I: Maria Jose Aguilera de Silva y Gallardón—Iberia Airlines Flight Attendant

Seven thirty p.m., New York time, and the sun was just starting to dip down towards the earth. The flight had been delayed two hours at this point, and the entire crew was getting antsy. My friend Clara was filing her nails vigorously, as if trying to whittle away the hours with the dull scrape of the file. I preferred to stand—I can never stay seated when flights are delayed that long. Passengers had started to grumble a little, tapping their feet as polite conversations transformed into exchanges of grievances and accounts of previous flights gone awry. When I worked for SpanAir, that was around the time when we were supposed to go down the aisles with hot towels and peanuts, assuaging commuter agitation with complementary commodities. I could have suggested it, but I didn’t. I just wanted to take off—Chema had made reservations in the place where we got engaged, and my whole body ached too fucking much to think about anything else.
I saw Pink Freak and Blue Monster in row fourteen, pointing at themselves and laughing their heads off. Right off the bat, I knew they’d be trouble—I can sense these things, you know, especially after six years working international. I couldn’t believe what they were wearing—she was wearing some vulgarly hideous hot pink jumpsuit with some plastic purple beads—I’m not even joking—and he was wearing some homo-looking hot pants and a blue t-shirt that was probably made for an eight-year-old child. On top of their stupid giggling heads were the ugliest hats I had ever seen—some cheap nylon baseball caps with zippers over the brim. They even matched their outfits. Would you believe it, there were actual pockets on their hats—they kept shoving random shit from their pockets or bags into them, then taking them back out with exaggerated flourish. I hoped they would get robbed or something when they got to wherever they were going. The entire time we sat on the runway waiting for takeoff, they didn’t once stop their shrill laughter or dopey facial contortions. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but I’m pretty sure none of it was worth the irritation it must have been causing everyone. God, I just couldn’t get over what they were wearing—they must have been on drugs when they dressed that morning. Why the hell would anyone walk out in public looking like that. The sad thing is that they seemed to know how atrocious they looked, since they wouldn’t stop plucking at each other’s clothes and pretty much screaming out in fits of laughter. I once saw a guy in New York smoking PCP—I guess they were kind of like that. I just don’t get the appeal of that state of mind, and I definitely didn’t get why dressing like that or embarrassing yourself like that was anywhere near as funny as they seemed to think it was.
Finally, we took off at seven forty-five—I swear I couldn’t have been any happier to be getting this flight over with. I made Rodrigo deal with Pink Freak and Blue Monster, who couldn’t even stop laughing or glancing at each other to answer “What would you like to drink?” Rodrigo gave them two Cokes, smiled at them and turned back around and rolled his eyes at me. He’s so much better at dealing with the weirdos than I am. I think they saw me staring at them, because they both looked me up and down and started giggling to themselves again, as if I were the one dressed like an imbecile in public. I just couldn’t get over it—why would you go out looking ugly on purpose? I must have looked pissed as hell when I walked by them with the cart, since they actually shut up for a few seconds. Then, of course, they continued to chortle and shove more trash in their hats. Oh God, and we weren’t even getting good tailwinds.
It was just about time to prepare the cabin for sleep, so Clara and I walked down the aisle to check the windows and see if anyone was itching for an extra blanket or pillow. Of course, Blue Monster hadn’t closed his window. What a dick—the sun was blasting through row 14, and the most he and Pink Freak could think to do was put on their sunglasses and laugh to themselves at how ridiculous they looked. Christ, who the hell wears sunglasses in an airplane? How is that even funny? I motioned to Clara to deal with the problem, but she shook her head and smirked at me. Fantastic. I forced myself to smile and leaned towards them and asked, “Sir, could you please close your gübama?” Would you believe it, he said to me, all innocent and shit, “It’s broken,” and touched the window shade lightly, pretending to struggle with it. I really hope he didn’t see the look I gave Clara. Great, I thought, just sit there looking like fools for the whole flight. Great. I couldn’t get over it. Clara and I finally reached our own seats, and I sat down next to Clara and Rodrigo, thinking about the amazing dinner I was probably going to miss because of this goddamned flight. Rodrigo dimmed the cabin lights and Clara and I sighed as the first of seven-and-a-half hours trickled by.
Halfway across the Atlantic, I walked down the aisle to check on the passengers—a midnight stroll, as I call it. Everyone was either sleeping or trying really hard to fool themselves into thinking they were. All of the overhead lights were off—that is, except for two. What a surprise, I thought. As soon as they saw me walking towards them, they quickly flicked off the lights, as if I fucking had night blindness or something. I work international, for Christ’s sake. They ducked their heads to the side, and I heard some plastic rustling. Some duty-free shit, I just knew it. As I got closer, the smell proved I was right—those Cokes they had ordered three hours ago were finally open, and the entire section reeked of whiskey. Everyone else around them was asleep, and they were sitting completely still, like my sister’s brats do when they’ve done something bad. As if those two could blend into the scenery with those disgusting outfits or obnoxious little jokes of theirs. Those fucking idiots probably spilled half the bottle onto the floor. Booze is almost worse than vomit—it’s almost impossible to get the smell out, and on top of it all, I absolutely hate whiskey. I wish I had said something, but I was just too sick and tired to deal with bullshit excuses or half-assed lies. Clara told me that Brussels was asking pilots to circle around to cut down on traffic. Good-fucking-bye to duck confit and those little radish roses Chema always orders special for me. I could feel my face tightening with anger. I needed to sit down, but I just couldn’t stop pacing back and forth, each time passing those idiot children in matching idiot outfits with drunken idiot grins on their faces thinking about how they were pissing me off so much and making me miss my dinner. I wanted a Valium—maybe I should have confiscated one from them, since they probably had a huge stash somewhere in those fucking stupid pocket-hats. God. I went back to my seat and tried to trick myself into sleep. No such luck. I sat there until breakfast, tapping my feet and thinking about all the opportunity and joy slipping away from me because of those two stupid, stupid kids.
One and a half hours until landing: breakfast time. I switched on the cabin lights, and the passengers slowly woke from their red-eyed stupors. Rodrigo and I heated up the food and loaded the cart. Pink Freak and Blue Monster had been awake the whole time, this time pointing and laughing at the movie we had put on, Hotel for Dogs. As Rodrigo and I pushed the cart up the aisle, I heard “Can you tell what they’re saying?” asked Blue Monster.
“Not really, maybe about a third of the dialogue,” said Pink Freak, pulling up the top of her now-whiskey-stained jumpsuit. I really hoped that they were at least listening to the movie in French, or else I might have just ripped our headphones and those damned hats off their heads. For this flight, we were actually serving a pretty comprehensive breakfast—eggs, sausage and buttered toast. Not bad, I guess, but certainly no prix fixe at [expensive restaurant in Brussels]. Rodrigo had been great the entire flight, dealing with the difficult passengers and all, so when we got the row 14, he already knew that I couldn’t deal with those two again.
Of course, they had to make a huge deal out of everything—“Do you have a vegetarian option?” Jesus fucking Christ! Fucking unreal…could they get any more awful? After sneaking whiskey and probably drugs for the whole flight, laughing and keeping everyone from sleeping, did they really think they deserved to ask for a fucking vegetarian option? Rodrigo, the saint that he is, said he would check, even though we only ordered five—enough for the people who actually thought to prepare for a flight.
I asked, “Did you order them beforehand?” I don’t normally get so snippy, but I couldn’t help it with those two.
I can’t remember which it was, but one of them muttered, “We were never given an option.”
That really did it for me. I just stared at them for maybe five seconds, then just turned away. I never, ever do that. I’ve never been that rude to passengers before. But I just couldn’t help it—how could two fucking lunatics walk onto a plane dressed like that and acting like that expect us to cater to their every whim? Goddamn it, I was just so fucking sick of being on the plane with them, when I could be getting ready to see my fucking husband. He already hates my hours with this job—I can’t imagine what to tell him this time. I just went through the breakfast motions, pushing the cart and handing trays out until I reached the end, when I tucked into breakfast, wishing it were something more than cardboard posing as food.
When Pink Freak and Blue Monster were leaving the plane, I could hardly hide my hatred of them. And you know what, I didn’t even say, “Thank you for flying with Iberia.” With anyone else, I would have felt at least a little guilty, but with batshit kooks like that, who even knows if they have any kind of grasp of reality. I just didn’t care anymore—all I cared about was getting into that dress Chema likes and praying for him to order me some little radish roses. Is that so much to ask?