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The passenger from hell
When a man goes berserk on board, what can a flight attendant do?

Editor's Note:Some of the names and identifying details in this story have been changed.

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By Elliott Neal Hester

August 17, 1999 | Suddenly weak-kneed and worried, I cowered behind the door in my apartment, wondering why a cop had buzzed the doorbell. Like the sugar-plums in Clement Clark Moore's "The Night Before Christmas," a hundred possibilities danced inside my head. Had I broken the law? Had one of my friends been injured or assaulted? Had some near-sighted pedestrian confused my license plate number with that of a hit-and-run vehicle's?

Unable to come up with an answer, and a little freaked out by the possibilities, I challenged the voice that had just crackled through my intercom. He wasn't really a cop, he said. He was an ex-cop -- a private investigator, to be exact. And he was here, at my apartment, because of an incident on an airplane.

I knew immediately what he was referring to: After landing at Dallas-Fort Worth International a couple of months before, one of my passengers had been taken into custody by local police officers. I remember watching as he was dragged away by a battalion of cops -- fear and confusion supplanting the malice that had once glinted in his eyes. For two months I had wondered what had happened to him. Now was my chance to find out.

Through the peephole I eyed a tall, gray-haired gentleman dressed in casual clothes and carrying a briefcase. When I opened the door, he flashed the practiced smile of a door-to-door salesman. I welcomed him in anyway, pointed to a chair and, without offering small talk or liquid refreshment, sat on the other side of the room and waited to hear his spiel.

"My, my, my," he said, admiring the living room furniture, "nice apartment you have here." He didn't sound like an ex-cop. He spoke with a soft, authoritative Southern lilt, like a plantation owner from 19th century Georgia. His "private investigator" credentials made me think of Barnaby Jones with an upscale pedigree. "My, my, my."

I just stared at him in silence.

"Well ... ahhh," he said, "I'll get straight to the point. I'm workin' for the lawyer who's representin' a certain Adam Ratliff. He was a passenger who had a little problem on your flight from Guatemala last month. You remember, don't you?"

"Yep."

"Well, being that you are the flight attendant who signed the complaint, we'd kinda like to hear your account of the events that took place that day on the airplane."

"Your client lost the plot."

"What?"

"He lost the plot. Went berserk. Lost his frigging mind."

"Oh, OK, I get it. Wait a sec." Barnaby reached into his briefcase and removed a tiny recording device. "Do you mind if I get this all on tape?"

"Go right ahead." The soft-spoken P.I. flicked on the recorder and placed it on my cocktail table.

"OK. Would you mind starting at the very beginning?"

I took a deep breath, tapped into the memory banks and told him the whole story ...

About an hour after take-off from Guatemala City, we began the dinner service -- drinks, followed by the ever-present chicken or beef entrees. Halfway through the service, a loud, somewhat primordial scream ripped through the cabin.

"ARRRRGGGH ... ARRRRGGGH!!"

It sounded as if a large, carnivorous animal had escaped from the cargo hold and was terrorizing passengers at the rear of the airplane. When I swung around, I realized I was only half right. A wild-eyed male passenger was terrorizing passengers at the rear of the plane. His arms flailed, his head jerked spasmodically -- he looked like the deranged criminal in a low-budget biker flick.

"ARRRRGGGH ... ARRRRGGGH!!"

His screams were directed at a woman who was sitting in a window seat, across the aisle from him. The terrified woman leaned away, far away, so that her back was planted firmly against the window. It seemed, for one absurd moment, that the sheer force of his howling had blown her flat against the fuselage.

"ARRRRGGGH ... ARRRRGGGH!!"

Slowly I walked toward the irate passenger. Every step was measured by the nervous eyes of 60 coach-class passengers who would have gladly bailed out if parachutes, rather than peanuts, had been provided on the flight. The problem passenger was in a row by himself, sitting in the middle seat. I stopped, stared at him and smiled. Dressed in blue jeans and a tattered blue jean jacket, frizzy hair cascading past his shoulders, he looked up at me with eyes as wild as Borneo.

"Can I get you something to eat? Sir?"

His eyes crawled from my shoes to the crown of my freshly shaven head, looking for a reason to launch an attack. "Nawww," he said. "But I'll have another Jack Daniel's and a beer." On his tray table there were three empty Jack Daniel's minis and a crumpled can of Budweiser.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," I said. "How about a Coke?"

He glared at me with I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass eyes, eyes that meant business, eyes that had somehow never been mentioned in the flight attendant training manual. He was going to jump me, I was sure of it. I could see the intent as it blossomed in his eyes.

Next page | Trying passenger misconduct solution No. 657