Don't call me stewardess

"We're flight attendants now," some idiot, chubby flight attendant said on a Southwest Airlines leg from New Orleans to Tampa.

No kidding, I thought.

I'm old enough to have flown in the early 70s, so I still remember stewardesses. Real ones. My education on the profession came at the LA airport Hyatt-Regency hotel one night when I was partying with members of the LA Kings hockey team.

That's another thing I remember from the 70s -- pretty much anyone could party with the LA Kings.

Several of the hockey players -- if not all of them -- were Canadian. I overheard one woman speaking to one of the players in French. She was a gorgeous, model-looking creature, with the self-confidence of a CEO and the manners and breeding of an old-money debutante. I listened to her and figured she must be an attaché with the American Embassy or an overseas correspondent on leave for some R&R in the states.

I sat there drinking, watching her out of the corner of my eye. I felt like a rhesus monkey. When I was in my early 20s, I managed to get invited to a lot of parties I didn't deserve to be invited to, thanks to my job as a solo singer-guitar player at a hip LA airport bar (back in the days when singing cover songs and playing acoustic guitar was still considered hip).

There's a few of us solo musicians left over from those days. We're all writing columns on the Internet now.

The other reason people invited me to parties was because I had the presence of mind to keep my fuckin' mouth shut. I knew I was young, and I knew I didn't know shit. My role was well-defined: sit down, shut up and look good. Which I did. Look good. In my early 20s.

"What do you do?" this gorgeous 30-something woman asked me when the hockey player she was talking to went off to chat with some Budget Rent-A-Car babes.

"I sing at the Melody Room. You know, the unofficial hockey bar of the LA Kings?"

"I thought you looked familiar!" she gushed in a faint accent. "I heard you sing two weeks ago. Pretty good. You do a lot of Gordon Lightfoot songs, don't you?"

"I do when the hockey players are there."

(Embarrassingly long pause while 20-year-old idiot figures out what to say next.)

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a stewardess with American Airlines."

"Really. Do you get to fly all over the world?"

"Well, that's what stewardesses do."

(Yet another embarrassingly long pause while 20-year-old idiot tries to come up with a non-obvious question.)

"Where did you learn to speak French?" I asked.

"At UCLA. I majored in French and international relations."

I envisioned her in a lab coat, for I was a rhesus monkey.

The star goalie of the Kings, I think his name was Rogie Vachon, approached us. My interview was over.

"Zchassspeeer, good job on 'Sundown' tonight, eh?"

"Thanks." He took her arm and led her off into the romantic LA night, a night we'll not soon see again, when everyone was young and all things were possible on the front lines of the sexual revolution.

I drank myself into a stupor that night, but then I was always ahead of my time.

I'll never forget her. Her name was Sissel (yes, I would run into her again from time to time). She was from Norway and 40-something as it turned out. She hailed from a rich family in Oslo, traveled the world, partied with the rich and famous, and fucked the brains out of the most powerful men in the world. She was classy beyond belief.

Ah, those were the days. Stewardesses took care of you back then. When you needed a drink, a drink magically materialized before you. Stewardesses never asked if you wanted a pillow, they knew when you wanted one and handed it to you. They could converse on any topic: Hollywood films, rock stars, politics, the stock market and heartfelt relationships.

Stewardesses traveled the world and boasted stay-overs in Milan, Paris, Stockholm and New York. During the 70s, stewardesses didn't do mere overnights, but real stay-overs that lasted days, sometimes weeks. The industry wasn't confronted with the grinding price wars they battle now, so the companies back then knew the success and status of each airline depended in no small measure on the quality of these professionals, these stewardesses. They may not have been paid what they were worth -- definitely not -- but they were treated like gold.

Stewardesses made clueless boys from LA feel like kings and fat middle-aged businessmen feel like boy toys. Stewardesses could handle the most obnoxious drunk and inconsiderate smoker without incident or a trace of hostility. Stewardesses could tell you the best restaurant in your destination town, the best place to stay, the best place to drink, and the best place to see. Sometimes they'd even join you.

So yes, chubby boy from Southwest Airlines. You're right. You're not a stewardess.

You're a fuckin' flight attendant.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.