Friday, Sep 5, 2008
Of the 110,000 flight attendants employed by U.S. airlines, however, he had picked one of a handful who probably shouldn't be messed with. A 6-foot, 195-pound, street-savvy semi-homeboy gym freak, I felt confident in my ability to handle this dude. In the split second before he leapt, I planned a three-step method of defense: 1) step sideways; 2) grab him by the jacket; 3) use his own momentum to toss his crazy ass into the opposite wall.
It seemed perfectly logical in theory, but two problems immediately came to mind. First, the frightened woman was still plastered against the wall where momentum was supposed to send the assailant. Second, all the passengers were watching. If I hurt the guy, even after 60 witnesses watched him attack me, I might have problems when we landed in Dallas. Lawsuit. Suspension. Possible termination. (I know a male flight attendant who was suspended for punching a passenger who had viciously attacked him. The passenger sued the airline and the flight attendant. When the flight attendant spoke to the airline about help with his defense, it told him he was on his own.)
Luckily for both of us, this guy didn't lunge. I stood my ground in the
aisle, ready to do the three-step boogie. He sat on coiled haunches, poised to
spring but not quite willing to make the full commitment. He gave me one
final, I'm-
As soon as I rejoined my serving partner, the irate passenger screamed at a volume that, I would learn later, was heard all the way to the cockpit.
"YOU'RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE, YOU ASSHOLE FUCK!"
Now, everybody was scared. A few passengers seated at ground zero departed for safer seats. The screaming passenger's eyes rattled in his sockets. His face grew red. Judging by his agitated state, he seemed capable of just about anything.
Herein lies the problem of potentially violent airline passengers: At 30,000 feet, you can't call a cop. Nor can you throw a guy out the door like we did on a nightly basis when I worked as a bartender in New York (all I had to say was, "Yo, Rico! Eighty-six this moron!" and the customer would suddenly find himself roaming the plains of 14th Street, howling obscenities at an uncaring moon). But there is no beefy backup on an airplane, and most of us aren't up for the physical challenge. Why should we be? We're flight attendants, not Steven Seagal wannabes.
I returned to the back of the plane and, using a calm, non-combative voice, I confronted the passenger again. "Sir, please try to calm down," I said. "There's no need to get upset and there's certainly no reason to use profanity."
"FUCK YOU ... YOU GAY FUCK!"
"Sir, I'm straight."
"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ... YOU'RE ALL FUCKED. ARRRRGGGH!!"
At this point, I resorted to passenger misconduct solution No. 657. "If a male passenger exhibits hostile tendencies toward a male flight attendant, a female flight attendant may be able to intervene and defuse the anger." I turned to Donna, my diminutive blond colleague. She stepped up to the plate, dug her cleats into the batter's box and with a bravado that would make Sammy Sosa proud, took her best shot.
"Sir, please ..." she said, settling her warm, motherly gaze upon him. "Can you just lower your voice a bit?"
"FUCK YOU!"
He lashed her with insults too degrading to repeat. But when Donna had finally had enough, she reached for the interphone and called the cockpit.
"Yeah," she said. Her voice was as flat and expressionless as a veteran cop calling in her third burglary of the day. "We got a problem passenger... Coach ... 25F ... Yeah. OK."
A few moments later, the flight engineer came lumbering out of the cockpit. He was a little on the stocky side, and as he moved down the aisle he tucked his shirt into his trousers and hitched up his pants more than once. Contrary to what many passengers think, flight engineers are not pilots. They are responsible for the mechanical performance of the aircraft, a demanding job in itself, but they don't actually fly the plane. In three-person cockpits, therefore, flight engineers are the expendable ones, the sacrificial lamb sent into the cabin when punches are ready to fly.
As the flight engineer approached, he did not need us to point out the problem passenger. The guy was flailing and gesticulating like a madman.
"Sir, what seems to be the problem?" the engineer said.
"DON'T TALK TO ME, YOU FAT FUCK."
"Sir, you're interfering with the duties of --"
"SHUT THE HELL UP!" he said, cutting off the engineer. "YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. I KNOW MY RIGHTS!"
"OK, buddy. If you don't calm down right now, we're going to have you arrested in Dallas."
With great emphasis, the passenger raised his middle finger and shook it in the engineer's face. "FUCK YOOOOOU."
The engineer gave me a look, then lumbered back to the cockpit. It was at this juncture that I noticed the woman sitting behind the problem passenger. She was clutching her chest with one hand; her other hand trembled uncontrollably.
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