![jonesamericana:
Cassie stands in the doorway of the airplane and breathes in deeply and slowly, letting the incoming air linger, trying to detect the subtlest smells and tastes imbued in the foreign air.
It’s only her second month and already she’s been in twenty five different cities. Of these cities she’s seen nothing more than a collection of non-descript tarmacs and a handful of very sparsely furnished motel rooms. The other stewardesses complain endlessly of this reality, comparing the promised adventures with their actual experiences. But Cassie still carries herself as if it were her first day, as if she had just heard for the first time all the wondrous tales told by the airlines meant to lure in the pretty young girls and had not yet faced the true nature of the job.
Two older stewardesses walk by on the tarmac below. They see Cassie standing in the open doorway above and share with her a wry, cold smile as they continue towards the tail of the plane. They know that eventually the job will get to her too, that she will be broken and cynical as well, that she will no longer stand mesmerized in each new city.
“Don’t mind them. They’re more afraid of you than anything.”
Cassie turns around and sees Brenda crouched down just outside the cockpit door, restocking the beverage cart for the next flight. Brenda was the first person to introduce herself to Cassie on her first day. Cassie liked her immediately.
“Why would they be afraid?”
“Because you’re young, and the passengers like you. But mostly because you’re young.”
Cassie hears the smile in Brenda’s voice, but knows there is none on her face. In the short time that Cassie has known Brenda, she has only ever heard Brenda’s smile in her voice. It was clear, from the deepening lines connecting the corner of her eyes to her softly graying temples, that at one time Brenda had been quick with a smile and likely a bubbling, cheerful laugh soon afterwards. But neither came so easily anymore.
“They were young once too.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Cassie turned around and looked outside once more.
“My father always said that you could tell what part of the country you were in just by the smell of the air.”
Brenda finishes stocking the beverage cart and begins to arrange the pillows and blankets in an overheard bin. “What did your father do?”
Cassie remains facing outward. “He was a farmer. A migrant farmer. Traveled around from city to city. My mom and I stayed at home while he would go out and find work.”
“How long would he be gone?”
“Depended. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. But when he came home, it was like he never left. He’d come riding up in the bed of a pickup truck, it was different truck every time, and the truck would stop right at the end of this path that ran straight to our front door. I remember one time he jumped out of the back of the truck and a cloud of dust just blew off of him when he hit the ground. I laughed a long time at that. But he would always walk faster than any man should who had just worked who knows how many 18 hour days in a row. And he’d pick me up and kiss me on the cheek. My mom would make some stagey fuss about how I just had a bath and he was going to make me all dirty, but none of us minded. Anyway, he would always say that you could tell where you were at by how the air smelled. He’d laugh at the people who would come back from places with doodads and trinkets. Said the only thing you needed to remember a place was to remember what it smelled like, what the air tasted like. And that after that, nothing else mattered. Not where you were, not where you were going, but where you are at that moment. Alive.”
Cassie closes her eyes and feels a small breeze blowing across the wing, carrying with it hints of rain, tastes of salt. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply and slowly.
you may reach Marty at stiper327b[at]gmail.com
#slide { display:block; text-align:center; }](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kpg9i1lQff1qzuyeto1_500.png)
Cassie stands in the doorway of the airplane and breathes in deeply and slowly, letting the incoming air linger, trying to detect the subtlest smells and tastes imbued in the foreign air.
It’s only her second month and already she’s been in twenty five different cities. Of these cities she’s seen nothing more than a collection of non-descript tarmacs and a handful of very sparsely furnished motel rooms. The other stewardesses complain endlessly of this reality, comparing the promised adventures with their actual experiences. But Cassie still carries herself as if it were her first day, as if she had just heard for the first time all the wondrous tales told by the airlines meant to lure in the pretty young girls and had not yet faced the true nature of the job.
Two older stewardesses walk by on the tarmac below. They see Cassie standing in the open doorway above and share with her a wry, cold smile as they continue towards the tail of the plane. They know that eventually the job will get to her too, that she will be broken and cynical as well, that she will no longer stand mesmerized in each new city.
“Don’t mind them. They’re more afraid of you than anything.”
Cassie turns around and sees Brenda crouched down just outside the cockpit door, restocking the beverage cart for the next flight. Brenda was the first person to introduce herself to Cassie on her first day. Cassie liked her immediately.
“Why would they be afraid?”
“Because you’re young, and the passengers like you. But mostly because you’re young.”
Cassie hears the smile in Brenda’s voice, but knows there is none on her face. In the short time that Cassie has known Brenda, she has only ever heard Brenda’s smile in her voice. It was clear, from the deepening lines connecting the corner of her eyes to her softly graying temples, that at one time Brenda had been quick with a smile and likely a bubbling, cheerful laugh soon afterwards. But neither came so easily anymore.
“They were young once too.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Cassie turned around and looked outside once more.
“My father always said that you could tell what part of the country you were in just by the smell of the air.”
Brenda finishes stocking the beverage cart and begins to arrange the pillows and blankets in an overheard bin. “What did your father do?”
Cassie remains facing outward. “He was a farmer. A migrant farmer. Traveled around from city to city. My mom and I stayed at home while he would go out and find work.” “How long would he be gone?”
“Depended. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. But when he came home, it was like he never left. He’d come riding up in the bed of a pickup truck, it was different truck every time, and the truck would stop right at the end of this path that ran straight to our front door. I remember one time he jumped out of the back of the truck and a cloud of dust just blew off of him when he hit the ground. I laughed a long time at that. But he would always walk faster than any man should who had just worked who knows how many 18 hour days in a row. And he’d pick me up and kiss me on the cheek. My mom would make some stagey fuss about how I just had a bath and he was going to make me all dirty, but none of us minded. Anyway, he would always say that you could tell where you were at by how the air smelled. He’d laugh at the people who would come back from places with doodads and trinkets. Said the only thing you needed to remember a place was to remember what it smelled like, what the air tasted like. And that after that, nothing else mattered. Not where you were, not where you were going, but where you are at that moment. Alive.”
Cassie closes her eyes and feels a small breeze blowing across the wing, carrying with it hints of rain, tastes of salt. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply and slowly.
you may reach Marty at stiper327b[at]gmail.com1 note
-
iancahill reblogged this from jonesamericana and added:
closes her eyes and...stiper327b[at]gmail.com
-
jonesamericana posted this
