What he did next would seal our fate as roommates. He asked if I was near them when the incident occurred in the mock up. I was not. I was in the other mock up on the other side of the room.

“If you get called up tomorrow and questioned, I want you to tell them that you were there and that you never saw it happen. Tell them I wasn’t even seated near her,” he told me.

I was floored. “I can’t do that, Drew. I’m not going to do that and I won’t be brought in the middle of this.” I lied. After he left the room I knocked on Aura’s door and told her what had just happened and that if I got called upstairs, I would let them know as well. This situation was getting serious and I was not going to let Drew manipulate the situation to his favor for something I felt he was, indeed, guilty of.

Drew spent the rest of that day going around telling everyone about what happened and by the time class resumed on Monday, I felt as if half of us were on his side, and the other half was on hers. The tension was noticeable and different fractions were in different corners whispering and looking around like they were guilty of talking about someone. And they were.

At one point in the afternoon I was watching planes approach ORD with my binoculars. I went to the laundry room on the other side of the building, affording me a better view of the planes. But this was also the same side of the building that the pool was on. There were quite a few people out there and I could make out Drew, surrounded by a group of people, some from our class, others were not. I looked at them through the binoculars when Christine entered the room. ‘Oh, shit,’ I thought. ‘She probably thinks I’m some pervert watching the girls at the pool.’ She didn’t say much to me and I decided to return to my room.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Christine knocked and asked to speak to me. I let her in.

“Scott,” she started. “I just wanted to tell you that I am very bothered by what you were doing just now in the laundry room.”

“Christine, I know you think I was watching people at the pool. I did see Drew down there and did look to see whom he was talking to. But the reason I was in there with my binoculars was to watch planes come in to land.”

She seemed to not quite believe me. I pointed to a model airplane sitting on my windowsill and picked up a magazine on airplanes.

“You see, I like to see what kind of plane they are. I’m totally obsessed.”

I could see that she now understood. She smiled and said she was relieved. She was thinking I was a perv. I told her that I was glad she came to see me about it instead of going around thinking that. We still laugh about it today.

The next day, my other roommate, Restie, came to me and told me that things were getting bad. He had come in late Sunday night, after I went to bed. He closed the door quietly and was slinking around the room getting ready for bed, trying not to wake us up. Drew got out of bed and said he needed to talk to him so they went to the spacious closet and turned on the light. And just as he had done with me, he asked him to lie for him about what happened in the mock up. And just as I had done, he told Drew that he would not do that. I let Restie know that the same thing happened to me and thanked him for not going along with it.

I never was called upstairs and no one ever asked me about what happened in the mock up that day. The case was dropped, which angered Aura, but she was glad to have it behind her. She never did want it brought up in the first place. She would be going to a different base and hopefully would not have to see him again. She only hoped her husband would never find out. He was the jealous type and would not take it well; he might even make her quite this job.

Things were a little tense in my room after that. Restie and I became closer and he would often tell me that he didn’t understand why Drew disliked me so much.

“You are always so nice to him, nicer than I am to him,” he would tell me with his thick accent, “even though he treats you so badly. And he’s always talking bad about you to me. I can’t stand it.”

But my being nice to him ended on the first night of our last week, week six. This was the night before we were to leave for our international training flight. One third of the class was to go to Paris, one third to London, and the rest of us to Frankfurt. Being of German heritage, this was exciting news to me. I’d never been anywhere that required me to have a passport before, so this trip was huge.

As usual, we would be paired up and would stay in a hotel with a roommate. Mine would be Drew, of course. That was just my luck. My flying partner was a girl from the other half of the class, Sarah. Everyone was very excited about going overseas the next day. All of our flights were very early in the morning. The three of us were getting ready for bed after having packed our suitcases. Drew was in bed when the phone rang. It was a friend of Restie’s from California, two time zones back. They spoke briefly and hung up.

The phone rang again and it was another call for Restie. He told the person at the other end that he was going to leave the room and call him right back. Very nice thing to do since the lights were out and we were trying to get some sleep. A short while later he returned and got in bed. The phone rang a third time. It was Sarah calling me to find out what time I was going to be in the lobby for our taxi to the airport. I gave her the information, hung the phone up and walked back over to my bed.

Drew rolled over and took the phone off the hook. At first I thought I would ignore it, but then I decided I couldn’t handle the phone being off the hook. What if someone calls? What if there is an emergency? What if his daughter was in an accident? He assured me that wouldn’t happen, that they would call on his cell phone.

“You’re not the only one in this room and I don’t think Restie wants the phone off the hook either,” I told him.

Restie didn’t say a thing. I went back to his side of the room, where the phone was, and put the hand piece back on the cradle. He tried to take it off again as I walked back to bed, so I placed the phone on the floor, out of his reach.

His reach was better than I thought and I didn’t hear him take it off again. I settled into bed and after a minute the phone started to beep obnoxiously, telling us it was off the cradle.

“Well that was a smart thing to do,” I said crossly as I got up once more to fix the problem. This time I moved the phone further away from Drew’s reach.

“Now leave the flipping phone alone.” Except I’m pretty sure I used a stronger word than flipping, but it also started with the letter F.

I got back in bed and there was silence. It lasted about three minutes. Drew started moving around. He put his leg on and got dressed and left, slamming the door behind him.

Across the room, the light went on and Restie was sitting up. “Oh, my goodness!” he said. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know. He’s just being an ass.”

“I know he is. I was so afraid for you. I thought he was going to get up and attack you! I thought he would hit you with his leg.” Restie’s amazement at what was happening was prominent in his voice. And his wry humor was timeless. “I don’t know why he has to be so rude. There are other people in here besides him.”

I simply agreed, still not sure what had set him off that way.

After about twenty minutes Drew slipped quietly back into the room and we all managed to fall asleep without hitting one another.

CHAPTER 5 PARADE OF HUMANITY

Much of my job with the airline is watching people, a hobby I enjoy. And every day there are more and more people to watch. It made me wonder on a layover in New York about the masses of people and what will happen to our planet as they continue to procreate. This post is setting the chapter up by going over some ancient history.

I was so fortunate to know Tonya and that she allowed me to stay with her in Livermore while I was getting settled in. At the same time I met her all those years ago, I also met a girl named Sophie. I actually met her at Tonya’s apartment in Dallas. She was sitting in a large chair that had been placed prominently in the room. It was as if Sophie was holding court, which seemed appropriate, since everyone was raving about having her present at that night’s party. Sophie was the glue that held the group of people together. She was the life of the party. When Tonya moved to California, Sophie and I became best friends and the parties at Tonya’s were soon taking place at my apartment, a few blocks away. We were the king and queen of everyone’s social life.

On the show, South Park, the obese cartoon character of Cartman always rebuts the jeer of his school buddies by saying he is not fat, but big boned. But Sophie really was big boned. She towered over me by at least six inches and could probably beat the shit out of a trucker. She was a large woman, for sure, but also very sweet, until her dark and playful side came out. And I seemed to be what brought it out in her most of the time. She was fair-skinned and red-haired and had a chronically blocked nasal passage that reminded me of Lilly Tomlin’s telephone operator character, with her nasally sounding voice.

The two of us would often go out for dinner and drinks, about the extent of our social life besides the parties at my place. One evening, we were sitting in a booth at a restaurant in discussion of the things that affected our life at the time (small talk). Soon a moment of comfortable silence befell us. In that silence between two friends came a new joy in life. It sprung from the table just behind her. It was the not-so-quiet conversation of a family. We listened in and from that point forward, we delighted in sitting in booths next to people just to hear what was going on in their lives.

Sophie always found humor in the lives of so-called, white trash. She hated blue eye shadow and ‘large hair,’ so when we saw women made up like that they instantly became the topic of her scoffs. In jest, she would often place the name, “Bob,” at the end of someone’s name- Scott-Bob, John-Bob, and Sara-Bob or even Sophie-Joe-Bob. We could entertain ourselves for hours.

One summer we took a road trip to Ohio to visit her brother. It became the “cheese-tour,” as we stopped at all the cheesy tourist traps along the way, like Twitty City, Loretta Lynn’s Kitchen and Opryland. We went so far as to stay in the Memory Lane Inn near Graceland. It had a huge mural of Elvis on the outer wall and was so cheesy; we just had to stay there. They also boasted a 24-hour all Elvis channel on the television. Here, we had found the big cheese.

As we toured Graceland mansion, there was a woman in front of us with large hair and blue eye shadow who claimed to know why the tour couldn’t take us upstairs.

“I know why we can’t go up there, it’s not ‘cause his aunt still lives up there, it’s because HE still lives there!” (Said in a thick southern accent where “still” came out like “steel” and “there” had two syllables!) We made of fun of that for years.

But sitting in that booth in the Greenville Ave. restaurant, I could see right away that Sophie was going to have a field day with this family. They had a heavy “hick” accent, and were talking about what to do with the car in the front yard. I almost thought, surely, they were doing because they thought we were listening to them. Unfortunately, it was for real.

After they left, we had a good time imitating their conversation and improvising on it. As I got a little older this habit turned into more of a fascination with watching the human condition. I often sit for long periods of time at the airport watching travelers and families. I enjoy hearing their stories and when I can’t hear them, I make them up based on what I observe. It’s really quite amusing. It’s taking people watching, which everyone loves, and making it more entertaining than it already is.

CHAPTER 6 TURKEY AT 33,000

My first Thanksgiving away from family and in the sky. Don’t be sad for me, it was great. This excerpt excludes a part in the middle that discusses turbulence and a plane’s ability to handle it. You’ll have to hope this gets published to hear about that.

The flight attendant working the right aisle on this B767 in first class was Olga. She had blond hair on top of a round face and the same Swedish accent as the Helga I once worked with. This was in the kitchen of a Texas hotel run by a German chef with the help of a cook from El Salvador. The dishwasher was from Mexico, the waiter from Ireland, and the waitress from Ohio. It was a culturally diverse place. I was in a high school work program and worked there in the afternoons, instead of taking classes. I enjoyed the little reminder of that memory in hearing that accent again.

Olga had a warm smile embraced by simple age lines radiating into her cheeks. She brought out the linens, which were placed on our tray tables followed by a tray with our appetizer and salad. A queen cart was wheeled out and we were offered our choice of salad dressing, bread and offered a glass of water. I had my champagne refilled several times before our entrées were delivered.

I can only remember one Thanksgiving in my life that has been interrupted. It was the Thanksgiving of 1976. I was all of nine years old and my mother, stepfather and I were getting ready to head out to a friend’s house for the big feast. I was dressed and ready to go when the hysterics began. I guess the reason my mother had not prepared a feast herself, or why we were not out of town with family, was that Mom was very pregnant. My brother thought he would be a turkey and come out on this day, thus causing the labor-induced hysterics. I was shuttled at the last minute to my best friend’s house, three houses down. I remember that Robert’s dining room was full of people I’d never seen before. I also remember that they were thrilled to have me over, and that they were genuinely excited for my mother. But I don’t remember their faces and I don’t recall the meal at all. My mind was seized by the thrill of becoming a brother, and I was in a spell wondering what was going on with my mother at the hospital. The birth was uncomplicated and I had a brother born on Thanksgiving Day. As the nurses cleaned him to place in the arms of my mother, he emptied his bladder for the first time…urinating all over himself. I tell my brother that he was a self-basting turkey! He didn’t know any better, only being a few minutes old, and he takes the ribbing well today.

While this particular Thanksgiving at 33,000 feet didn’t have the miracle of the one in 1976, it was also interrupted. This time it was turbulence that did the trick. It got so bumpy in the middle of our appetizer that the pilot asked the flight attendants to take a seat. We sat there bumping along for a good five minutes. It was the longest duration of turbulence I think I had been through to that point, although it was not too severe.

When at last it got smooth once more, Olga delivered my plate of turkey with dressing and mashed potatoes with peas. It was a moist bird and the dressing was thick. The dressing was Yankee style, not the southern cornbread style I am accustomed to, but very tasty non-the-less. The peas were cooked to where they still had texture and their skins were still smooth and glossy; just right. Not having to worry about going to the kitchen for seconds or thirds, I indulged in the ice cream sundaes now gracing the queen cart along with a selection of liqueurs and chocolate chip cookies. As I sat in my aisle seat watching the credits roll from the humorous clay-mation movie, Olga came to collect my tray. Teresa was to my right and opened the window shades. Below us was the miracle I would receive this Thanksgiving. Not a brother, but a view.

We were somewhere over Utah, which was smothered in white snow for as far as we could see. The sky was turning colors as the sun set down, smearing purple into pinks. A layer of clouds could be seen in the distance, but below us the ground was quite visible. There were so many mountains that it seems like it would take a person a lifetime to explore them all. The snow-capped peaks reflected the spectacle of the colors from above. Mountain after mountain, their jagged roughness reaching up towards us, but they could not accomplish their lofty dreams of touching the heavens. This must be why they reflect the sky as they do. It’s the only way they can take part in the lofty spectacle of the skies when viewed from so high. When on the ground, the simple fact that they reach so high is grand enough. This was a view made to be seen only from the heavens.

As the sun continued to lower itself through the distant clouds, the colors moved into blues. Now the trees at the bases of the peaks, and through the valleys, appeared as stubble on the face of an old man. This was because of the way the snow had fallen around the trees, leaving the evergreen branches exposed; snow peppered with trees like stubble on a soft white face. It was magic. Teresa and I sat there gazing out forever in silence but listening to the beauty of the gods which exploded in our minds.

When the sun was gone and all that we could see now were the stars above and the lights of small towns below, I fell into a sleep that must have been better than any nap taken in any living room that day! It was a long and exhausting day and my nap was its reward.

CHAPTER 10 TEN ON A 777 FOR THREE DAYS

This chapter sets up a running joke throughout the book about pecan pie. At least I hope the story is memorable enough that the reader picks up on my future refrences to changing a topic of discussion by asking, “Is that pecan pie?”

Our flight to Denver left Dulles at 0910, meaning a check-in on the plane at 0810 and a pick up at the hotel at 0630 hours. Now convert that to my body’s time zone in California and I am now waking up at 2:30 in the morning (5:30 in Dulles). Fortunately, I had been tired the night before and was able to get to bed early, so I was fairly well rested for the flight to Denver. I was the first one in the van and took a seat in the last row next to the window. The others slowly filed in and Gloria sat next to me with first class David on the other side of her.

I am setting this up for what turned out to be a memorable morning for all of us, and one that I would think about every time I would go to IAD since. While it was intended to be an innocent eye opener to get everyone awake, everyone in the van seemed to take it more seriously. Here is what happened.

First class David was one of the few flight attendants I have encountered who was a supporter of George (Dubya) Bush for president. Clinton was still making headlines with expensive Manhattan office choices and not being clear on what furniture was his to take from the White House. So there we were, sitting on this van as the sun is rising in cold, damp Washington when David decided to bring the subject up.

David made a comment about Clinton being the president for the lower class people in America, soliciting a few groans from the others. I could see that, at this hour, and by the way the rest of us seemed to feel, we were heading down a very dangerous road. I often have a problem keeping my opinion to myself, especially when I know the other person is wrong! But seriously, I know not to bring up religion or politics with strangers or co-workers. It would take all that I had to hold my tongue and I did so for as long as I could. But as he continued, I finally let a comment slip out about our new president, Bush. And being a typical Saggitarian, I knew it was a mistake before I had finished the final syllable.

One head slumped forward, a few eyes looked heavenward, and two ladies slowly turned to watch the mess in the back row unfurl. I realized I should have kept my mouth shut, but it was too late and I had shaken the beast. But I held my tongue after doing so, yet he would continue.

On his lap was a brown paper bag and as he was stirring the pot of emotions with his political ignorance, he took out a white Styrofoam container. As he got settled into his one-man debate, and while putting down President Clinton, I could see he was preparing to eat a slice of pecan pie saved from last night’s dinner. While I have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself, I can be a wizard at changing conversations. As the others began to glare and sigh heavily, I asked David what he was eating.

“Pecan pie, I got it yesterday and thought it would make a good breakfast.”

“Run with it Scott,” I told myself. Then I continued before he could, “Oh, I just got back from Texas last week,” which I had, “I was driving around the Hill Country with my dad looking at wineries. While I was in Fredericksburg, we stopped for dinner at this great German food place and I got a slice of homemade pecan pie that was to die for. I really miss living in Texas sometimes. There’s nothing like a good pecan pie.”

Gloria was either in on my scheme or genuinely interested in wineries. She asked why I was looking at them and shifted her body towards me, putting her back to David. She was eager to get the question in before he could go no with his rants against Clinton. We were then able to successfully steal the conversation to Texas wineries and my dad’s passing interest in growing grapes. Other discussions immediately picked up in front of us, which was odd, since these rides are typically very quiet. David was now eating his pie and leaving the rest of us to our own devises.

Later that night I would be thanked for my heroic efforts in saving everyone’s day by more than one person who was in that van. But this is not where the fun ends.

We arrived at the airport a little early and people started to stray off in different directions in pursuit of different needs before meeting at the plane. We would have to brief once more and carry out our safety checks. Some had a need for caffeine and sought the local Starbucks. Others were in pursuit of breakfast at the fast food place.

First class David was walking next to me as we entered the concourse, “Hey, buy me a cup of coffee?”

I looked over at him to make sure I was correct in assuming he was talking to me. He was. My reply was a mixture of a chuckle and a sharp, “No.”

“Awe, come on,” he pleaded, like a small child.

“Tell you what, I’ll buy you a cup on the plane,” knowing we would brew coffee right away and that it wouldn’t cost me a thing. (Yeah, I’m cheap.)

“You, know, I was offended by your comments about Bush this morning,” he told me. “Don’t you think you should make it up to me?”

At this point I didn’t quite know if he was kidding or serious, but I almost fell over. If anyone should be offended…well, it shouldn’t be him, that’s for sure. I looked over at him and he was not laughing. But either way, I decided I could play along with the best of them.

“If you can’t handle other people’s opinions about things, you shouldn’t be putting yours out there. You had better get used to dealing with other opinions, and I don’t feel at all bad that you didn’t like mine. I think you were out numbered and maybe it’s you who should be buying all of us breakfast!”

Well, either he had been kidding, or he played it off well, since he next admits, “I’m just kidding. I just do things like that to try to get people to buy things for me. Sometimes it actually works.”

“Well, not with me, buddy!” Now we both laughed, but I just wanted to get away from him.

To give the whole situation some levity, I chimed in that it was an interesting trick and that I would have to try it sometime, even though I would never stoop to that level. He veered off to get coffee while I kept walking to the gate. As I walked ahead, my eyes squinted in a vain attempt to make any sense of what had just transpired between us. I looked back to see him standing in line reading the menu board high on the wall.

CHAPTER 12 THE CONTEST

This trip brings back wonderful memories. I carry a photo of the crew I worked with for three days with me when I travel.

Leaving Boise wasn’t too difficult despite my wake up call at 0350. At least I was in my home time zone. I was able to fall asleep around nine the night before. We were on our way to SFO and landed there in fog, yet by the time we reached the end of the runway, the fog was no longer present and it appeared to be the start of a beautiful day in the city by the bay. The passengers deplaned and we had about thirty minutes to spare. We sat in first class and ate breakfast while we talked about the rough day from the day before.

Maintenance was correcting a minor problem with an airflow valve. I asked Don where the fix was taking place. Not sure what I meant, I inquired if they were working on the nose of the plane or the tail, or what? Now understanding me, he tells me they are working on “the thing on the thing.”

“Oh, the round thing hanging off the flat thing?” I asked.

He said, “I think so.”

Tami asked if that was the tail, so Don looked forward, towards the cockpit, holding in his laughter.

“We don’t have a tail, just a bow and a stern,” pointing to the cockpit as the direction of the stern.

“I thought the bow was when we come down for a landing,” I chimed in. We practically rolled in the aisle at how funny we thought we were.

Fun time came to an end as passengers began to appear wanting to be flown to Burbank, CA. We were quite entertained and I enjoyed seeing our dynamics of working together begin to change as we got more familiar with each other. The five of us began to really get along well and we all had respect for the jobs we were responsible for to the company. The flight attendants respected the pilots’ great ability in landing a plane; the pilots respected us for being able to handle the passengers and the safety issues that come up constantly. It was apparent that the pilots would not have been able to handle my previous day as gracefully as I had, as hard as it was for me to do.

The engine was fixed but required a ground start to test. I noticed that the fog that had ended at the northern edge of the airport had now moved to consume the entire airport. I could hardly see the plane two gates down. However, our door was shut and the bridge pulled back. We would not push back for a while, as there was talk on the radio in the cockpit about visibility. The concern was that we would not be able to return to the airport after take-off should we need to, due to an emergency.

It was fifteen minutes later when we finally pushed and were on our way down a runway we could not see the end of. For that matter, I could only see as far as two sets of white stripes, the same ones Don and Tom were trying to set the plane down on when we would land.

Our load in the back was only nineteen people, so the service was really quick. After noticing how beautiful the coast was from the windows in the back of the plane, I decided to go up front for a better view. Tami was also up there and the view really was spectacular.

The mountains of Southern California were white-capped. The trees grew all the way to their peaks, interrupting the snowfall like a dippled piece of art. To the right was the Pacific Coast, jagged and curvy and white where the sea foamed in agitation at the shore interrupting its progress. The water was a rich blue, which gave the whole spectacle of my view a surreal effect. The green of the mountain slopes slid away from their white peaks into the shore of tan sand and brown rocks, which lined the coast from north to south, then having the white foam and dark blue water give it its boarder on the other side. It was too perfect.

Tom pointed out to us a formation at the western edge of a mountain ridge that was a straight line but with a zippered effect. That was the San Andreas Fault. I took in that line on the earth with awe. I’d never seen a fault line before. Just ahead, or to the south, the line of the San Andreas Fault darted left, or east, and under ground pushing up a great range of mountains North of LA.

The landing into SFO that morning, our first of the day, was rough, obviously due to the fog. I had commented to Barbara that whoever landed that one had lost a beer. But our landing into a fog-less Burbank was equally as rough, and the stop was much quicker, not greased. I commented to the pilots that for that landing they owed us a beer! I was told that the runway is really short in Burbank.

“If you don’t land soon enough and brake hard enough you will end up at the end of the runway just inches from the fence separating the airport from a Chevron gas station, where tense car owners fueling up will look up at the cockpit like deer in the headlight.” I laughed at the thought of standing there fueling my car and looking up to see a plane almost push past the fence, just a few feet away.

The airport in Burbank has no loading bridges, reminding me of airports from long ago when stairs are snuggled up to the side of the plane and one is exposed to the elements as they walk indoors to the terminal. The sun was out and it was actually quite warm. There was a slight breeze blowing across the airfield, and from the open doors on our plane, I could see the homes jutting out from the rising mountain to our east. They seemed to sit so high on the mountain. They would have a great view of the airport from up there! But only a guy like me would be more concerned with a view of the airport as opposed to any other.

Due to the fog still present at SFO, and being that SFO was our destination once more, we wound up holding on the ground for ninety minutes in Burbank. During that time there was much banter amongst the five of us working this flight.

Tami had reserved a car in Medford to drive out to Crater Lake on our layover that afternoon. We were to arrive there around noon, meaning we could get to the lake by two. She mentioned this plan in briefing the day before and I offered to accompany her.

She showed her tongue-in-cheek dislike for the delay to the pilots every few minutes, like it was their fault. She was wondering if there would be enough time, enough light, to see well if we drove to the lake almost two hours later than planned. Would they give her car away? Would they charge her for it anyway? Should she call and cancel the car? She kept barraging them with questions, letting the next fly from her mouth before they could launch an answer to the first.

Don decided to complain about Tami being so negative and picked on her for that. Don had misplaced something earlier and commented that it happens all the time now that he’s got kids. Tami was razzing Don for blaming it on his kids so he was looking for an excuse to get back at her. Tom, all the while, was spouting out useless information. It was all amusing us and allowed us to pass the time easily.

Not to be left out of the fun, I told Don that we enjoyed his announcements from the cockpit. “You’ve got such a soothing personality and speak so calmly that by the end of your announcement all the passengers are asleep.”

Tom thought my two-sided complement was the bomb! (Hilarious, that is.) Tami was laughing and Don just looked at me trying to keep a straight face, but loosing the battle.

“Should I tone them down some?” He finally asked.

“And put them in a coma? Nah,” I had to turn away so I could keep from laughing out loud and ruining the attempted seriousness.

Finally the word came that we were free to depart. I took my place at row one to perform my safety demo and waited for Tami. She started into the demo speech but had not given the command to arm doors. I could see that Barbara was in her position at the over wing exits and had already armed the aft doors, but I interrupted Tami and asked if she would care to arm hers. We both exploded into laughter and were feeling quite punchy by this time.

Arming the door means attaching the emergency slide, which rests in a compartment on the interior of the door, to the doorsill on the plane. If a door is opened in the armed mode, the slide pack slips out from its compartment and drops, inflating with a gas in a matter of seconds, allowing passengers to escape down the slide.

I armed door one right for Tami and went back to assume my place for the demo. Barbara was still in the aisle, now smiling at me, as if to indicate something more than just being friendly. I looked at her with some confusion and she waved at me, moving just her fingers, very seductively, teasing me and undressing me with her eyes. But I could do little to retaliate, since the entire plane was looking at me.

“What is she doing?” I asked of Tami. She leaned over to look down the isle at Barbara. She was still smiling and waving at me. “She’s freaking me out! Make her stop!” I pleaded, jokingly.

We got serious long enough to finish our safety demo and just before I left Tami to take my seat at the rear of the plane, she told me we needed to get a drink when we got to Medford. We would now be getting there around 1400 hours, so she had called to cancel the car. I agreed about the drinks and was disappointed I would not be seeing Crater Lake with her. I then had to give Barbara trouble for joking around with me just before the safety demo.

CHAPTER 17 MY BOSTON MARATHON

Sometimes we create our own problems to complain about. It’s not that I like to complain, but I really should learn to relax sometimes, we all should. I finally got a trip to Boston, a trip I had been waiting to get since I was hired. But it wound up not going as smoothly as planned. This excerpt from chapter 17 describes how I turned something that should have been simple into a journey.

You couldn’t tell from looking at me, but I can be a picky eater. Put a plate in front of me with a whole lobster and I’ve just lost my appetite. I learned this the hard way at a meal in San Diego a few years ago. My large bowl of “seafood pasta” came with a halved lobster and all sorts of shells from clams and mussels. I don’t want the animal I am about to eat half sticking out of its shell or lying on my plate with its carcass on display, its eyes looking up at me. Even the act of cracking into the lobster shell is barbaric to me, not to mention, just too much work.

That’s why in the five years I lived in Annapolis, I never sat down to enjoy ‘good old’ Maryland blue crabs. People sit for hours at a table covered in paper eating them. The paper makes it easier to clean up the entrails and shell fragments that fly when the shell is cracked open. This is done using small wooden mallets. Whack, whack, whack. Crack!, as the shell splits open to reveal the meat within. I love the meat, but not the act of getting it. So I spend more money to buy the meat sans the carcass and the mess.

I do love lobster meat dipped in drawn butter. So my mission on this layover was to find some. I also remembered that the video I watched as part of the home study program prior to leaving for training had a scene playing out a typical day of a flight attendant. There were three people in the scene. One was a girl on her first day as a flight attendant, another lady had been flying for a few years, and the man was quite senior. Their trip was to Boston and they were all going to head out to dinner together that night when they arrived. The lady with a few years seniority asked the man if the restaurant they were going to still served fresh lobster. Although it was not my first day, I was the new flight attendant on the trip, looking forward to lobster, much like in the video. And it was here that my trouble was about to start.

On the ride to the hotel we passed the Faneuil Hall Marketplace with its shops and restaurants, crammed with people and situated near the waterfront park and wharf, so I figured I could find lobster there. The hotel was just a few blocks away. After parting with the crew and changing in my room, I went back the way the van had come to find the marketplace. The sky was overcast, which was nice, since it was warm and humid out.

I walked a quick pace to the marketplace and stopped at the first restaurant to look at a menu. Looked good, whole lobster, great price. “Keep moving; don’t want whole lobster.” This went on restaurant after restaurant. I thought there must be a place here somewhere that served lobster tail. I went to high-class places, low class places, even a food court. There would be a hostess near the menu board in several places and I would mention that I was seeking lobster tail and was told by each that they served only whole lobster.

In the meantime, I admired the old buildings and dodged the many people out and about that day. I eventually found myself overlooking the water and turned left, soon finding myself in an area void of eateries. I turned again, heading in the general area of my hotel, passing more places with whole lobster, places with no lobster, and pubs and clubs serving no grub at all. I kept going and soon had run out of restaurants. I decided to head back towards my hotel and try in the other direction.

I got to see a lot of the city on my mission for carcass-free dining. It was very scenic and I found some old cemeteries, where people such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock and Admiral Fleet were laid to rest. The headstones were old, thin, dark gray slabs with skulls and laurel wreaths engraved on them. Many people filled the sidewalks that meandered through the headstones. Most moved around respectfully, as one should in a cemetery. But there were some who were loud and boisterous and quite rude in their behavior. Old buildings with large, new windows surrounded the graves, like I was in a large room with no roof. It was an odd contrast. Inside, people went about their business. Outside, tourists posed for photos aside graves and monuments to the dead and well known. Near Sam Adams’ grave, people posed holding a bottle of the ale bearing his name. I thought, “if he only knew.”

Onward I walked, through a large park where an outdoors-Shakespearean play was about to begin. Part of me wished I could stop to watch, but I was growing hungrier with each step. I crossed the street to another section of the park with a pond full of swan-shaped boats. The grass was green and the trees were large with broad dark trunks wrinkled with thick bark. Under their canopy, people played Frisbee or sat on blankets with their loved ones, some with picnic baskets. (Probably with lobster tail.)

Soon I found myself at Cheers, the restaurant and bar that the popular show was based on. I walked down the stairs and took a look inside. I expected to see an open, four sided bar with a billiard room beyond, tables of people dining, a wooden Indian statue by the door, and maybe some lump of a man at the bar a la Norm. What I did see was nothing like the television set. The wooden Indian was there and there was a bar, but it had a large wall behind it, which ran the length of the room, which was long and narrow, not open and square. The wall was lined with bottles of beer and hard liquor. Glasses rested on shelves and hung from above. The barstools were full of people; it was cramped and crowded inside. I was not the only one disappointed at the place not looking like the television set. I heard from locals that they were planning on revising the whole place to more resemble the television set to please the tourists. At any rate, Cheers did not have lobster on the menu, so I didn’t stay.

It was now getting late. I had walked several miles on one side of the hotel, and now was about a mile on the other side of the hotel. My plan was to keep looking for a place on the way back, and if I didn’t find one, I would settle for what ever they served in the hotel restaurant.

So I am sitting at the table in the restaurant of the Parker House Hotel. The hotel originally opened in 1856, making it the nation’s oldest continuously operating hotel, according to the brochure in my room. Of course they boast to have slept presidents, kings, famous actors and politicians in the building (and now me!). But I thought one of their guests was particularly interesting. On his American lectures, Charles Dickens would spend long periods here, of up to five months at a time.

The Parker House is also known as the birthplace of two popular foods. My hostess was quite proud of them and she told me all about it. The first was brought to my table in a linen-lined basket- the Parker House Roll. I could have made a meal out of these warm, doughy treats. The butter they served with them was tasteless and brought back longings of the sinfully delicious butter I had on my Paris layover. But the warm bread melted the butter and made it tolerable. The second famous recipe from the hotel kitchen is the Boston Crème pie. As she finished up, the manager came by to say hello and asked if I had any questions about the menu.

I ordered the lobster after a discussion with the manager, where I learned they could remove the meat for me. Apparently, any restaurant would, if asked. I tried to reassure myself how healthy my lobster marathon was. I tried to tell myself, had I stopped at the first place that had lobster, I would have had the meat removed from the shell, I would have enjoyed my meal, gone back to the hotel, and not seen as much of the city as a result. It was good that I walked for miles in search of lobster. All though my feet were telling me that they never wanted lobster again.

The meal was good and I did order the Boston Crème pie. After all, I’ve had the dessert before and loved it. It would be an insult to be at the birthplace of the Boston Crème pie and not try the original recipe.

“People either love it or they hate it,” I was told. Well, I didn’t love it. The cake was heavy, not light and fluffy, it was much like a pound cake. The crème was almost bland and also very thick, more like icing, but not as rich. Finally, the chocolate was fancy, not really chocolate-y. I was used to fluffy cake, pudding-like cream and a rich, creamy frosting. To me, it was like the difference in cheesecakes. There are the New York styles, and there are the instant-from-a- box styles. This restaurant served the equivalent of the New York style and I was used to the box style Boston Crème Pie. But let’s not get into my love for cheesecake here.

It was late. I had walked a marathon. The lobster was puny and they fortified the over sized plate with extra salad to make up for the carcass not being there. The dessert was unsatisfying. The service was slow; I didn’t even see my server until after I had been there for nearly forty-five minutes. I left for my room wishing I had ordered the baked scrod and had the crème broulet, instead. I shouldn’t be so picky. I brought it all on myself for walking all over town to find a place to eat, then winding up doing so right where I had started from. This was just another one of the little things not going right far from home. But as the saying from my high school days goes, it’s nothing but a thing. I am glad to have such problems in my life. Everyone should have such problems in their life, eh? If this is what I have to complain about, I’m a pretty lucky guy.

CHAPTER 20 WHAT’S IN A NAME

I started life with a dislike for New York City. Being from Texas, I wanted my hometown to be the biggest in the world. So it was mostly jealousy. It would take years to discover the magic of the big city and now Manhattan is one of my favorite destinations. This chapter covers a wonderful layover I had there and ends with a facsinating story from a passenger on my flight home. You won’t be reading about that here, but you can read about a fun evening in the Big Apple.

It brought back that New Orleans layover where Margarita and Seetah had me on stage in front of all these people singing Summer Lovin’ with them. I only did it because the alcohol made me do it. It had nothing to do with how much I adored the girls! After our performance, the club showed our video on the house monitors. They had not shown any other act’s videos all night, so either we were that good or that bad. What a layover that was!

Of course Jenny asked me to go with her, and really, the only thing holding me back was the thought of all that cigarette smoke, which would surely fill the room like a fat lady in tight clothes, suffocating me. That, and knowing that I would not be drinking because we are not to drink within twelve hours of working a flight. I just could not envision myself getting up in front of people to sing sober. And you know someone was going to encourage me to sing! The bar was in The Village, a part of Manhattan I had not been in before. So I told Jenny I would go with her on the subway, say hi to her friends, then venture out and explore that part of town on my own.

It took us a few minutes of consulting the subway map, and comparing it to the tourist map I had stuffed in my back pocket from the hotel, to make sure we were catching the right train. We went to the proper platform but soon found out we were, indeed, on the wrong train. We got off at the next stop and decided to take a cab the rest of the way, which saved about a twenty-minute walk.

We ran into her friend, Jason, on the street as we emerged from the cab in front of the bar. He admitted that he was full from dinner and getting drunk very quick. The group had just left a restaurant and bar where they had been hanging out for some time. He and his pals were celebrating the graduation of one of their friends from college. He seemed very nice and for not knowing who the hell I was, treated me as if he did.

We walked into Sing Sing and passed a bar lined up with stools, most of which were occupied. Everyone was watching the music videos on the TV above the bar. The odd thing was the silence from the people. None of them were talking. Each of them sat there like zombies, one hand on their drink, mesmerized, as they watched the video flickering on the screen at the end of the bar. At the bottom I noticed the words to the lyrics changing colors as it was time to sing them.

We went down a flight of stairs towards the back of the establishment. I was pleased to discover that instead of a large room full of people around a stage, I found a hallway lined with individual rooms, which were rented out individually. This meant I no longer had to face stage fright from singing in front of a room full of strangers.

In each room were seats, a large table, a big screen TV, and a kareoke machine. In room thirteen was our party, consisting of twelve people, fifteen after we entered. The room was indeed full of smoke. I could see four glowing cancer sticks moving around to the beat coming out of the speakers. The room was dimly lit, had dark walls, and the large table in the center was full of beer bottles and glasses. There were so many of them, I could hardly see the tabletop. They had to have been there for a while.

Everyone turned to see who had come into the room and soon their attention returned to the big screen with the words to the song flashing across the bottom. Several were looking through the books listing the song selections trying to choose one. There were two microphones being used by two of the young women who were singing a song I was not familiar with.

This was a very eclectic group and as I surveyed them, they certainly took me back to my college days in Houston. There were women and men, black and white. One guy who didn’t look black wore dread locks. One guy wore a knit ski cap and I could see later, when he removed it, that he had shaved his head and looked a lot like the singer, Moby. One of the black girls wore a sleeveless tie died cotton dress and large beaded bracelets around her wrists. There was a thin girl with brunet hair and a great body that knew how to move while she sang. She seemed to be the one coordinating the whole event. She encouraged people to sing, grabbed the microphone to hand it across the room to the next singer after each song ended. She was the one who ordered drinks when the waitress came around, and made me feel at home by asking me to pick a song and if I wanted a drink. I refused the drink but took the songbook to start looking at the selections.

I started to look for songs I was familiar with and was impressed with the wide selection of music. My attention darted from the book to the group as I tried to survey it all. This bohemian group was now taking me back to my high school days. They were selecting songs by Guns and Roses, Journey, Tears for Fears and songs like “I Touch Myself,” “Africa,” “Electric Avenue,” “Raspberry Beret,” and others I had not heard since 1986. I suddenly felt very old. And I was comparatively. Here I was, surrounded by people in the range of 19-23, ten or more years junior to me. And they were all in love with the music from the eighties.

The songs came one after the other with only a few seconds in between each. That was just enough time for complements to the singers, handing the microphone off, and taking a drink of alcohol. The waitress came in often with a new tray of drinks and the table seemed to fill to capacity. At one point the microphone cord grabbed a wineglass and threw it to the ground, breaking the stem in half. The music was loud and the room was warm and smoky. But the people were alive and having such a great time that I found it difficult to leave.

After being there for about two hours, Jenny leaned over and asked if I was about ready to go. It was almost 0100. I could not believe I had been there so long, but I was never able to pull myself away as I had originally planned. But I was indeed ready. We agreed that we would leave after the next song. Sure enough, the next song was my selection, made about an hour earlier. I stood up and took the microphone and began to sing “They Stood Up for Love,” by Live, one of my favorite bands from York, Pennsylvania.

There was only one other guy in the room who was familiar with the song, even though it was just over a year old and a fairly popular college band. He took the other microphone and sang with me, which was good since he could help me reach the notes I had a hard time with. I could see the others looking at me almost with the same curiosity I had been watching them with. I wasn’t sure if it was my age, that I was singing something so unknown to them, or, as my ego would prefer to think, that I was singing so well.

My moment of fame ended and we said our good-byes and headed back up to the city, where we caught a cab back to the hotel. Her friend walked us upstairs and he hugged us both goodbye, neat, I thought, since we had only just met. They promised to keep in touch and to see one another soon, then we got in the cab and were off.

I looked over to Jenny, who had a smile on her face. “I had a really good time tonight. Thank you for dragging me down here,” I told her. And to think, I had almost not gone at all.

“I’m surprised you stayed.” She said.

“I was too, actually, but I really enjoyed it. I couldn’t get over hearing all those songs from the eighties. It was a real flashback for me.”

“I only knew two people in the room,” she confided; “but Jason and Trish are good friends of my sister, but we keep in touch also.”

I realized Trish was the girl who could dance, who seemed to be the organizer of the group.

There was a moment of silence between us as we sped up the streets from down town. It had begun to sprinkle and the streets were wet again. We passed restaurants and pubs full of people. There were closed shops with their windows illuminated from within. Above them, and everywhere, were residences.

I began to think about this city and all of its inhabitants. So many people. You could live a lifetime here and not see it all. You could dine out every day and not taste it all. The Big Apple they call it. I grew up in a town they called Space City. There was Big D, the Big Easy, the Windy City, the City of Brotherly Love, City of Angels, Mile High City (and how can you forget Bigger Better Borger!), all of which I had visited. But none had the mystique or the feeling of being someplace so completely different as the Big Apple. I loved being there, feeling so small and anonymous.