The Air Stewardesses' Footmen Ch. 03

There was the nagging dull ache, in my shoulders, from supporting the relaxed weight of an outstretched dark nyloned leg while massaging the foot of the centrally seated air hostess, six of which I had silently served so far tonight on my kneeling mat. First, my after-flight foot service initiator Senior Stewardess Donna Didsbury, followed by Senior Stewardess Dianne Driscol, and then the four air hostesses of Dianne's cabin crew: air hostesses Elaine, Jane, Sandra and Gillian.

But there was a more acute pain in my neck. The cause of this distressing discomfort was the careless and sometimes callous attitude of the trio's 'outriders', the two outer seated in-waiting air hostesses, recrossing their ankles on my conveniently positioned shoulders not just for comfort but for the hell of it. And, this aggravation was at its worst during the systematic exchanges, when one of the two 'outriders' succeeded to the vacated central, foot service seat, and her vacated outer in-waiting seat was taken with enthusiasm by another 'outrider' successor.

So far, that was six irredeemably changed working relationships. Six air hostesses whose eyes I could no longer meet as an equal.

And still to come was my half-share of the two delayed all-female cabin crews returning at about 03:00, when I would be duly called upon to massage the tired and achy dark nyloned feet of another Senior Stewardess and her four air hostesses in strictly observed silence on my kneeling mat.

And now, I had every reason to assume that I would experience the permanent drastic altering of formerly amicable workplace associations at the throne-like seated presence of five more female counterparts. Starting, I had no doubt, with Senior Stewardess Camilla Cameron.

Yes... Camilla.

Camilla's impending arrival and the form that her Camilla/Gemma-Mason powerplay tactic might take was of growing concern.

Camilla had been in the back of my mind since the COO Ms Gina Summers' sensational statement this afternoon introducing her Subservience to Stewardesses directive. But now, Camilla was an unsettling mental presence. My anxieties about Camilla were no longer peripheral and non-critical but prominent and pressing trepidations.

What was Camilla going to say? What was she going to do, at unexpectedly coming upon my presence? I could imagine the look of gleeful delight on Camilla's face at the moment of her joyous discovery.

And the hell of it was that, after my fortunate early finish, I should be at home in bed with my girlfriend Gemma after enjoying a late drink or two with her down at the pub.

But no. No late drink or two down at the pub, not at home in bed with Gemma - I was still here. Vulnerable, exploitable, totally at Camilla's mercy.

What I must not do, though, was present Camilla with easy chances to pull Gemma's hair. I must not give Camilla any gift-wrapped, golden opportunities to land any metaphorical kicks, punches, slaps and scratches on Gemma through careless miss-steps.

Senior Stewardess Camilla Cameron and her all-female cabin crew were operating BH502 from Paphos, Cyprus. While Senior Stewardess Lisa Lewis and her all-female cabin crew worked the other delayed flight: BH224 from Rhodes, Greece. Both flights were three hours late.

So... ten three-hours delayed air hostesses who would, no doubt, vent their displeasures of the underprovision of post-flight foot service providers on their two after-flight footmen.

Underprovided because an unintended consequence of the BlueSky Holidays Chief Operating Officer Ms Gina Summers' enactment today of her latest female-priority employment policy, her Subservience to Stewardesses directive, was a deficiency of cabin crewmen. Inducing the 'voluntary' ninety-plus per cent walkout resignation of irreconcilable cabin crewmen, Ms Gina Summers and the Chief Stewardess, Ms Lois Lawson, had by their own admission miscalculated and overachieved their aim.

But Ms Summers and Ms Lawson were firm in their opinions that they had speeded up their filtering process of separating the dross from the gold. Ms Summers and Ms Lawson had congratulated themselves in their conviction that the few remaining cabin crewmen were a compatible core of new-era Subservience to Stewardesses directive doctrinal adherents. Cabin crewmen, who would be agreeable to providing foot service to air hostesses not only post-flight but would willingly and gladly go to their knees to serve their female counterparts anytime, on-demand.

The crew room's flight information board showed there was still over two hours to wait until these two remaining delayed flights were due to arrive. Just minutes apart, they were estimated now at 03:05 and 03:07. Which meant Terry and I could expect to see the overdue air hostesses arriving in the crew room about twenty minutes later at around 03:30 for their debriefs and Duty-Frees money count.

And so, with no returning air hostesses for us to provide post-flight foot service for the next two hours or so, Terry and I went to our locker room to retrieve our shoe-cleaning kits consisting of tinned black polish, a half-and-half soft/stiff-bristled shoe brush, and a soft buffing-cloth. Thus equipped, we headed for the deserted air hostesses' locker room.

At the head of the air hostesses' locker room, we looked down the four aisles with lockers on both sides, and now we saw what to me was the daunting size of our pump-polishing assignment - or, thanks to Terry: self-assignment. And there would be more for us later: another ten pairs.

Placed outside the left-open lockers were the pairs of uniform black three-inch heel pumps that tonight's later returning air hostesses had been all too happy to have their revised-contracted cabin crewmen clean and polish for them.

For me, it was a dismaying sight, a depressing mega-task workload. A time-consuming chore that would have to be completed before I would finally be able to call it a night and go home to my bed and to Gemma.

But not, it seemed, for Terry.

It seemed to me that, at the sight of all of those pairs of air hostesses' recently worn, still warm and fumes-emitting flight duty pumps, Terry's eyes gleamed in ecstatic anticipation. As though he was keen to get started, to get stuck in among the treasure trove of fantasy footwear.

Terry then confirmed my interpretation.

"Mason, look," Terry said in hushed, reverent tones as if the confined corridors of the air hostesses' locker room were the hallowed hallways of some divine depository. "Look: even from a distance, you can see that no two pairs of pumps are the same. They are the same, but not the same."

What on earth was Terry talking about, I wondered. But it appeared that Terry was right. I noticed now that though the air hostesses' uniform black three-inch heel pumps were replicas apart from their size, minute differences were discernible. Individual characteristics, imparted over time by their forever footslogging walking-the-aisles wearers.

Midway along the aisle between locker rows 1 and 2, Terry reached down to select one of the older, well-used, replica but distinctly individualised air hostess pumps. Turning the well-worn work shoe in his hands to examine from every angle its creased black leather upper and the scuffed and scratched once off-white but now darkly discoloured leather sole, Terry gazed at it in what I could only interpret as reverential awe.

And then Terry, with a moist-eyed veneration I would not have credenced had I not witnessed it, placed his reverent lips upon the scratched and scarred workworn leather sole in homage to what, apparently to him was a worship-worthy example of an air hostesses' uniform pump of long service.

I could only conclude that, for Terry, his small hours of the night post-flight pump-polishing in the air hostesses' locker room would not be a pesky chore, would not be a tedious task, would not be the dismal undertaking of a daunting and dismaying wearisome workload. No - for Terry, it would be a passionate pursuit, a fulfilling few hours of dewy-eyed devotion and deferent dead-of-night dedication.

Terry confirmed my interpretation again.

"Mason, I am in dreamland here."

I looked at my watch. Time was getting on - it was now 01:10.

Terry said, "I can hardly believe it, Mason. First, I actually get to massage the tired and achy dark nyloned after-flight feet of Senior Stewardess Jasmine and her four air hostesses: Madeline, Milicent, Gail and Gabriella, and then air hostess Deborah, and then Senior Stewardess Violet and her four air hostesses: Carol, Alison, Suzanne and Angela. And now, to put the icing on the cake... this. I get to polish their after-shift uniform pumps."

"Terry? Maybe we should make a start on that; our pump polishing."

"Hmmn?" said Terry distractedly, intent upon studying now the interior of the well-used uniform pump, observing with keen curiosity the once white but now, through over-long use, thinly compressed dark-grey insole.

"Terry, what are you doing?" I said as Terry pulled out the overused insole for closer inspection, focusing on the deep impressions on the heel and on the ball of the foot, and the indents on the toes, made over time by the walking-the-aisles wearer.

Terry hadn't heard me; his absorption was profound. I had to break the spell of his avid examinations.

"Terry? Have you seen how many pairs of air hostesses' pumps we've got to clean and polish? And time is running away from us. I'd hoped to get them all done before Senior Stewardess Camilla and Senior Stewardess Lisa and their all-female cabin crews arrive. So that later, we'll just have their ten pairs of pumps to clean and polish."

Terry carefully reinserted the overused insole into the uniform pump. I thought he had taken on board what I'd said to him about time not being on our side and of our need to get a move on with our pump polishing.

But Terry was not done.

Terry exhaled fully, and then he buried his nose and as much of his face as he could into the interior of the well-worn black three-inch heel uniform pump and inhaled long and deeply.

"Terry, what the...?" I said. But again, Terry didn't seem to hear me. Such was his deep immersion, as it were.

When Terry resurfaced, there was an ecstatic look on his face.

My interest piqued, I looked at the name-holder on the staff locker to learn the identity of the air hostess who had sent Terry to olfactory heaven. My heart skipped a beat at the knowledge. She was one of many, later returning air hostesses who had left her after-shift uniform pumps outside of her locker tonight for one of us after-flight footmen to clean and polish for her to save her the time and trouble and to save getting her own hands dirty. But still, my heart skipped a beat at the revelation.

"Terry? Do you know which air hostess that uniform pump belongs to?"

"I'm pretty sure. In fact, I am certain. It belongs to air hostess Deborah."

"Terry, you are right. But that had to be just a lucky guess."

"No, Mason. On my new prized possession, my kneeling mat, I have massaged the feet of eleven air hostesses tonight. With the foot of their outstretched leg in my hands and their dark nyloned sole so close to my face, I got to pick up some good whiffs of the air hostesses' signature essence. Inhaling the bouquet from her after-shift pump just now, I was sure I recognised air hostess Deborah's distinct aromas."

"Air hostess Deborah's distinct aromas? Her signature essence?"

"Yes. The air hostesses' foot scents are uniquely individual. And it stands to reason that you can better appreciate their signature essence when they have returned after many hours on their feet on flight duty."

"Terry, I think air hostess Deborah is the finest stewardess of all. Deborah has got everything, hasn't she? Or maybe everything, except for one thing - but now maybe that last one thing will fall right into her lap; or, rather, at her feet. Because I couldn't help but notice during my flight duty today that Deborah had a... well, not just the usual spellbound admirer but a guy who appeared to ardently admire her feet. And he made his interest very obvious to Deborah. He was a passenger in his early twenties, and his eyes popped right out of his head whenever Deborah, footsore, eased her foot from her pump and wiggled and flexed and scrunched her toes."

"Mason, you lucky dog! I have seen Deborah doing that - and wow! The times have I seen our air hostesses do that! In-flight, the hosties do it all the time, especially during the return flight when they are becoming increasingly footsore. They drive me nuts!"

"Well, I wouldn't even have noticed had it not been for what Captain Amanda had told me earlier during our flight. She said some hosties strike it lucky with boyfriends, who not only pay sympathetic consideration to their after-shift feet with a run-of-the-mill massage but with a more intimate, extra-special attention. Anyway, Deborah and her special admirer swapped phone numbers, and Deborah told him she would call him this week to arrange to meet up for a drink. So, who knows? Maybe air hostess Deborah has found her Mr Right. I mean, yes, now air hostess Deborah and all of our other female counterparts have got us revised-contracted cabin crewmen to massage their tired and achy feet post-flight; but, with so few of us, the hosties are direly underprovisioned."

Terry considered all I'd said, as now he dabbed his shoe brush into his tin of black shoe polish and finally made a start on polishing air hostess Deborah's after-shift uniform black three-inch heel pumps.

"My opinion, Mason?" said Terry, now working the black polish into the creased leather of Deborah's left work shoe. "If Deborah wants to see her date a second time, and she is aware of his special interest, the guy's a lucky dog. Because from what I saw tonight on my kneeling mat from near-zero range, air hostess Deborah might have the finest feet of all too."

***

Terry and I got on with it, cleaning and polishing the many pairs of after-shift uniform black three-inch heel pumps that, either having seen Senior Stewardess Jasmine's 'Must Read!' message on the crew room noticeboard or advised by the ever-helpful Terry, the later returning air hostesses had left outside of their lockers for us.

The mentally undemanding work freed my mind to think through my argument to come with Gemma. But I was still getting nowhere with that - Gemma was just going to see it as me defending the indefensible.

But it was good to have the company of another cabin crewman, not only to distract me from my upcoming confrontation with my firey tempered girlfriend Gemma but to examine the negative implications of signing our revised contracts today. And there was no shortage of disadvantageous pay and conditions related ramifications for Terry and me to discuss as we pressed on with our pump polishing.

Given everything I'd witnessed so far tonight, I wasn't overly surprised by what Terry said next.

"Mason, I have always wanted to offer post-flight foot massages to our air hostesses. Countless times, I have listened to an air hostess complain about her foot soreness in our crew room and sometimes even in-flight, looking at me with what I imagine might be a suggestive expression as she sits down to take off her uniform pump to rub the sole of her foot. And every time, I have lacked the courage to seize the moment and offer to be of service, only to be left wondering afterwards if again I have failed to recognise their meaningful look - failed to take the obvious hint."

"I can see what you are saying, Terry: If you misread her signals and get it wrong, things could get more than just a little embarrassing."

"Yes, exactly. So, if an air stewardess tells you that her feet are killing her, how do you let her know that you will gladly accept her tired and achy feet into your caring hands? And to polish her after-shift uniform pumps for her, too. I mean, why should a revered female counterpart get her hands all dirty with black shoe polish when a caring colleague who in every way considers himself her inferior would be truly honoured to relieve her of the tiresome chore as her lowly underling? But if I offered my services; either service, wouldn't I just come across as all pervy or pathetic? I mean, what would the air hostesses think of a cabin crewman who humbly offered to become their after-shift foot servant?"

"I don't know. But Terry, you won't have to worry about any of that anymore. Because now, you can stop wringing your hands to no effect and use them productively to massage our returned air hostesses' tired and achy feet and to polish their after-flight uniform pumps. Things have worked out just fine for you, haven't they? It's like you have written your own job description. Thanks to the new empowerment bestowed on them through the COO Ms Gina Summers' Subservience to Stewardesses directive, the air hostesses will be asking a lot of us from now on because they know they can. You heard what Senior Stewardess Donna demanded of Darren: Shape up or ship out. And not only that, but air hostess Deborah was incredibly impressed with you tonight. You will be Deborah's first-choice foot service provider."

"Yes, this is my dream come true. To put the air hostesses where they belong: on a pedestal. From now on, the air hostesses will not give me suggestive looks that I might misread but expectant looks that I will not. And I won't come over all pervy or pathetic because I will merely be performing my duty. Signing my revised contract today is the best thing that could have happened to me. Mason, to me, air hostesses are the princesses of the skies. And now, I will be able to treat them all as such."

"Terry, before Senior Stewardess Donna got her promotion, she once asked me if I would give her a foot massage in the crew room after we got back from our flight to Turkey. She said her feet were killing her."

"She actually asked you? Donna? Before her promotion? No way, Mason!"

"And I said no. I messed up. I realise that. For no good reason, I refused Donna, my favourite flight supervisor. If I had just said, 'Yes, okay, no problem', my obliging compliance would have put our working relationship on especially good-footing, so to speak. And so, I regret to say that I responded not only ungallantly but impolitely: I told Donna to forget it."

"You are kidding!"

"Terry, I thought it would not be a one-off, but the thin edge of the wedge. That Donna would then take me for granted and ask for repeats. And then Donna, having set a precedent, air hostesses galore would queue up to present the soles of their tired and achy feet to Donna's apparently pliable post-flight foot service provider and expectantly confront me with their classic complaint: My feet are killing me!"

"If only! But I think you are kidding me along, Mason."

"And today, before I signed my revised contract, Donna related the incident of my flat refusal to Chief Stewardess Lois Lawson, who then berated me for my lack of sympathy and absence of chivalry. Ms Lawson told me she was an air hostess for twenty years. Ms Lawson said that, in her day, the air hostesses had to do lots of long-haul non-stopover turnarounds, sometimes to America, which the hosties called 'Trans-Atlantic tootsie torture'. And Ms Lawson said that, if she showed me the bare soles of her feet, I would see the longlasting legacies of career air hostessing."

"Now I know you are kidding me, Mason. Chief Stewardess Lawson would not have offered you continued employment under your revised contract if that was true. Ms Lawson would have had you out of here, with all the rest of our nonconformist former cabin crewman colleagues who, through their disinclination to provide post-flight foot massages for their female counterparts, have proved themselves incompatible with the COO's new Subservience to Stewardesses directive's standard requirements."