Chapter Nine Beverly
Chapter Nine
Beverly
Oh, today should be prime entertainment indeed. Only day three, and there is already some intrigue. One of my roommates—the girl from Pennsylvania—came back late in the evening. I was sitting at a desk by the window that faces the street. I was reading a novel when I saw her come up the sidewalk with none other than our straightlaced instructor, Mr. Joe Clayton.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the girl kissed him. Smack-a-roo. Right on the lips.
Then she ran away.
I wouldn’t have guessed she had it in her. She doesn’t seem the type.
If she’d looked back at him, she’d have seen what I saw—the streetlight illuminated his face, and there is no doubt that he was surprised by her action. He reached out to her and called her name. But I don’t think she heard him.
That, though, was the face of an infatuated man.
I should know. I’ve seen enough of them with their droopy puppy-dog eyes waiting for any bone you can throw them. She threw him a bone and didn’t hang around to see how eager he was to pick it up.
Poor girl. There is something about her that I haven’t been able to dissect. Inexperience? Shyness? Maybe, but I don’t think so. She’s hiding something. I’d bet my fortune on it if I had one left to lose. She’s not the wide-eyed innocent that she first seems to be. But I can’t decipher it.
I set my book down and hopped under the covers, pretending to be asleep when she slipped into the room.
She tossed a shopping bag on the floor and climbed up the ladder to her bed without changing into nightclothes. I heard the muffled sound of tears as she buried her face in her pillow.
I’ve cried, too, when I thought no one could hear me.
So we have that, at least, in common.
Initially, we were spoon-fed days and days of Pan American rules and culture and etiquette, and I have so much information in my head that I feel like an overstuffed sausage. I know ... glamorous analogy, but it’s the most apt one I can come up with.
For the listening pleasure of anyone interested, I am now able to rattle off a myriad of details like:
Our vision must be 20/40 or better. No glasses or contact lenses allowed.
We’ll be compensated for costs when we’re away from our base station, averaging thirty dollars per month. But oddly, we will not be compensated for our uniforms, which will cost as much as three hundred dollars! To include all required accessories and branded luggage.
We’ll be on probation for six months, subject to being terminated without notice. Yikes.
No chewing gum, no drinking, and no smoking while in uniform. Better to let the passengers think we’re some kind of otherworldly paragons who are above such trifles as halitosis and other vices of commoners.
Don’t apply lipstick in public. It’s in poor taste. (I’ve been guilty of that one!) But when you are in uniform, you must wear lipstick. And only one color. Revlon Persian Melon. For everyone. No matter if the hue complements your skin tone or not.
And so, so much more.
It occurs to me that having been reeled in by this lure of newfound freedom, we are, in fact, incredibly restricted.
But I understand it. A company like Pan Am must have standards. High ones.
And I will meet them all. I must. I have to show Mr. Wall Street that as a woman, I have more value than a stationary accessory on some business colleague’s arm.
In that vein, the television sets in our motel rooms were removed before we even arrived, with the thought that the lack of distraction would keep us cracking those books these six sweltering weeks. So no Beverly Hillbillies on Wednesday nights. It was my secret indulgence at home in New York. And not just because we shared a name.
Today, though, the monotony ends, not only because Miss Pennsylvania and Mr. Clayton gave me the promise of a real-life soap opera. Today, we start the adventure.
Instead of the desks and chalkboards, clock conversions and system timetables, we’re assembling in a hangar near the Miami International Airport, and the enthusiasm among us is palpable. But if we’d thought the classroom was hot, we were not prepared for this special variety of inferno. Walking on the tarmac could almost melt your shoes. Good thing I’d left my Bergdorf-bought ones at home in favor of a sensible pair from Macy’s. Heeled, of course, per requirements. Flats were not becoming on a Pan American stewardess. Even one in training. Not that these thick wedges are exactly sexy, but I suppose that’s better than wobbling on a stiletto while trying to navigate stick-thin aisles while also balancing trays of untold delights.
Or pretend ones, today.
The humidity on the nearby runway creates a rippled look in the air, a phenomenon I’ve seen only a few times on the sidewalks of New York. Usually in August. I’m beginning to think that training is intentionally Darwinian in design. Survival of the most desperate, or something like that.
But my inward complaining is short lived. Inside the hangar sits a sparkling new plane. A Boeing 707, the workhorse of the Pan American fleet. She’s a beauty, this gateway to the jet age. Gleaming white sides with the trademark blue stripe painted right across her rounded midsection. Wide cockpit windows for maximum viewing of the world from above. But with one distinct difference—she is sliced in half from nose to tail. Specially made for us. This remarkable lady’s wingtips will never touch the clouds—her life will be spent right here in this building, sacrificed for the purpose of our learning.
Still, she’s magnificent.
A man might make an argument that an airplane should be spoken of in masculine terms, and they would not be wrong if you consider that it is rather phallic in design. (Intentional or a necessity of engineering? Discuss, everyone. Discuss.) But she’s more than that. She’s all curves and grace and poise. Majestic.
I hereby claim her for womankind.
I have to admit that I’m a little starstruck. Sure, I’ve been on plenty of planes before, but up until a few years ago, they had propellers. Clunky ships in the sky. And now, I will be more than a passenger. I will be a part of her very sleek being. Lifeblood running through her upholstered veins.
Looking around, I’m not alone in this reverence. Silence descends among the forty of us, a collective awe stealing our voices. The heat is forgiven and forgotten, and we are renewed in our elation that we are the ones chosen to be here .
I search for Miss Pennsylvania—I really should start calling her Judy—and I find her underneath the port-side wing. She’s rubbing her hand along the underbelly of the fuselage— I’ve studied the anatomy! —marveling, no doubt, at how this giant fortress can be thrust into the sky. And stay there.
“It’s all a little surreal, isn’t it?” I say to break the ice.
She’s not startled by my appearance here, but turns toward me slowly, as if waking from a dream. I can understand the sentiment. Maybe our kinship is to be founded in our mutual admiration of this vessel.
“I don’t even have words for it.”
“Have you flown much?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Never before the trip here. Philadelphia to London and London to Miami.”
Then she lowers her voice and leans in. “I was terrified.”
Poor thing. The first time is frightening if you don’t know the science behind it and it seems as if it flies by pixie dust.
And on top of that, they went and catapulted her across the ocean from the start. I had a similar route—New York to London to Miami. A confusing choice until you understand that Pan American has no domestic routes, so they wait for a flight you can deadhead—taking an unsold seat—rather than pay the money to fly you direct on a competing airline. Rough start for a newcomer, if you ask me. Especially if they don’t have an available first-class seat. I’d gotten lucky on my second leg and drowned my exhaustion in the free Dom Perignon.
I hope to reassure her. “It took me at least six flights before I remember feeling comfortable with it.”
“What were we thinking?” she asks. I see sweat form along her hairline, and I don’t know if it’s from the heat or the nerves. “We’re going to do this over and over and over, trusting that the engineers got it right.”
I employ the tactic that had worked for me. “I figure that thousands and thousands of flights have flown successfully in the last few decades, so they must know what they’re doing. Besides, you’re more likely to get killed on a highway than in an airplane. But that doesn’t stop you from getting in a car.”
I see a little of her hesitation fade away, so I continue. “And I suppose anything worth having merits some degree of risk. Just think of the upside. We will meet fascinating people. Travel to interesting destinations. Learn something of the world. More than we would from the comfort of our homes.”
She looks away at the word home , and I see that shadow come over her that I’d noticed before. My heart fills with sympathy, and I don’t even know the reason. It’s too early to ask. But I do know how to lighten the mood. A party trick learned early on in etiquette training—distract from the unpleasant.
“What place are you most excited to see?”
Her shoulders relax, and she turns back toward me. It worked. It always does. “I haven’t given it too much thought yet. Everything?”
I lean against the round frame of the turbine and nearly burn myself at the touch. Lordy, it’s hot in here! And the metal is absorbing it all.
“I know exactly where I want to go,” I say, standing back and folding my arms. “Hawaii. Polynesia. The Orient.”
She cocks her head. “Not Europe? I figured that seeing places like London and Paris would be a good place to start.”
How do I tell her that I’ve been to both, several times? I am often uncomfortable talking about the things I’ve been able to do. I mean, who takes lessons in dressage at a stable in the Hamptons every summer? Me, that’s who. But it’s not as if I asked for those opportunities. Nor did I earn them. We are subject to the circumstances of our birth, for better or worse. Mine happened to be more posh than most.
I knew I’d face this when I emerged from my own circle. And I had decided to be honest because sidestepping is so much more work and can trip you up. But now that I’m actually in the situation I envisioned, I hesitate.
Maybe there is a middle road. The truth, but not all of it. I don’t know this girl or what trouble lies behind her eyes. Besides, now that I’ve been cut off, discarded, dismissed, I suppose we are starting on even ground. My past matters less than my future.
“London and Paris,” I answer affably. “Of course those are some top picks. Who wouldn’t want to visit Buckingham Palace and eat crepes in front of the Eiffel Tower? But there is something in me that wants to do what’s unexpected. I want to walk on beaches that are uninhabited. I want to drink water from coconuts that were hacked open with a machete. I want to eat papayas that were not purchased in season at the corner bodega.”
A dreamy look comes over her face and the corners of her lips widen. I have hit the mark.
“Frank Sinatra sang about Hawaii on his album Come Fly with Me ,” she muses.
“Yes! Blue Hawaii . Where the lovers meet on the sand under the moon.”
She sighs. “Isn’t he the best? I could listen to him forever. It’s like drinking honey and rum. Or what I imagine that would be like.”
“Agreed.” I nod. “Hey—here’s an idea! What if we each pledge to see every place he sings about on the album?”
Judy is smiling fully now, and I feel a sense of accomplishment. Whatever is troubling her is forgotten for the moment. “I’d love that!”
I pull my notebook from my purse and tear out two pieces of paper. “Good. It’s a pact. Wherever we end up, we’ll have to keep in touch and let the other know when we’ve checked one off the list.”
I start to write.
Hawaii. New York. Paris. Capri. London.
I know I’m missing some. I put my pen in my mouth and look up at the fuselage.
Judy finishes them out, though, without hesitation. “Vermont, Brazil, Mandalay, Chicago.”
I add them to the list. Then I duplicate it and hand one page to her.
“You’re well versed in your Sinatra,” I say.
“I listened to the album until I wore it out,” she admits.
“Does Pan Am even fly to Vermont since it’s domestic? I don’t think it does.”
She laughs. “You mean you don’t have all the airport codes that our illustrious employer flies to memorized yet?” I know she’s teasing me.
“Guilty as charged. It’s not on the test until next week.”
We hear Joe Clayton clap his hands to get everyone’s attention and the echoes in the hangar quiet to nothingness as all the girls pay attention. “Ladies, let’s gather on the port side so we can get started.” I sneak a glimpse at Judy and find exactly what I expect to see.
She’s blushing.
Isn’t this going to be fun?