about the incident: Dr. Edward Teller, father of the H Bomb. “Zis is terrible. Zese people voo make phone calls like zat are sick.” His own thermonuclear business must be booming; our Washington, Albuquerque, and Las Vegas flights are heavily patronized by Lawrence-Livermore Lab people. Regular fellows, smoking pipes, wearing turquoise and silver bolo ties and Hush Puppies, doing “interesting science.” In the ramp office, the flight information coordinator stares at his planning board, one hand scratching his brow, the other unconsciously reaching into the jar of Turns. He doesn’t worry about bombs, conventional or nuclear, only his messed-up gate assignments for the rest of the evening. With all the confusion, I screw up real bad myself. Completely miss the Polar flight arrival assigned to me at the international concourse. The supervisor lashes out: “Look, I told you more than 20 minutes ago that he was cleared to land. Now he’s been at the gate for five minutes, with no stairs. You better get over there quick, ’cause if the captain writes us up, you’ve had it.” Just what I need, now that they’re evaluating my application to work Saturdays and Sundays only, with continued seniority rights,' health insurance, and pass privileges. I’m contemplating going to college under the Gl Bill. Our veterans’ entitlements are pretty measly compared to earlier periods, but California tuition is low, and I think completing a degree might be feasible if I can keep my job two days per week at TWA. The full-time employees support this arrangement, because it will free someone up on the weekends. These intricate negotiations, now possibly jeopardized, race through my mind as I tear across the ramp toward the international conco,urse. The Polar flight, TWA’s non-stop from Paris to the West Coast, sits on the tarmac, glistening in the clear night air against the backdrop of the San Bruno hills, which are lapped by the usual blanket of fog stretching in from the ocean. I am relieved that the engines are still running, because that way I can ask the captain to blame the delay on ground traffic. I’ll tell him I got sidetracked with the bomb scare. He’ll understand, I hope. An Australian mechanic preparing for the Qantas arrival from Sydney at the next gate helps me shove the stairs into motion. “Bloody heavy, mate, aren’t they! Cheeeeers!” Emerging out of nowhere, a Philippine Airlines ramp serviceman flings his wiry bantam frame into the opposite side of the stairs to straighten out our crooked trajectory. “What happen, TWA? Your plight been here pibe minutes already.” My plight. How correct he is! The big Aussie and I lumbering on one side, the agile Philippine shadowboxing on the other, I am assailed by a disturbing premonition: We will lose the Vietnam War. The 707’s cabin door pops open under my knock. “Well, it’s about time, San Fran. Oh, Hi, Red. How you doin’? Long time no see.” It’s Moms, TWA’s highest seniority stewardess, a legendary figure at the airline—the mother of us all, survivor of two crashes, the first one in a DC3. Nobody knows or cares about her age. She has spent most of her life aboard airplanes. When she is not working, she is commuting, either to Hawaii or Bermuda, depending on whether she is based in San Francisco or New York. Her skin is always tanned, leathery, from the sun at the beach and the ozone at 33,000 feet. After the interminable load of passengers has deplaned and I have obtained the captain’s assurance that he won’t file a discrepancy report, Moms briefs me about the leftover first-class goodies, which are supposed to be dumped in the garbage on arrival (violations punishable by immediate firing). “All right, I got some filet mignons for you guys in the oven, and I 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. left three cognac miniatures in the pocket behind seat 2C. The cheese tray has hardly been touched, and there is an open bottle of red Bordeaux. There are also two baguettes, but they’re a bit hard after this 12-hour flight. For God’s sake, don’t get caught.” She notices me surveying the cabin, and continues: “Look, Red, forget about these gals. First of all, they’re exhausted, and second, I hate to tell you, but they only want to fly .high. You ground guys just don’t have enough ambition. By the way, when are you gonna listen to me and go to college? Education is so important! “Yeah Moms, I know, I know.” The commissary crew bursts in from the elevated truck platform on the opposite side of the cabin. Bucky, a buddy of mine from Arkansas, leads the pack of vultures. “OK, Moms, Red, where did you stash the filet magoons and the horses d’ouvers?” Without waiting for a reply, he yanks open the oven door, holds up one of the small, succulent steaks, wiggles it, and drops it down into his mouth as if he was swallowing a goldfish. “See what I mean” says Moms. “You guys are animals.” My next assignment is to process the youth-fare standbys on the New York flight. Most are college students; the guys are on draft deferments of one kind or another. More power to them. Students have goals, faith in the future. This summer, they’re traveling light —cardboard boxes with sleeping bags inside. They’ve had their fling in San Francisco and now they’re returning home. I’m there to check ID’s and make sure everybody wears shoes and a shirt before boarding the plane. The engines are already screaming, and there is much pushing and jostling. “Can I get on? Can I get on? Please, I got to get back to New York before tomorrow.” I pull out the first ticket on top of the pile and call: “Craig Fisher.” An Oriental fellow walks up, hands me a rumpled illegible ID. “ I’m sorry, I forgot it in my pocket in the wash. That’s all I got on me.” “You’re Craig Fisher?” “Yes.” I like the fact he said “yes” instead of “yeah,” so I let him on board without further hassle. Gate 56 is filled with people for the Boston departure. A radiant Joan Baez and her sister are passengers on the flight, and several of their friends from the Monterey nonviolence school have come to see them off at the airport. We try to shield the group from the crunch of onlookers. Joan is a frequent traveler with us, and a controversial figure these days because of her anti-war activities. She is not a member of the VIP Ambassador Club, but we try to protect her privacy anyway. Once, she treated us to an impromptu recital in the waiting lounge behind the ticket counter to express her gratitude for providing a quiet place during a flight delay. A middle-aged couple calls me over. “You mean this riffraff in long hair and sandals is going on the same flight we are?” I ask to see the couple’s ticket. “ Don’t worry. They’re on the same airplane, but you’ll be separated. You’re in economy and they’re in first class.” Meanwhile, down below, the evening’s complement of Human Remains from ’Nam continues to accumulate on the tarmac. Near the massive crates trucked iq from Air Freight and lined up for loading into the cargo pits, a ramp serviceman engages in loud protest with his supervisor. « “ Fuck, man, I already loaded two today. I’m tired of always getting stuck with the back-breaking shit. Put me on mail or baggage and assign these HRs to somebody else.” The uniformed soldiers on ■Human Remains escort duty shuffle nervously, diligent to keep track of the individual crate for which they are responsible. If it should be loaded on the wrong plane, they will be court- martialed. “Are you refusing to do work I’m assigning to you, Jones?” “Fuckin’ a right, man. Get somebody else.” “Why do you have to be so foul- mouthed about it?” The supervisor’s reproachful tone transports me back two years earlier, to basic training at Fort Ord on California’s central coast. All the platoons in Company B-1-4 have been assembled for'a sermon by the post chaplain. “You troops will clean up your act! This isn’t the Marines, you know. The way you talk is disgusting! All'I ever hear from you is F this, F that, F this, and F that. Don’t you know any other words? A good soldier is not foul-mouthed! If you want examples of proper military conduct, look at your officers and NCOS.” Moments before, during bayonet practice, a drill sergeant had been exhorting us to yell “Kill! Kill! Kill!” “Listen up! You got to scream and lunge with all your might, or else you won’t stick it in. The blade will be deflected by the rib bone. You guys had better learn this stuff right, ’cause it ain’t no make-believe no more. You’re probably all goin’ you- know-where in a couple months. When you’re nose to nose with Char- li^ 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? OK, take a short break. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.” One of the trainees bolts across the flowering patch of ice plant and disappears into the dense layer of Pacific fog. We hear him puke in merciful seclusion, thoughtful and quiet as we inhale on our cigarettes. Maybe the TWA ramp serviceman swears because that’s the only way he can express his anguish at the prospect of spending another half-hour inside a cramped cargo pit, alone with a casket, tugging it to its proper tie-down position, packing smaller crates and boxes around it, imagining the contents, probably dismembered parts of a human body in a plastic bag. Off in the distance on the airport tarmac, a similar scene unfolds at American and United Airlines. During my two-year absence, air freight revenue at TWA has increased 400 percent. Several passenger planes and crews have been leased to Military Transport Command to fly troops directly out of Travis to Saigon. Many of the employees who weren’t drafted have been promoted to management positions. We have new openings in Guam and Honolulu. In the showrooms of the land, compact cars are making way for large automobiles again. No more austerity. The American economy is going up, up, and away, like TWA. « Milan Kovacovic is a professor of French at the University of Minnesota, Duluth. He is a recipient of two artist assistance grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board and the 1987 Lake Superior Contemporary Writers Series Award. “San Francisco Airport” is excerpted from the work in progress titled A Singular Education, The Social Itinerary of an Immigrant: France, Czechoslovakia, United States. This activity is made possible in part by a grant provided by the Minnesota State Arts Board, which receives funds from the Minnesota State Legislature and the National Endowment for the Arts. Dave Rathman is a Twin Cities printmaker and painter. Designer Gail Swanlund is a regular contributor to the CSQ. Her recent prints are presently being shown at the Dinkydale Deli. Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 29
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz