Cockpit Fiasco

“Who wants coffee?” I asked.

The seatbelt sign had been turned off and, as the senior flight attendant, I served the flight crew. I removed my uniform jacket, donned my apron, entered the cockpit, and took beverage orders before lunch. Three asked for coffee and one wanted tea.

Because of FAA regulations, I delivered meals to the two pilots (captain and first officer) thirty minutes apart. In case one of them became sick from a tainted dinner, the other could still command the aircraft. I asked the captain, “Do you want to eat first?”

While I was chatting, I noticed a slight smell of alcohol coming from the engineer, John Cramer. He was short and balding, and squirmed when he talked. He sat behind the first officer facing the illuminated engineer’s panel. All four cockpit crew members—captain, first officer, engineer, and navigator—were retired military, twenty to thirty years older than the flight attendants.

“I have a story to tell you,” John said.

My rapport with the flight crew was considerate and professional. I willingly stayed to hear his story.

When John stood, the foul smell of alcohol hit me. I ignored the odor and kept a pleasant smile on my face, trying to be sympathetic.

The story turned out to be a joke, and when John came to the end he had a wicked sneer on his face. For the dramatic punch line, he placed his hands on my breasts and rotated his fingers as if he were turning dials.

I was stunned. Frozen in place, I didn’t know how to respond. A slight snicker broke the dead silence. The sound interrupted my spell; and I stomped out, slamming the door behind me.

I allowed no flight attendants to enter the flight deck. The cockpit crew members were left to their own devices. If they wanted drinks or meals they had to exit the cockpit, walk to the galley, and wait on themselves.

Usually they had periodic visits from the flight attendants. We would have delivered food, coffee, and much appreciated conversation. But for the next six hours they received not a speck of attention. The hours in the cockpit must have gone by at a snail’s pace.

Captain Morris never requested that I resume a cockpit service. Had he done so I would have had to comply, as captains have unconditional authority on planes, but he never did. The cockpit men moved around us as we continued to work the galleys and cabin. We ignored them completely.

I could have been fired for my retaliation, but nothing was reported. They knew they were in the wrong—not only for the highly inappropriate joke, but because the engineer was allowed to violate the 24-hour liquor curfew required by our airline.

We landed that evening at Travis Air Force Base. The hour-long ride to Oakland was unusually quiet, devoid of chatter or laughter. No one said a word, and the only sound was the engineer snoring as we drove in the darkness to headquarters.

When we arrived at the control center, Captain Morris took me aside and apologized.

“It won’t happen again.”

That was the last time I saw John Cramer. I don’t know if he was fired or if he quit. Either way, it was good riddance to him and his unprofessional behavior.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27