Jewel of the Skies

Jewell Candrel had seen it all. She’d been onboard when people still dressed up to fly. When the act of moving your butt from one end of the country was considered an adventure that was best experienced by the upper echelons of society. Those of lesser means could fuel up the family wagon with cheap gas and hit the road. Deregulation, air traffic controllers strike, low-cost carriers, pre-9-11, post 9-11, and that took her up to the present. A fifty something grandma getting in a few more miles before hanging up her wings for good. But first she had to get to Jamaica with another cabin full of BWI-based yahoos.

She was working First Class because she had seniority and coach meant long walks up and down the aisle dragging the damn refreshment cart or running back and forth. Either way it was too much on her feet. She’d taken care of herself over the years and her face and naturally slim typically passed her off as ten years younger. But her feet felt everything. Today she had eight seats to worry about. Actually, probably six because the couple in row 3 were already making moves that said it was nappy time. God bless ‘em. They’d pulled down the window shades and were stretching out.

“Can I get you folks a blanket and pillow?” 

“That’d be great,” said the man.

“Anything to drink?”

“No thanks. Baby, do you want anything?”  She shook her head no.

“I’ll be right back,” said Jewell. Good. They would be no problem.

1A and B looked like well to do suburbanites, screwdriver for him, coat hung up, mineral water for her, she wants to hold onto her sweater. No problem. Now on the other side of the aisle, there-by hangs a tale, as her Creole mother in Louisianna used to say. Up front we have, what?  Grandpa Scarecrow wearing too much jewelry for a man his age and a wife that he married when she was just a young thing, or maybe he was on his second, or third. Who could tell these days? 

They were unusual enough, but what sat behind them made everybody else look normal. The woman had a pleasing face, unusual eyebrows, but very becoming. Made her think of Lauren Bacall for some reason. But the guy. Oh my. He was big and hairy, like an ape man or something. Something about his eyes were a little creepy. Oh well, might as well dive right in.

“Good morning, can I get you something to drink?

“Uh sure,” said the woman, “can I just have coffee?” 

“Well of course you can honey, cream and sugar?”

“No black is fine,” 

“And how about you sir, can I get you something?” 

“Yes, hi, Leo T. Huntz, the artist here. Can you tell me, that man over there is he drinking a screwdriver?” 

“He certainly is, would you like one of those?”

“Actually, I’d prefer a top shelf Bloody Mary but only if you have stalks of celery to go with them. Do you have that?  The celery I mean?” 

“We most certainly do, a black coffee and a Bloody Mary with celery coming up.” 

“Ah, that’s top shelf though, right?  I mean the vodka, it’s top shelf?” 

“Sir, in First Class everything is top shelf, so you just sit back and relax. Jewell’s going to take good care of you.”  That should calm ‘em down. Top Shelf. Like he could tell the difference. She moved to the wild cards behind Mr. Scarecrow.

The wild man was on the aisle, afraid to fly maybe. Didn’t want to look down, could account for those crazy eyes.

“Good morning can I get y’all something to drink?” 

“Where you from man?” 

The eyes were on her, it was speaking to her ignoring her question and requesting personal information. How rude. She knew he was trouble the second he stepped through the door, and what’s this “man” shit? Did she look like man?” 

She smiled and said, “my people are from Algiers in Louisianna, sir can I get you a drink?”  She needed to get back in control of this quickly, she had a bad feeling about it.

“Algiers? Isn’t that right across the river from New Orleans?”

“That’s right. You been down there?”

“Yes ma’am I spent a week rebuilding a Cat 6-12 on a tugboat that runs out of New Orleans. You ever remember seeing yellow tugs working the river down there?”

“Ma’am,” she thought. Now that was more like it, and he actually knew where Algiers was. Maybe not as dumb as he looks.                     

“You know I believe I have seen yellow tugs down there, you fixed one of those?” 

 “Yes ma’am. I spent five days in New Orleans and put on eight pounds, there’s some good eating to be had down there.”  Then to her shock he pulled his black T-shirt up exposing a well-rounded pale, white belly and said, “look man, I still got it.” 

Jewell laughed out loud. This man was nothing but a clown in a crazy suit.

“Food is serious business down there sir, now can I get you something to drink?” 

“Sure, I’ll have a rum and Coke. Bacardi if you got it.”

 “All right, and for you ma’am?”

She had remained silent through the exchange. When her man ordered the cocktail she gave him a look, not like she was surprised by his order, but like a light had gone on. Jewell had seen it before, 4B had just entered the land where anything was possible, the first eight seats of an airplane bound for paradise.

“Is there something called a mimosa?” She said.  

 “There sure is honey, is that what you want?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll have a mimosa.”