The Flights

Naomi and I left for Europe on Sunday July 28.  On our first flight - Boston to Montreal - there was one flight attendant. That's how small the plane was.  He, the attendant, was notable for more than his solitary state. He was paunchy, unshaven, and disheveled. His general demeanor was harried and tired. By contrast, the crew on the Boeing 777 from Montreal to Paris, operated by the same airline, Air Canada, was plentiful,smartly dressed, professional and attentive. There must be at least 8 of them, and even six hours into the flight they appeared fresh, crisp, and entirely in control.

I wonder if that first attendant was relegated to his solo work because he did not measure up? Was he not ready for the big time of trans-Atlantic attending? Was he bush league by nature? Or did he sink to that disreputable state because he was never given the chance to play in the big leagues, disappointment and career despair causing him to sink into a perpetual couch potato state?  Perhaps he was demoted for some infraction, such as stepping on the toes of a business class passenger or speaking disrespectfully of the maple leaf. 

I would rather believe that it was love that drove him to this condition. Years ago, He was working a flight with his dear one. It was her first trip across The Pond and, flustered by nerves, she forgot to make the coffee.  Ever gallant, our flight attendant took the blame, lost his place in the roster, all to save his true love the embarrassment of failure.  Now he languishes on puddle jumps, a broken man while she, gaining confidence, is a frequent Air Canada Attendant of the Month. Perhaps she is team leader on this very flight. She sees him only fleetingly as she and her colleagues leave together, they laughing and confident that their futures are secure, while he is a lonely, indistinct figure going home on the bus to drink Labatt and eat his Stouffers frozen dinner while watching highlights from his favorite Hockey Night games.