poor, poor persecuted me

There’s an old saying that goes: “… absolute power corrupts absolutely, so knowing this you might never want to tussle with a bitchy flight attendant.” I believe spoken by Lord Acton on a recent USAir flight from Pgh to SFO.

I forgot what they can be like, flight attendants (barring the one I actually know, hi Dana, who is of course fully exempt.)  (Or is she?) It had been many years since I had even a minor scrape with one back about x years ago when I was pre-boarding a flight with F and, 2 year old son and unwieldy car seat in tow. A very hairsprayed blonde attendant noticed my struggle and stopped me with the sole intent, it seemed, of being as little help as possible:

FA: Sir, you cannot bring that on this plane.
Innocent Lee: I’m sorry, this car seat is listed as OK on your webite
FA: Sir, if you continue to be belligerent I will have you removed from the aircraft…

The keyword was “belligerent,” in this case meaning “… any person who answers an airline flight attendant in a way other than, ‘yes sir/maam, you are correct. How foolish of me thinking otherwise. I will immediately follow your sage orders and instructions and let my 2-year old sit unprotected in your non-child safe seat which I have paid between $300 and $500 for, is there some way you can ever forgive me?”

And this pre 9/11 I might add.

In the intervening years I’d flown from SFO to Pgh probably 30 or 40 times, and 90% of that on USAir with nothing but excellent and professional service. Plus, as an added bonus they seem to get the craft where it’s supposed to go without stuff like crashing the plane, lateness or other fiery catastrophe.  That’s all I desire from air travel: just keep me safe and treat me like the well-paying slab of meat that I am.

So when coming home from thnxgvng this past Nov. I was a bit stunned by the foaming mad creature in the guise of a USAir FA who confronted my son (now 11) and I on our way to the bathroom about two hours into the flight.  Apparently we were not supposed to be out of our seats, as the Cap’n had illuminated the seat belt sign. I hadn’t paid attention to this illumination, cause to my mind, the damn thing is always illuminated, without too much heed nor compliance from the assembled. Of course I had also been dozing with my earphones plugged in, hearing not, the alleged three or four (the number kept growing) announcements the dude FA had given about not getting out of our seats. Another father and son full bladder team had also risen with the same idea, and when we all got the rear of the plane, the dude, the FA, stamped his little foot on the ground and threw what can only be described as a full blown, “hissy fit” in our direction.  It was stunning and comical all at once, and knowing I had a nut on my hands I ushered the kid and I back to our seats, all the time hearing his continued rant back there about “five or six announcements” and “I don’t care if he pees in his pants, stay in your seats!”

Now you won't hear this very often from me, but I’ll admit that I was wrong. They didn’t want us walking around inside their flying aluminum tube for reasons of their own, and there I was in flagrant disregard. No question about it.  However I was a bit disturbed by the anger and impatience dumped on me, and knew it wasn’t airline protocol to have FAs behave in this way.  Not wanting to be “belligerent” though, I decided to let the matter go.

As soon as that damn seatbelt sign blinked off, the kid and I made an immediate beeline for the damned lavs; this time with more success. The FA was busy ignoring us in the galley, but he knew we were there. I let the kid go first, and when he’d finished the FA pulled back the curtain and in the most hostile and sarcastic way waved his arm and said, “well go ahead!”

And that’s when your friend skirblog said, enough was enough, I took a calming breath, and in a deliberately non-belligerent manner, told the dude that I didn’t appreciate being talked to that way, that it was unprofessional and inappropriate and worse yet, the (gasp) very height of rudeness.  I know, strong words, and this dude could not believe what he was hearing. Steam emerged from several orifices while he went off on another comical and officious tirade complete with spitting and banging soda cans and finally threw down his apron and said “VIOLATION!  You are now in violation of Federal law. I am writing this up.”  I heard him say from behind the closed bathroom door.

Lighter of bladder I felt I’d accomplished my two goals: peeing, and letting the dude know I thought he was rude.  The end of the story? Nope.  Later in the flight I was approached by the (gasp again), first class flight attendant, and asked to approach the front of the plane, where, I presumed I’d be decapitated and forcibly ejected midair, or barring that hauled before an ad hoc kangaroo court consisting of the co-pilot,  and other non-aligned stew's.  This chief FA, (a lovely, patient and soft spoken woman, the very epitome of a professional FA), heard me out, and apologized if I was offended by one of her crew.  She said she would definitely issue a warning and I thought, that's probably a good thing.  Of course I assumed it would be a warning to the flight attendant, so imagine my surprise when she handed me a little strip of paper, one half of an FAA form letter that announced: “if I continued in my disruptive behavior I would indeed be in violation of Federal Law and be subject to further action, prosecution, or perhaps decapitation.”
“Unfortunately,” the chief stew said, “these days airline passengers have very little in the way of rights."  After that sunk in, she added: "Its really just a formality. You can throw it away if you want.”
“Are you kidding?” I replied. “I’m blogging all this.”

After that, the story veered unexpectedly into happy ending territory, as the dude, whether coerced by his boss, or by  medication finally ingested, or just on his own calmer and clearer volition, eventually apologized to me during the second beverage service when he was forced to take a wadded up ball of my used napkins, soda cans and food wrappers.  He seemed to mean his apology though, and this filled me with a forgiveness and happiness of my own, as the plane banked softly into the Western sky.  Clearly love was all around, and the seat belt light blinked off dramatically, and the crew and passengers broke into lighthearted, yet well choreographed song and dance, while spraying the cabin with seltzer water and bloody Mary mix as the plane descended into its final approach.

So here’s to you, flight attendants of the airships of Earth, keep up the good work. God only knows I wouldn’t want to do it either.

________

But for a true highlight of the Pittsburgh trip, we have to go back in time.  Here we will  acknowledge my triumphant consummation of the “O” hot dog lust that had preoccupied me since last summer. You’ll recall, won’t you, the trouble I had last summer getting myself a dog. I missed all opportunities while in Pgh, then failing again in LA.  So we made it Priority One this Thanksgiving, even with all the eating that was destined to occur, to nail down some “O” time in the formerally Steel City. Our good pal, VC was kind enough to accompany me, and the O was in fine form. An important Pitt game was being played somewhere and that meant tons of giant sized people from all walks of life elbowing their way to the age old counter to get a dog or three or seven.  That’s the way they do it at the O, no “line,” or “organization” or numbers taken, just elbows and eyebrows and jutting chins, and whatever else you have in your arsenal to get the dog-maker’s attention.

In my case I had what’s known as my fucking birthright, a laser like force of will that separates  crowds and focuses a counter person’s attention on my dog needs. Turns out we were lucky, nay honored, to have the owner of the O herself wait on us and construct our dogs.  I recognized her immediately, wearing as she does about 200 keys dangling from various ropes and chains on her person. Ah, the O, hotdog steamy on a cold day. The absolutely singular and un-duplicated O smell, some mixture of frying dogs, onions, steamed buns and old video game electronics; added perhaps to the never cleaned residual memories of college kids, big bruisers, hoodlums, bikers, football lettermen and their girls, scared families and starving punks, maybe mixed with ketchup and bubbling peanut oil.

 The fry station is legendary unto itself, an inhumane sweat shop of potato production and rendering by grease.  Note the before and after pictures here: these were the “small” order. You can see the tiny carton underneath what we eventually unearthed. What was left was two grown, hungy men, one of them being me, who still couldn't finish the thing.  The “medium” comes out in  wheelbarrow with heart monitor and portable D-fIB machines, and the "large" is something better not spoken of.  I will say you must order it in advance.

And it was good. VC dispatched a couple of chili and mustard dogs if you can imagine such an aberration.  I was all about, 1) cheese and onions; and 2) ketchup, mustard and kraut. It hits me hard when purists rail against the addition of ketchup to a dog. There’s this elitist thought among New Yorkers and TV food personalities that only mustard is acceptable. But we’re from Pittsburgh, are we not? What the hell did you think they (the Lord) invented Heinz Ketchup for anyway? Just to put on French fries?  Not at the O peeps, fries, yes in ketchup for sure, but also on yer dog. Don't forget the cups of their ubiquitous melted cheese sauce, the same orange, velveeta-y concoction that graces the dogs. Hot cheese people and ketchup. And you are in the ‘burgh.

And that’s all I gotta say on the subject of flight attendants and dogs. 

Comments

[juju pongo]

lee
abolutely good gawd almighty good stuff in this, and me am thankful you sharing it all wit us...

[Geener]

See what you did? Now I want an O dog and fries. On the eve before our vegan Christmas dinner.

[jen]

fries and dogs oh my! and dang, nice to see your inkin' again.
- jen

[Mike LaVella]

I remember fondly when you took me, the young singer for Pittsburgh's one and only hardcore band Real Enemy, to the "O" in 1983 because you heard that I was "broke and hungry" (both true.) It was that simple act of benevolence that kick started my life long appreciation of Jewish people... Le Chaim!

[Shell]

Thoroughly enjoyed your recounting of the Pittsburgh flight with the kid. Had me laughing out loud. Beautifully written. Laughed even more when I read how Mike's "lifelong appreciation of Jewish people" was born. Was that a Hebrew O'National? -Shell
PS Moving boxes have been purchased and delivered.