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FLYING THE QUEASY SKIES
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June 29, 1999 |
As I locked the last of the service carts, a young kid stumbled into the
galley. He was about 8 years old, with big doll-like eyes that blinked
sluggishly beneath his wrinkled brow. He frowned and held his belly in both
hands. "What's the matter?" I asked. "I don't feeeeel good," he said. He spoke in a soft, reedy voice that would
have melted the hearts of my co-workers had they not retreated into the
lavatories to freshen up before landing. My heart didn't melt, however. I took two steps backward, worried that the kid would puke on my
shoes. "Where are your parents?" I demanded. "Sleeeeeping." "Do you need to go to the bathroom?" (I said this while nodding vigorously
and pointing to the nearest lavatory.) "Nooooo." "Hmmmm ... I guess your tummy hurts, huh?" "Yesssss," he said. I sat him on the jump seat while I searched for some ginger ale to help
settle his stomach. He stared sullenly into space, rocking, with both arms
wrapped around his waist.
Click here for books on your favorite travel destination at BARNES & NOBLE By the time I turned back to give him the glass of ginger ale, his eyes seemed to have grown to twice their original size. There was a look of blatant surprise on his face -- the comical expression of a boy who, upon hearing his father tumble down the stairs, suddenly remembered where he'd left his toy fire engine. His eyes grew even wider. His lips pursed. His cheeks swelled to Dizzy Gillespie proportions. But this kid was preparing to blow something other than air into a trumpet. In 13 years as a flight attendant I've seen more than my fair share of air sickness. I once saw a drunken couple take turns barfing into each other's lap, as if playing a sickly version of "Can You Top That." I watched a Catholic priest vomit into the face of his secular seatmate. I watched a teenage girl open the seat-back pocket in front of her and proceed to fill it with the contents of her stomach. I watched a queasy businessman splatter the last row of passengers after an ill-fated sprint toward the lavatory. In one particularly memorable episode that triggered a chain reaction of in-flight regurgitation, I watched the volcanic eruption of a 300-pound vacationer who'd eaten three servings of lasagna. After witnessing this spectacle (and inhaling the pungent odor that wafted through the cabin in its wake) more than two dozen passengers leaned into the aisle and retched. Gallons of heavy liquid splashed onto the carpet; even if you closed your eyes you could not escape the sound. Or the smell. I still get queasy just thinking about it. Throughout all these years of high-altitude nausea there is one consolation, however. Though I've dumped enough air-sick bags to fill an Olympic-size pool, though my olfactory gland has been violated far beyond the limits of rational expectation, though I've sprinkled more puke-absorbent coffee grounds than Maxwell House would care to know, I have never been splattered by a single drop of vomitus. But now, an 8-year-old kid with bulging eyes and a high-octane stomach was aiming his nozzle directly at me.
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