is a vegetarian who thinks cigarettes and alcohol are awful. He hallucinates, but comes to work on time. He can’t get his mind off his recent visit to the San Francisco Zoo, across the street from his apartment. He tripped on acid in front of the tiger cage while the beast was devouring a slab of meat. The vision of carnage obsesses him. From the corner of my eye, I see Bill lapse into an upright catatonic state in the middle of a transaction with a pa'ssenger. I try to intervene. He mumbles, “I’m OK. Don’t worry.” A quick-witted fellow employee smooths things over with the passenThe director of Selective Service has stated publicly that only the poor and the ignorant need be concerned about the draft. ger: “As you can see, this young man is very upset. He has just learned of his father’s death. Please be understanding.” Further down the crowded ticket counter, I overhear “That wilL be ,$166.58 please. Military two-thirds fare, with a reservation.” The price of the ticket is really $158.66. An employee pocketing eight bucks? How many times during one shift? Is it a petty test of nerves? An honest mistake? Sooner or later everyone who tampers with the airline till gets caught. You have to look at money as an abstraction here or else you’re sure to head into bad trouble. Anyway, only youth fares, hijackers, and GIs use cash any more. And money from Vietnam is tainted, right down to its musty, moldy smell. At lunch, I want to bring up the subject of the two soldiers who were turned away from the Kon-Tiki Bar. But I am ignored. Nobody wants to talk about the war, ever, even though San Francisco is the nearest airport to Travis Air Force Base, and the main point of transit for thousands of troops each day. The main topic of conversation is, as usual, housefixing. Today, the relative merits of graVel or wood chips instead of lawns as ground cover. Most of these family guys hold down two full-time jobs, one at TWA and one at Safeway, or the post office, or an airport motel. On their feet 16 hours a day. “That’s what it takes, for the house and kids.” They often come in for overtime on their days off, and spend their vacations fixing the house. No time or money to take advantage of the free travel passes. No complaints either: “Could be worse. Lots of people earning a living at harder, dirtier jobs.” I haven’t succeeded in persuading them that we in San Francisco should demand the same working conditions as our co-workers in Europe and elsewhere—say, a stool to sit on once in a while. “You want us to earn the same wages too?” Damn it! They’re perfect slaves, deserving of their aching backs and varicose veins. I am thankful when Chen enters the cafeteria and breaks up the tedious homeowner talk with a report on his latest adventures in the customs and immigration area. His job is to assist passengers from the Orient who hold connecting flights on TWA. In the process he attempts to steal some ongoing travelers from United and American, which in turn do the same; all three airlines have flights leaving simultaneously for.the same destinations. Trouble is, the people most in need of his assistance, particularly the elderly, resist his attention. They have been warned by their relatives back in Hong Kong, Bangkok, or Manila not to accept help from anyone. When I return to my position at the counter, I find Ray Alsope working to my left. He makes do with only one job, even though he has a wife and infant daughter. It’s not that he’s lazy, but he would never consider holding down two jobs. He doesn’t steal, I can vouch for that. Ray is 24 years old, one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. He got married right out of .high school and talks incessantly of retirement, 41 years away. The best he can hope for, years down the line, is swing shift with Sundays and Mondays off, or day shift with Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Richard and I are troubled by the slick “up, up, and away” brochure put out by the company for its public contact employees. It’s part of a marketing campaign concocted by the new crop of executives with business degrees, who are displacing the old-line aviation pioneers. A passenger is now called a customer, and a flight is a product. The airline seeks to achieve a youthful, dynamic, non-threatening corporate image, through a strict uniform and grooming code. “The difference between airlines becomes less each year. What does make the difference is people.” Nothing is left to chance in this extraordinarily detailed 21-page document: “All females are required to wear a brassiere and underpants....A girdle may be required to correct stomach, x seat or thigh problems....Bald men will not be required to wear hairpieces.... beards are not permitted, as their acceptance by the general public is questionable.” The brochure addresses weight problems with great precision: According to the chart, at 6 feet, my maximum allowable weight is 189 pounds, in uniform, without shoes. “If the employee agrees to take corrective action, a reasonable time will be established by the manager to correct the deficiency. If the standard is not achieved within the prescribed time limit, the matter will be referred to Industrial Relations for consultation on appropriate disciplinary action.” Anything to beat out United and American! Because our services are so similar, we compete with gimmicks. A while back, our strategy was the “foreign accent” flight. After takeoff, stewardesses donned disposable paper costumes over their uniforms during meal service. Thus, a white Roman toga for lasagna or spaghetti, a fraulein outfit for sauerkraut and wurst, cowgirl attire for hamburgers, and so on. Another creative edict thought up by our clever marketing strategists: “You must use the customer’s name at least three times in the course of a transaction. It’s music to his ears.” We comply, because we can be monitored through the squawkbox on the counter. But the airline can’t monitor everything we do. Take baggage. On international flights, it is supposed to cost extra for each kilogram excess. Most of the time I close my eyes, unless provoked by some irritating detail, such as the impatient taptapping of a credit card on the counter. Sometimes I charge for three pounds excess, sometimes I don’t for 50 pounds. Depends. To alleviate my guilt feelings about playing God so capriciously, I never charge the Basque sheepherders who return home overloaded with gifts after their solitary two-year stints on the ranges of Nevada. Next! Next! Next! It’seasytoget caught U? in a routine, ride a rhythm, and stop thinking wh?n checking in so many people. A passenger aSlt? for a ticked to L.A.: “Your last name, please.” “Brando.” “First initial?” “M.” “N? as in Nancy?” “No, M! M, as in Marlon.” “Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, Mr. Brando.” I have barely recovered from this lapse of attention when I Sense that people are beginning to avoid my line, as happens when an intimidating presence such as a Hell’s Angel or a Black Panther checks in. Something’s wrong. When the last passenger in line reaches the counter, I discover the reason; Standing there is a broad-shouldered guy, his face covered by a grotesque mask of dingy grey papier-mach6 topped by a cotton rain hat. There are a lot of weird characters in San Francisco, but what is this? Although he’s wearing chino pants and a civilian raincoat, the man hands me a military travel order, issued from Letterman Hospital at the Presidio Army base. Destination: Chicago. Writing the ticket gives me an excuse to look away. I cannot bear even glancing at this guy. His eyes are only slightly visible through the slits in the mask. From the right, I have the feeling that Bill’s stoned gaze is locked in on us, and that his persistent stare might trigger another incident. Or is that just my imagination? Good thing I didn’t smoke with Eddie during break—I’d have a real fit of pothead paranoia at this point. Still, I am paralyzed. My entire weight is on my left leg, and my right knee trembles uncontrollably. Small talk with this passenger is inconceivable. The guy begins to hit the counter lightly, with contained force, his fists clenched, his knuckles bursting white. A distorted, muffled voice comes through the small hole in the mask. “ I suppose you wanna hear what happened to me?” “Yes.” “Look, man, I’m wearing this mask because I don’t have a mother-, fuckin’ face anymore. I got napalmed “When you’re nose to nose with Charlie in the jungle, it’s either you or him. And once you stick your bayonet in, you’ll have to pull it out with all your strength to retrieve it. Use your feet to yank the body away. Any questions?” in ’Nam by our own planes. Son of a bitch, man, a burning motherfuckin’ glob of it, searing right into my face. How I still have eyes, Idon’t know, but I wish I was dead. Now the Army doesn’t want me any more. They’re afraid my looks will demoralize the troops, so I’m discharged. I have to wear this mask in public, and I’m not supposed to put on a uniform. You know, you’d fuckin’ pass out right here in f.r2.nt of me if 1 took this mask. I don’t have a fuO.k in ’ nose, I don’t have fuckin’ lips, my face looks like a skinned motherfuckin’ rabbit. What do you say to that, man? What do you fuckin’ say to that?” “It’s terrible. I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry! Lot of fuckin’ good it does! How would you fuckin’ feel in my place?” “Terrible, man, terrible. Look, I’m sorry, I really mean it.” “You know, even prostitutes won’t have anything to do with me. I’m so fuckin’ pissed, man. I’d like to strangle with my bare fuckin’ hands those motherfuckers in Washington who sent me there! Give me my motherfuckin’ ticket so I can go hide some place!” The mutilated veteran slips away from the counter, collar up, hat pulled down to shield his face from the world. His flight doesn’t leave for another two hours. I call the ramp control agent to have the three seats in the front row blocked for him if the plane isn’t full. That’s the least we can do. Later during my shift, I am assigned to the concourse, to meet inbound flights and help close out outbounds. I welcome this opportunity to move around and look over the incoming stewardesses. Pandemonium and wails at the arrival gate of the Rome-New York- San Francisco flight. Immigrant clans spanning several generations await the appearance of the “mammas,” the black-scarved matriarchs from Sicily, here on their once-in-a- lifetime visit to the New World. These people are a warm respite from the ambient militarism and decadence. As if distracted by the chaos inside the terminal, the pilot overshoots his parking spot, and- is waved around again by the signalman. He angrily revs the 707’s turbofan engines, unleashing a hurricane of jet fumes against the buckling gateroom windows. I put on my earplugs, drive the jetway up to the plane and abandon my position. No sooner has the Italian crowd dispersed than delegations of barefoot hippies in flowing psychedelic garments descend upon the airport from their haunts in the Haight- Ashbury. They dance, sing, throw flower petals at startled disembarking businessmen who exude freshly applied aftershave lotion and breath sweeteners. Holding their briefcases up like shields, their beefy frames ensconced in the armor of three-piece suits, the salesmen in hard cleated wing-tip shoes cut a resolute swath through the frolicking herd and emit hostile grunts: “Get away from me, creeps.” On the sidewalk out front, dogs cavort under the exasperated watch of the airport police while their masters frolic inside. A pregnant military wife deplanes from the Oklahoma City flight, dragging four tired children behind her. The youngest trips on a worn blanket, which he clutches to his chest while chewing blankly on a pacifier. A few more halting steps, and the exhausted child lets himself sink to the ground. The mother tries in vain to coax him back to his feet. She hands me a large envelope, picks up the crying toddler, and asks me what she is supposed to do next. I rummage through her papers, find the travel orders, and discover that her voyage began at Leighton Barracks in Wurzburg, West Germany, where I too was stationed. All we can share about that common overseas experience are bland memories of the PX store; I didn’t have access to the Leighton NCO Club, and she rarely ventured off base. She is now headed for Okinawa, to join her husband on reassignment. I page a skycap to help the family to the Greyhound bus stop for Travis, about two hours inland in the parched, 100-degree California central valley. The Washington flight returns to the gate. Bomb scare. Probably a crank call, but we have to take all threats seriously. “Everybody deplane, please! Baggage inspection!” Only one passenger irate 28 Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988
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