Common cattle

Every now and then, flight attendants must fly with the unwashed masses. It sucks.

By Elliott Neal Hester

Dec 14, 2000 | Having worked as a flight attendant for the past 15 years, I purchase full-fare airline tickets about as often as supermodels pay for sex. In exchange for perpetual standby status, some airlines let employees fly for free. Others impose a minimal service charge on employee passes. We off-duty airline employees linger at the departure gate, batting our eyes at the gate agent, praying there's an empty seat. "Nonrevenue" travel is an industry birthright that, over the years, has turned millions of common airline folk into members of the discount jet set. Sometimes we fly from New York to Los Angeles simply to lunch with a friend.

The downside to this wonderful perk is the risk of being bumped from the flight. When this happens (and it happens quite often) we're forced to stand by for the next flight. And maybe the next. By the time we're turned away from the last flight of the day, we are frazzled, bitter and worn. Then we return to the airport the following day to repeat the nonrevenue-passenger process.

Because my sister was to be married in Barcelona, Spain, on Oct. 8, I couldn't take the chance of being bumped from my Oct. 6 flight from New York. Unless her matrimonial record ends up like Elizabeth Taylor's, this wedding would be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Besides, the wedding rings were tucked in the pocket of my jeans. If I failed to show up, the ceremony would be ruined. I handed my credit card to a travel agent for the first time in 15 years. I actually winced when she snatched it.

The full-fare, coach-class, round-trip ticket from New York to Barcelona cost $415. As I wheeled my carry-on toward the Iberia Airlines check-in counter at JFK Airport, I experienced a traveler's epiphany. No longer was I the lowly airline employee hoping for an empty seat. Suddenly I realized that by forking over a large sum of cash, I was one of them -- a full-fare passenger, armed with the right to bitch and moan, able to demand service with a tantrum.

Almost immediately, I was pounced upon by a roaming customer service representative. "You're going to have to check that bag," she said as I rolled up behind the zigzag procession of passengers at the ticket counter.

"Excuse me?"

"Your bag," she said, pointing to my one and only carry-on. "It's too big; you're going to have to check it."

I looked down at my regulation Travel Pro 22-by-14-by-9-inch airline-issue roll-aboard. It's the same black bag I've wheeled onto thousands of airplanes, the same piece of luggage that easily fits in the overhead bin of the Boeing 767 aircraft I was about to board. My Travel Pro could be the poster bag for carry-on propriety.

"Ahhhh ... it's not too big," I assured her, smiling.

"Yes it is," she said.

"No it's not."

"Yes. It. Is." Her words came in a harsh staccato burst that reminded me of childhood arguments with my mother. She might as well have been telling me it was time for bed.

I understand the difficulty of spending eight hours on your feet, regurgitating airline policy upon an often infuriating and infuriated public. But the rep had been off base with her comment. I stared in disbelief at the airline employee, my colleague. Instead of acquiescing as I would normally have done while traveling on an employee pass, I decided to stand my ground. I was a legitimate full-fare passenger, after all. How dare she infringe upon my rights.

"I'm sorry, there seems to be some confusion," I said. "My carry-on is well within the limits of airline policy. It fits in all the overhead bins that run along each side of the 767 cabin. It fits in the overhead bins above the center seats, too."

"It's a full flight," she barked. "It's too big."

Next Page: The rings were gone

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