It’s 1987, and Dave Fielding and I are “Sim” partners, training to become Second Officer Flight Engineers on the DC-10 for Continental.
Sam Prickton, a Texan in Continental’s training department, is training us on the panel. He calls us “Switch Niggers,” sitting sideways (facing the Flight Engineer’s panel), we are pilots trained to be Flight Engineer / Second Officers, responsible for the hydraulics, electrics, fuel, pressurization, and all other “systems” on the airplane.
It becomes apparent that Dave and I are comfortably past the worst, that Sam Prickton is confident of our competence, and that he will have no trouble passing us along to the Feds for our Flight Engineer’s check-ride.
Relaxed a bit now, we hit a cowboy bar in Houston. A few beers into our evening, Sammy Prickton asks, “Do you fellers know what the only good Yankee is?”
“What’s that, Sammy?” we ask in tandem.
“A New Yawk Je-ew, moves to Texas, marries him a nigger, ’dopts a couple Mexicans, then moves himself and his new family back to Jeeeww Yawhk.”
My breath / heart catch in my throat, unsure after the initial shock exactly how I’m going to react. We are probationary new-hires, and can be fired by anyone, for any reason.
Before I can come out of my protective, emotional capsule, Dave says: “Sam, let me show you some pictures of my family.” In slow motion, I watch the fat wallet appear on top of the spilled beer and peanut shell mess on the bar. Dave flips one by one through his wedding photos.
His black-as-coal bride and her ebony family, framed by their pure white gowns and tuxes, are all smiles, enjoying the occasion, all mixed in with Dave’s northern “Yankee” family.
Sam Prickton was a dead man…we all three knew it. From his shirt collar up, neck to face, all six quarts of Sam’s bigoted blood flooded upwards… “red on the head like the dick on a dog,” is all I can think of. Nothing more is said. Dave has no intention of turning Sammy in. Sam, sure as shit, isn’t going to say anything to anybody, and I’m the asshole who ducked the draft, too late or too chickenshit to react to the anti-Semitism.
I’ve found out over the years that the bigotry in the cockpit is pervasive…lots of genuine racism, sexism, anti-Semitism and homophobia. Also, lots of brotherly love, based strictly on personality and professional respect.
Blacks and other obvious minorities have it easy. They know they’re being talked about behind their backs, but they don’t have to hear it (decide how to deal with it) directly. In my case, my looks can make me Italian, Greek, Mediterranean, anything. Very few people (other than New Yorkers, who would immediately know better) take me for Jewish. So, I get to hear all the Jew shit, and have to decide how to react to it.
Flight attendants, “…the single most important safety feature on an airplane."
"Definition of a Flight Attendant: A life support system for a pussy."
In our Honolulu base, we have a senior flight attendant named Wanda Decker, also known as “Thunder Pussy” to the cognoscenti. She is a quick witted, acerbic Jew-girl from Brooklyn. Wanda doesn’t take any shit from anybody. She’s also a great “trolley-dolly,” who does a fantastic job. Today, we would be flying the Honolulu to Manila run, and Wanda was working the first-class section, as well as being our “cockpit-queen.”
We are still on the blocks, passenger boarding still in progress, and Wanda is serving Champagne to her first-class guests. Wanda had no trouble noticing that one gentleman was already drunk. He had apparently gotten blotto at the VIP lounge in the terminal, just prior to getting on the airplane. Wanda cuts him off, refusing to serve him a pre-departure drink. The gentleman was Senator John Tower, of Texas.
Indignant at having been refused alcohol, Senator Tower asks, “Do you know who I am?” Without missing a beat, Wanda makes a P.A. announcement to her first-class passengers: “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. The gentleman in seat 2B doesn’t seem to know who he is…does anyone here know who he is, we’d like to help him out?” The snookered Senator doesn’t find this to be amusing.
“My,” he says, “you’re a real witch, ain’tcha?”
“That’s right, I’m a real witch, and POOF, you’re a pile of shit!”
Wanda stood her ground, and John Tower of Texas received no alcoholic beverages during the eight-hour flight to Manila.
When the expected letter arrived, on the “take no prisoners” embossed Senatorial stationary, Wanda Decker was summoned before a Company review board. The letter was read to her, and the story was rehashed to determine exactly what had happened. She was asked for her comments, and she agreed that, “yeah, that’s exactly how it happened, but I don’t know why he’s so upset…I turned that piece of shit back into a person before we landed.” She kept her job.
Six months after the John Tower incident, I am to meet up with Wanda Decker again.
“Who’s working the upper deck?” This from Captain Bob Lipton (The Godfather). He wants to know which flight attendant would be our cockpit queen on this trip from Honolulu to Guam.
“Wanda Decker,” volunteers our First Officer, Billy Chowder.
“Great deal,” says Bob, now satisfied he’s going to get all the coffee he wants, and that we’ll be able to smoke in the cockpit without getting turned in.
“Hey Godfather,” I ask. “How did Wanda get the handle Thunder Pussy?”
“Keshy, you don’t know?” Bubba and Chowder both laugh. “I’ll get her to show you, once we’re underway.”
Halfway to Guam, Bob calls Wanda up to the flight deck. “Linda, show them your act.”
“No, Bobbie, I don’t want to.”
“Come on Linda,” gruff now, “I said show them your act!”
“Okay, fuck it, give me your flashlight and turn off the lights.” Chowder hands Wanda his flashlight, while Bob turns off all the lights in the cockpit. We barely see Wanda lift up her skirt, pull down her pantyhose, and squatting slightly, I watch, amazed, as the now lit flashlight is inserted up her vagina. Her pussy is glowing in the dark, the outline of some internal tubing showing through, like an x-ray photo. “Satisfied now,” she asks, now smiling?
“Damn Linda, they should call you Lightnin Pussy, not Thunder Pussy, by God,” says Bob.
For one of the few times in my, life I’m speechless. “What’s the matter, Stevie, pussy got your tongue,” asks the Godfather?
During the long night, Wanda has darkened the cabin, putting the passengers to bed as soon as the food service is completed. Six hours later, with an hour to go before descent, Thunder Pussy turns the lights on in First Class, as she and her Flight Attendants prepare the First Class breakfast service. One deeply sleeping gent opens an eye, and screams “Shut out that fucking light!”
Wanda, quick as a flash, advises him, “Sir, this is the ‘breakfast light,’ the ‘fucking light’ was two hours ago.”