Tales of a high-altitude coffee and tea dispenser

Chapters

1: Reluctantly Interviewed
2: Something Stinks!
3: Meteorological Payback
5: The Recline
6: Ponyville Layover
7: Safety First
8: El No A You Smoko!
9: Distilleries of the Skies
4: Digestive Disasters

1: Reluctantly Interviewed

“Good evening sir, and welcome back to the Soirée!” the chirpy waitress greeted, familiar with my regular visits. “Are you ready to order?”

“Single malt, please. Neat,” I replied, the fatigue and frustration clearly evident in my voice. “Actually, could I just get the whole bottle?”

“Long day, huh? I’ll be back shortly.” the magenta unicorn disappeared past the mass of tables, leaving me alone in my booth with nothing but the ambient music to drown out my thoughts. The Soirée was an establishment in the Cirrus Hotel's lobby, and a place I'd find myself visiting every time I had a layover in Cloudsdale. Partly because it's in the hotel, and partly because I get quite a decent crew discount that most hotels never beat. Despite being a recent addition to the city, the hotel was already a major success, being both a crew hotel, and built with enchantments that allowed everypony, pegasus or otherwise, to walk freely about.

The waitress returned, placing a coaster and a tumbler in front of me, along with a sizable bottle. "Aaaaand just in case you like your whiskey chilled, but not watered down, here's a bucket of ice for the bottle." she set the condensation-coated container down on the side of my table against the wall. Placing a snack plate filled with savory biscuits, peanuts and pretzels nearby, she flashed me another smile and attended to her other customers.

Pouring myself half a glass, I stared halfheartedly at the caramel-colored liquid momentarily, before downing a significant portion of it, coughing once as it burned its way down my throat. Returning the glass back to the table, I leaned back and closed my eyes. It really had been a long day. I remained that way, taking an occasional sip every so often, until a few minutes later I was interrupted by a gentle prod on my shoulder. Opening my eyes, I found myself looking straight at a pair of pale pink eyes of a pegasus.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the grey-blue mare spoke up. “You’re one of the crew from EAL, right? That was your group that signed in about an hour ago?”

“Yeah, I’m one of the cabin crew.” I answered halfheartedly, topping up my glass a little.

The mare slid into the seat opposite to me, the bow in her mane catching slightly on the booth's edge. After a quick adjustment, she leaned forward, her eyes twinkling in awe. “Wow, I’ve always wanted to be one. What’s it like?”

Mentally, I sighed. You’d think that somepony sitting alone with an entire bottle of alcohol would want to be left in peace, but apparently she couldn’t take the hint. Then again, I could just vent my frustration to this stranger.

Hmm...I might just crush her dreams by doing that, though.

"The name's Red Eye." I began.

Author's Note

I've had this idea for a while now, to just write up stories based on my experiences at work. Figured I'll jump right in and just do it. So I suppose this can be considered a little bit of a self-insert (hey, could be worse! I could stick a red and black alicorn into every chapter!).

This is probably going to be one of those stories that will remain permanently incomplete, and I'll just write up dramatized versions of real events as they happen, or as I can access repressed memories that I probably should see a psychologist over.

Anyway, special thanks to Noteworthiness for taking a look at my work and smacking me over the head if I write something stupid.

2: Something Stinks!

So, you want to be a flight attendant, huh? Alright...Flitter, was it? Well, let’s clear up a few things first. Whatever glamor you think is in this job is likely highly exaggerated. Don’t get me wrong, you get paid to see the world—quite well, I might add—and there are many perks to the job, but there are also plenty of challenges faced when you need to take on the role of a chef, bartender, doctor, firefighter, psychiatrist, nanny, mechanic, plumber, safety inspector, mind reader, and much more, all at the same time. Some of these challenges are rarely faced. Others may be a more common occurrence.

I’ll give you one such example. More often than not, you’ll find one sense in particular being overpowered as you’re walking down the aisle. You could be slowly making your way down with your meal cart, row by row, slinging a choice of hay-bacon or scrambled egg breakfast trays towards passengers in the early hours of the day, when all of a sudden, you become the next victim to some businessmare’s flatulence; be it the silent-but-deadly that resulted from the regretful burrito they ate the day before, or the result of altitude causing gas to expand and give way to a series of tunes that sound as if they belong in Princess Celestia’s fanfare.

That being said, most by-products of questionable diets are thankfully short-lived, like those open-top garbage carts passing you by in Ponyville. One can merely hold their breath and move on, or pretend they can’t smell a thing, while their eyes water with more ferocity than a cook chopping a bagful of onions. But if you’re stuck operating in the galley and discover that the stench of rotten eggs and exotic cheese is not emanating from the sub-par airline food we force feed to everypony, and is wafting instead from a passenger in an adjacent row, you’ll soon find yourself seriously considering ramming a meal cart through the fuselage, so that the oxygen masks can drop with decompression.

Back when I was still a junior, mere weeks after finishing my probation, I had operated a flight from Appleloosa to Fillydelphia. I was preparing the pre-departure services, which included setting up a few trays of hot towels, as well as some menus for distribution, when a married couple confronted me, shouting “We refuse to sit next to these ponies!” Naturally, my first reaction was to ask what was wrong with the passengers in question.

“It’s that group of Earth ponies,” the wife responded, trying to find words for the next part. “They have—I mean—It’s their—”

“They reek!” her husband stated bluntly.

As I asked the couple for their seat numbers and headed out into the cabin to investigate, I stopped dead in my tracks, as if I had run face-first into a brick wall. Sure enough, an aroma more pungent than the wonderbolts’ locker room assaulted my nasal cavity, coming at me like a Manehattan mugger in broad daylight. It was brutal. Unlike anything I’ve smelled before. Taking a few steps back, I could see the surrounding passengers leaning away from the source. Fillies and colts were visibly smothering themselves. A couple were fanning their surroundings with one of the magazines from their seat pockets. One attempted to use a sick bag as a respirator and promptly fainted.

From the opposite end of the aircraft, I spotted one of my colleagues leading a passenger to his seat. Drawing nearer, she hit that invisible wall and froze, her face contorted into one of absolute horror. The kind of expression she would make if she found her husband in bed with another mare, or perhaps a stallion.

Following the crop-circle pattern of leaning passengers to the center, I reluctantly approached a group of sixteen laborers, seated in four rows of the D, E, F and G seats located between the twin aisles of the plane. They chatted among themselves, either oblivious to the fact they smelled as if they came fresh out of a mine, or under the impression that they emitted a soothing lavender fragrance.

Deciding to abort at the last moment, I instead communicated with the seniors, and we consulted the holy book of flight attendants, the operations manual. We came across a particular section detailing the conditions for the acceptance of passengers. Here it outlined the types of passengers that we have a right to refuse, such as those who are intoxicated, carry a communicable disease, those without a doctor’s certificate for health conditions that may pose a risk during flight, those behaving inappropriately so as to offend other passengers...I could go on and on. Anyway, among the points in this list is one that allows us to refuse carriage of any who may have offensive body odor not caused by a disability. Those with low or nonexistent standards of personal hygiene are therefore a no-go.

Naturally when confronted, the laborers were offended, throwing their hooves in the air and becoming argumentative. However, when told that we would not depart until the issue had been rectified, they thankfully left the aircraft promptly, met by a member of the ground staff at the bridge who had somehow procured a sufficient supply of soaps and deodorants. After a fifteen minute delay—the first I have ever seen appreciated by the rest of the passengers—the laborers returned, clearly enraged, but no longer causing the orchid cuttings hanging from the bulkheads to wither away.

...Which was quite odd, since they were plastic...

Unfortunately, it’s not always as easy to rid an aircraft of those who are nasally offensive. More often than not, it ends with the passenger trying to sue the airline for discrimination, or loudly proclaiming to the crew that they will never fly with us again and storming off the aircraft with an escort, blissfully unaware that the rest of the passengers cheered and applauded for all the wrong reasons.

3: Meteorological Payback

It’s amazing how air travel can instantaneously alter one’s demeanor, or capacity for logical thought. Passengers who would normally be half-decent beings on ground would suddenly turn savage at the first sign of motion from the seat ahead being reclined. Others would look at you with puzzled expressions as you went through the cabin offering water or a selection of juices from a silver tray, asking if the mysterious clear liquid was water, or the amber fluid apple juice. You know, because it’s common practice for any establishment to serve rum, vodka and whiskey by the cupful.

I had been about seven or eight years into the job at this point, so I was a senior and in charge of an entire cabin. During the briefing for a flight from Canterlot to the Crystal Empire, we were informed of a VIP passenger traveling in first class. The two mares working in first class groaned in sync when the purser announced that Prince Blueblood would be aboard, and while I’ve never met the stallion before, I had heard plenty of stories. Turns out he was only flying with us because he had abused his personal pegasus carriage privileges, and Princess Celestia revoked those rights.

I was quite certain I had read a news article a few days prior, regarding an unidentified group of individuals, a flaming chariot, and several demolished billboards.

I had been horribly wrong in my assumption that this flight would have been a piece of cake. Somehow, flights with light loads turn out to be more troublesome than those that are overbooked. Go figure. While my crew and I were wrapping up service in economy class, the one assigned to look after Blueblood found herself unable to keep up with the demands of the pompous Prince.

Practically entombed in one of our famous blankets made with the finest of pegasus downs in the luxurious first class seat that barely managed to contain his own ego, he banged on and on about his political policies to the visibly disinterested elderly passenger nearby. Whenever the female crew would pass by, he would let loose a barrage of not-so-subtle innuendos and made it very clear as to what particular part of a mare’s anatomy he would like to bury his 'equipment' in. Upon hearing about that particular bit, I had an overpowering urge to bury the crash axe in his flank, and believe me, that is no euphemism.

Barely able to handle him anymore, I found out about the situation after I received a call via the interphone to the very back of the aircraft, where I had been busying myself with wiping down the surfaces of the galley. Deciding she needed some help, I delegated my galley responsibilities to the most experienced crew and headed up to the front. As soon as I left the galley, the seatbelt sign turned on, and we encountered some light turbulence.

According to our operations manual, light turbulence is defined as momentarily causing slight erratic changes in aircraft altitude. Passengers may feel a slight strain on their seatbelts and there may be a little difficulty in walking through the cabin, but loose objects remain stable and liquids do not splash out of cups.

As I continued waddling up the aisle to the front, grasping passenger seats for stability like one who had become slightly inebriated, I observed the Prince reclined flat in his seat, levitating a mirror in his magic while gingerly adjusting his glossed mane. Noting his seatbelt was unfastened, I politely asked him to observe the seatbelt sign, which promptly resulted in a dirty look of hostility that clearly said How dare you give me orders. Dismissing me, I left and spoke to my colleague, who by this point was visibly stressed, with several loose strands of her mane sticking out, and her tail flicking in annoyance as she explained the situation to me.

As the flight progressed and I continued assisting her in the first class galley, the weather worsened and moved up to moderate turbulence. With moderate turbulence, you will encounter rapid bumps and jolts, causing more pronounced changes to both altitude and attitude of the aircraft. There is a definite strain against seatbelts for passengers, and crew will find it difficult to walk through the cabin or push a cart in a straight line.

I had been securing the first class galley, ensuring containers and stowages were double-latched, and that all loose items were put away, when my colleague rushed towards me with panic evident in her voice. Our esteemed guest seemed to be having some sort of difficulty. Exiting the galley, I found our VIP with his seat fully upright, hunched over and his seatbelt pulled taut over himself. Looking up at me, his dignity appeared stripped away from him. “When...is this—urp—bumping...going...to stop?”

I fought the urge to put on a shit-eating grin, but the fact that he watched me standing, visibly jerking to and fro by the area of rough air, sent him into a full-blown anxiety attack, eliciting a rather feminine shriek from the Prince. As he started to hyperventilate, he looked up at me, begging for my forgiveness against his transgressions, as if I had somehow conjured up this weather to teach him a lesson.

Rolling my eyes, I drew nearer and let him know that there was nothing to worry about. I've had weather severe enough to send fully loaded beverage carts configured for breakfast into the air as we fell out of the sky in an air pocket, causing the cart to slam back on the floor, spraying milk and orange juice over everypony and everything nearby. Granted, I didn't tell that to the Prince, but I tried to let him know that what we were experiencing was normal, and that I had been through far worse without any issues. Unconvinced, he muttered two simple words:

“Hold me.”

My eyes widened enough that they threatened to shoot out of my sockets and give the Prince a concussion.

“P-Please hold me.”

As soon as he finished his sentence, the aircraft lurched violently with severe turbulence. Under this definition, the aircraft finds itself with significant, abrupt changes to altitude and attitude and may be out of control for short periods. Passengers are forced violently against their seatbelts and it is impossible to walk or stand. Unsecured items, be it cups or fully loaded carts, may lift off the floor and fly through the cabin.

At this point, crew will find themselves crawling to the nearest available seat, regardless of whether or not it is occupied. For me, I had no choice but to share a seat with the Prince and unfortunately acquiesce in his request. Burying his face into my uniform, I held him tighter when I noticed tears soaking into my uniform between his bouts of muffled wailing. Feeling his ever-increasing heart rate beating throughout his entire body, he profusely apologized for his actions on the flight, and vowed to change his ways.

Several minutes passed, with him listing regretful actions in reverse chronological order, until the weather eventually cleared up and his grip on me loosened. In the awkwardness that ensued, I decided to leave and make sure my crew back in economy class were okay. Despite the weather, we landed without further incident or any delays. Upon disembarkation however, Blueblood acted as if nothing ever happened, and reverted to his old self, leaving promptly with his head held high, though not before attempting to force me into signing a non-disclosure agreement he had hastily written up onto a scrap piece of paper. Considering that an event like this was some juicy galley gossip, I signed the form with false credentials. I know a few ponies who would love to hear what the Prince did with the revenue from the recent cupcake tax.

Something told me that dear Prince Blueblood probably returned to Canterlot on a train, though.

5: The Recline

I took a break from my stories, swallowing a few pretzels. "I haven't put you off or anything, have I?"

"Not really," Flitter shrugged, pausing to finish the rest of her drink. At some point between my first and second stories, the waitress returned and took her order, placing some green drink down in front of her. "I used to foalsit, so these sorts of things never really bothered me. From the sound of things, you seem to have to deal with similar messes, and foalsit adults on occasion."

"You have no idea..."

Of course, not everything about this job is negative. Or at the very least, not every negative event needs to have a negative outcome. You’ll find that in many situations where passengers behave as if they belong in day care centers, you can derive a great deal of satisfaction from toying with the unruly.

And no, I don’t mean spitting in somepony’s drink. That’s generally reserved exclusively for arrogant pilots who demand that their cappuccinos be made with five percent froth and three quarters of a packet of brown sugar, served at exactly sixty-eight degrees, and expect it to be done promptly in the middle of our busiest points during service. No, I mean more along the lines of resetting the IFE, or 'In-Flight Entertainment' system regularly for passengers who do not treat my crew with the respect they deserve.

But one particular event of great satisfaction came from a flight during my first few days as a senior, when we operated a night flight out of Ponyville to Manehattan. Service was completed, leaving the passengers to sleep and the crew in the aft galley to do what they do best: Eating anything and everything left untouched by passengers. One thing you'll learn about crew early on, either through observation or imitation, is that crew are voracious beasts with bottomless pits where their stomachs should be. If you ever need to get a general idea of how long a particular flight attendant has been in the industry, you need only take a look at her weight.

I appear to be one of the rare exceptions to that rule. I've consumed enough ice cream, cheese and teas with ten sugars to induce cardiac arrest in an ursa.

So between mouthfuls of varying cheeses, casseroles and chocolates, we would always ask the same generic questions to create some sort of conversation, despite knowing none of us actually cared about the answers. Questions like what city we were from, what we did before joining EAL, how long we have been flying, what and who we did on our layovers, and so on. As such, when the unusually quiet flight was interrupted by a soft ‘ding’ and a blue light from the call bell indicator above, I jumped up immediately to escape the monotony. Noting the seat number was 20B, I took a silver tray with a glass of water and headed out into the dim cabin, which I had set to be illuminated by starry pinpricks of light from the ceiling to simulate the night sky outside. As I approached, I could hear an argument taking place between the one who pressed the call bell, and the pony seated in front of her.

“May I help you, madam?” I asked the blue unicorn, interrupting the two.

“Yes you may,” the mare replied, a definite tone of superiority in her voice. “The Great and Powerful Trixie has suffered a great injustice at the hooves of this pony!” she scowled at the offender and crossed her hooves.

So it turns out that after hearing both sides of the argument, it all boiled down to the stallion in front reclining his seat, and the mare taking issue with, as she put it, “the violation of Trixie’s personal space.” Ignoring the peculiar third-pony usage of her name, I attempted to explain that the stallion had every right to recline his seat. He did pay for it, after all. If this was during the meal service, I could understand the issue, but when everypony is sleeping, that's another story. Well, everypony else had been asleep, until the exchange of some rather derogatory comments from both parties had roused the others from their slumbers.

Unsatisfied with my response, she demanded to be moved to the front row seats. As I knew economy class was completely booked, there was no way I could force other passengers to move seats, unless there was a safety issue. So, Miss Trixie did what any reasonable pony did, and mercilessly kicked the back of the stallion's seat with alternating hind hooves, offering me an ultimatum: If I could not find an economy class seat, I was to upgrade her to business class, or she would continue to assault the seat.

With the once-sleeping passengers around us now shooting us the death glare from beneath their eyeshades, I informed Trixie I will get back to her, and headed to the front of the aircraft, leaving the unicorn with a triumphant smirk on her face. Glancing around, I found a few empty seats, so I asked the senior in charge of business class if I could move one of my passengers into his cabin. After receiving the okay from him, which was really just a shrug and a nod while he downed a bowl of potato and leek soup, I returned to the unicorn and informed her that I found a solution to her reclining issue. Right as she began to rise from her seat, I stepped to the side, and informed the stallion in front that his business class seat was waiting for him.

"I—w-wha—?" Trixie's eyes widened, and stared up at me with her mouth agape, as if I had slapped her across the face. Wearing my typical 'welcome aboard' smile, I replied, "I hope I have solved your seating issue," pausing, remembering I still had the silver tray in my hoof. With an ever-widening grin, I extended my hoof. "Water?"

"Mate, if we were in a time of war, they'd give you a medal for that." the stallion chuckled as he followed me through the curtain dividing the two cabins, while I assisted him with his bags. Finding his seat and stowing his bags, I double-checked if he needed anything else then left, tucking the silver tray beneath my wing.

I then proceeded to reset the 20B IFE at half hour intervals for the remainder of the flight.

Eventually, the pegasus in front of me recovered from her giggling fit, wiping away a tear in her eye. "Oh come on, it wasn't that funny." I raised an eyebrow. I mean, it was amusing, but none of my crew reacted like this on the flight in question, after I explained what happened.

"It is, in a way," Flitter replied. "See, Trixie is sort of infamous where I'm from for a number of reasons, and it's just hilarious to see her get knocked down a peg."

"Ahh," I finished off another glass. "Well, I'll admit, it was nice to vent a little. It's a welcome change of pace for me, since I usually just ditch my crew and drink the night away most of the time. Unfortunately, I've got twelve hours before I need to report for duty, so I should probably turn in." I signaled the waitress for the bill.

"This was fun. I don't suppose you're visiting Ponyville any time soon?"

"Uhh...I think on the 6th next month."

"Great! If you're not busy, I'd love to hear more stories," Flitter yawned, reaching for a hoofful of bits. "I applied for the job a couple of days ago, and I'm waiting for the interview."

"Oh, nice. Maybe one day you'll be telling me stories of your own. Well sure, why not," I shrugged. I don't really have any friends in Ponyville to go out with anyway, and the city is a little too quiet for my tastes. Well, unless there's the off-chance it plays host to the occasional monster attack. Eyeing the mare, I interrupted her as she counted her bits. "Hey, don't bother. I've got this one," I wrote my room number and signature on the bill. "I get twenty-five percent off as crew, anyway."

6: Ponyville Layover

Sugarcube Corner. Well, it wouldn't be my first choice of places to grab a small bite, but I'm not complaining. I have been craving for something with lots of sugar recently. I mean, ignoring my excessive on-board consumption of mango juice and cheesecakes. Glancing at my watch, I see that I'm a few minutes early. Making my decision, I walked up to the counter. "Pardon me." I called to the pink mare, who had her back turned to me, busy stocking the shelves with confectionery.

Turning to face me in a blur, I tensed up immediately. "Oh dear Celestia, it's you!"

"Hiya, Redred!" the pink menace beamed at me. "How's my favorite trolley dolly doing?"

"Worse, now that I've seen you again, Pinkie," I deadpanned.

"Aww, c'mon! Didn't we have lots'a fun on that flight?"

"I don't consider personally apologizing to half of my passengers due to a lack of food for them to be fun," I felt my left eye twitch. "Certainly not when they refused to believe a single pony consumed the entire mid-galley while my crew were distracted. How—how did you even eat ninety-five casseroles straight out of the ovens? Weren't those hot?"

"Excruciating! The whole inside of my mouth was swollen for a week!"

"Yes, well, perhaps I'd show a little more sympathy if you had not cleaned us out of every meal tray, juice box, chocolate—"

"Don't forget the sugar packets!"

"Which brings me to my next question," I practically slammed my hooves on the counter, leaning forward as if interrogating a suspect. "What in the name of Luna were you doing snorting all my sugar on the galley floor?"

"Umm, my stomach was full? Duh!"

"I—that's just—" I sighed, backing off. "Just—just get me a large cup of chamomile tea, please."

As soon as my order came up, I seated myself at a table as far from the counter as possible. Shortly after, the mare I waited for finally walked in, glancing around until I waved to get her attention. Trotting over, she greeted me with excitement in her voice. "Hey! I'm glad you were able to make it! I've got some amazing news," Flitter danced on the spot. "Guess who just passed the first stage of her EAL interview?"

"Great stuff!" I beckoned her to the seat opposite. "So when's the next stage?"

"Tomorrow, nine in the morning," she bounced in her seat, squealing like a schoolfilly.

Beside her, Pinkie appeared, bouncing in sync, "Soooooo, can I get you lovers anything to eat?"

"Buh—I—we're not—" Flitter spluttered. "I mean—"

"I'll try a slice of the chestnut puree cake," I cut in, scanning the menu between sips of tea. "Flitter?"

A small squeak was the reply.

"Uhh, I suppose any three random items for her, please." I handed the menu to Pinkie, who quickly scribbled what I assumed was our order on a notepad. It took me a little too long to realize she had done that entirely with her mane. By the time I opened my mouth, the mare hopped away. "Right, so second stage of the interview next. You'll probably have some fun doing group activities for a few hours."

This seemed to snap Flitter out of her petrified state. "Y-yeah, they mentioned something about that. Any advice?"

"Eh, hard to say. They always try to do something different," I paused. Nothing in particular came to mind about the interview process. "Just show them you're confident, willing to make the first move for anything, and above all, be social. We're there for safety first, but they want to know if you can easily interact with many strangers and keep them happy."

"Thanks," Flitter eyed the freshly procured plates that slid onto our table, going straight for a slice of apple pie. Looks like she's already got the crew appetite perfected, I see. "Speaking of," she quickly swallowed, "I remember the recruiter was telling us how our jobs are like ninety percent safety-related duties, and the other ten percent is the actual service. Is that true?"

"More or less. You'll find that there are a lot of rules and regulations. Many might seem silly, but make sense when explained. You'll learn about all this in training, but I may have a few personal experiences that you might find amusing, if you're interested."

"I'm all ears..."

7: Safety First

In this job, you’ll immediately realize an unfortunate truth. Despite the fact that you are first and foremost present for safety, your passengers will never see you as anything more than a high-altitude coffee and tea dispenser, as well as an emotional punching bag for when things beyond your control end up going wrong. Had a bad experience on a previous flight? Not my fault. Need to change aircraft due to technical reasons? Be glad we're doing this, instead of losing an engine mid-flight. Verbally abusing me because bad weather shut the airport down? Believe me, I'd send you into that raging hurricane if I could, but I'd rather sit comfortably in the airport lounge instead.

Now you may recall me mentioning passengers such as dear Prince Blueblood taking issue to my request to put his seatbelt on, but the list can go on and on regarding passenger reactions to simple safety procedures. I had the...pleasure of flying with Rainbow Dash for a second time between Cloudsdale and the Crystal Empire, in which she was given an extra large serving of poetic justice, but one which I did not appreciate in the aftermath. A lot of paperwork was involved, and I had to write to one of the crews' manager because she failed to secure her area of the cabin properly. I hate writing to managers.

As the aircraft rolled away from the terminal and taxied to the runway, my crew and I began securing our respective areas of the cabin from the moment we completed the safety demonstration. For me, that involved ensuring about thirteen rows of passengers at the back on the left side of the aircraft were ready for takeoff. Seatbelts fastened, armrests down, window shades up, seats and tray tables upright, overhead lockers secured, no loose items in the emergency exit and bulkhead rows, and so on.

Approaching the familiar rainbow-maned pony, I found her snoring up a storm in 40C, the outboard aisle seat about four rows aft of the L4 door. Granted, that in itself wasn’t a safety issue, assuming the two idiots all the way up front could hear air traffic control over the demonic noises blaring from the gaping maw of our national hero. However, the more immediate issue was a large bag jammed between her seat, and the one in front.

Waking the irate pegasus from her drooling slumber, I informed her that I would need to place the bag in the overhead locker for take-off. Her response was to frown, 'assure' me it was fine where it was, and ask “Why?”

Because it may hinder egress during an evacuation. Because it is a large and heavy loose object that may cause serious injury in adverse weather conditions. Because our governing air law has outlined the procedures we must follow regarding cabin safety and security. Because it is my job to ensure these procedures are adhered to by passengers and crew, and that both myself and EAL may be severely penalized by failing to adhere to these regulations. Because reasons.

Not that passengers ever listen to the real reasons. So I did what cabin crew do best, and gave her a big, steamy pile of horse manure. I ended up telling her that because we expect a bit of rough weather, her bag might get thrown about, and that it would be a shame if something inside were to break. Remember, always place emphasis on the disappointment of having something break. Works like a charm, as always, so eventually she kicked the bag out into the aisle after some melodramatic groaning, and I proceeded to stow it above.

My tale was briefly interrupted when I heard the door to Sugarcube Corner open. "Speak of the devil..." I snorted, observing the blue pegasus waltzing in. Glancing in my direction, she did a double-take and her eyes widened upon recognizing me. Though halfway up to the counter, her ears splayed back, and she backed out of the store with her head held low.

I returned my gaze to Flitter. "As I was saying..."

After securing my area, I started receiving the interphone calls from the rest of the economy class crew, stating their areas of responsibility were secured. Once I strapped myself in, I called the purser and informed her that economy class was secured. Shortly after, the Captain's voice came over the PA to prepare for takeoff, and I heard the engines whine as the aircraft accelerated to line up on the runway. Watching one of the IFEs in the last row, I saw the aircraft’s forward camera align perfectly with the runway, and heard the engines whine again with increasing intensity, before blaring that satisfying roar of dual, three and a half meter diameter, high-bypass turbofan engines. You ever heard those things in action? Makes a manticore's roar sound like a newborn kitten.

I continued watching the runway’s centerline stripes dart down faster and faster on the screen, when I noticed Rainbow Dash sliding out of her seat and making her way forward towards the lavatory just behind the L4 jumpseat, struggling slightly against the acceleration of the aircraft. Despite the noise, I could just manage to make out the exchange of words between her and the crew seated at that jumpseat.

“Ma’am! Ma’am you need to sit down right now!”

“I’m just going to the toilet. I’ll be out in a bit.”

“We’re taking off! You need to return to your seat immediately!”

“Hey, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. What’s the worst that could happen?” she waved a hoof dismissively, her rainbow tail being the last part of her to disappear into the lavatory. The crew at L4 leaned over and looked at me helplessly. I simply shrugged. Crew safety comes first, so we could only hope no incident would come of this.

Of course, miss tiny-bladder had to utter those six magic words. That bad weather the Captain briefed us about before flight turned out to be worse than expected, and for about a minute shortly after take-off, we found ourselves being thrown about in some nasty weather, with several moments of brief weightlessness. As quickly as it came, it stopped, and once the seatbelt sign had come off, I immediately went to the lavatory to check on the pegasus, who had not come out since.

I knocked on the door. "Excuse me, are you alright in there?" No response. "Ma'am, I'm going to open the door..." I paused for a moment, just in case, then proceeded to lift the little metal flap above the vacant/occupied sign to slide the lock open. As I pushed the bi-folding door open to the side, I came across a rather peculiar sight.

There were feathers everywhere! The pegasus was upside-down with her hooves tangled in themselves and her tail. The mirror above the washing basin had swung out, revealing wires, plumbing, and extra rolls of toilet paper stored within. The light fittings for the shattered mirror were hanging loose from their plugs, flickering as they swung to and fro and smacking the dazed pegasus in the head. Looking down at the rest of her body, I noticed a few bleeding cuts and noted the fur and ruffled wings of the groaning pony was matted with what I could only hope was apple juice.

Needless to say, I think she learned her lesson when it came to following crew instructions.

8: El No A You Smoko!

After countless annual refresher courses and exams we call 'recurrents' that ensure you are still competent in the fields of safety, security and medical, certain procedures will feel like they have been drilled into your head, over and over and over again, until your reaction to certain events become almost unconscious, or second-nature. For instance, after dealing with so many cases of passengers fainting on our long-haul flights, you become desensitized to the distress of passengers and manage the situation without thinking. Within seconds, you'd have the patient on oxygen and his or her legs elevated to get more blood flowing back to the head.

Another example would be your response to an equally common event involving a triggered lavatory smoke detector. It starts with you performing your service-related duties, until you hear a chime, or 'ding'. Your first reaction is to look upwards at the call bell indicator and roll your eyes, wondering if some high-maintenance, overly demanding passenger wants yet another shandy, until you realize that this particular 'ding' sounds different. It keeps repeating, and rather than seeing a steady blue light, you see a flashing amber light instead.

In that split second during which you feel a surge of adrenaline wash through your body, you and every single other crew member will drop everything, regardless of where you are in the aircraft and run for the nearest fire extinguisher, or 'halon'. With a couple of flicks on the halon's quick-release fittings, we then run towards the affected area, knocking down obstructing passengers if need be. In the next few seconds, most of the crew are crouching and poised on either side of the lavatory with halons at the ready, not unlike soldiers ready to breach. The first one on the scene would feel the door and check if it is hot or cold. A hot door indicates a large fire, which requires opening the door just enough to fit the halon nozzle in, while minimizing the amount of smoke that would spew out. Once an entire halon is discharged, the crew would investigate to determine if the fire is out, or if additional halons are required. If need be, smoke hoods are donned.

Never in EAL's history has there ever been a hot door scenario. At least, not one that actually involved fire. Several years ago, one of my roommates in our company-provided accommodation operated a flight from Stalliongrad to Fillydelphia. One thing you should know about passengers from Stalliongrad is that they are heavy drinkers, and heavy smokers. You'd be surprised at how many ponies try to tamper with lavatory smoke detectors to get their fix. Petroleum jelly, sticky tape, plastic cups...anything to cover the smoke detector. There have even been instances where ponies would take blankets with them, covering themselves and the toilet in an attempt to contain the smoke. With each puff, they would flush the toilet and use the suction to draw away the exhaled smoke. In every case, the smokers were caught, their passports were held by the purser and they were subsequently fined. Severely. See, what ponies don't realize is that these are not your ordinary smoke detectors. They are highly sensitive. The slightest trace of smoke will set them off. Hay, even perfumes will. Makes you think twice before having the chickpea masala, doesn't it?

The first time I had a smoke detector going off, I saw the purser—this giant body-builder of a stallion from Manesoura—thundering down the aisle with fire in his eyes, the ground shaking with each approaching step. Pulling the hapless smoker from the lavatory, he pressed the offender up against the galley wall. Despite the fearful smoker apologizing profusely, the purser yelled back in his thick accent and booming voice, "You're not sorry! You're styoobid! You're STYOOBID!" and gave the nearby passengers a good show as he reduced the poor guy to tears. Two thousand seven hundred bit fine upon landing. Airlines don't mess around with this. Stick a lit cigarette into the wastebin full of paper towels, and you'll have a raging fire in mere moments. Potential secondary fires may erupt in unreachable places, and pretty soon, it will burn through the aluminium fuselage if you're lucky. If you're unlucky...? Well, electrical cables and hydraulic lines probably aren't that important, right?

Anyway, back to my roommate. His name is Bulkhead, and had the pleasure of experiencing something rather unique. Something which involved the aircraft diverting to the nearest airport for the smoker in question. After tampering with the smoke detector, our victim puffed away on multiple cigarettes. Eventually the smoke detector did go off, and the standard crew response ensued. Bulk being the first one on the scene had felt a hot door. Or rather, a warm one, but it still warranted following hot door procedures. As a result, the smoker received a face full of halon. Not exactly healthy when you breathe it in out of shock. While halons are highly effective against solid, liquid and electrical fires, they are also toxic in large quantities, such as when receiving a fire suppressant bukkake.

Oh right, my apologies. We're eating here. Sorry for that mental image.

Of course, the crew were quite confused as well. How did the door warm up in the first place? Turns out that the smoker was putting out his butts on the metal frame of the bi-folding door. Bulk's guess was that he was smoking multiple cigarettes simultaneously, causing the metal to warm up enough when he put out the cigarettes. He was just unfortunate enough that Bulk felt the door at the exact point where the butts were extinguished on the other side.

Anyway, while I'm positive that particular smoker will never dare to pull another stunt like that again, it upset me greatly that I was not on that flight. Discharging a halon in some smoker's face will most definitely be found on the bucket list of any crew member, right between restraining a passenger, and smacking one with a silver tray after being asked for a black coffee with milk. Sadly—or I suppose, thankfully—I've just dealt with cold door events. For those, we simply open the door to either catch the smoker in the act, or find them frantically flailing their hooves in the air, in a futile effort to dissipate the smoke.

Then there are the false alarms, mostly triggered by perfumes or aerosol deodorants. One particular event was most traumatizing for me. After hearing and seeing the indications of a triggered smoke detector, I bolted up the aisle with my halon and arrived first on the scene. Crouched low, I determined it to be a cold door. Upon opening it, I came face to face with the rear of an old stallion. Naturally, I yelped in shock at the sudden appearance of a pair of wrinkly orbs that I had not expected to see so close to my face. Equally shocked, the lav's occupant screamed at the sudden sound, stumbling back in the process and knocking me over with his rump, darkening my vision as he toppled back and ended up sitting on my face.

I spent the rest of the flight using antibacterial gel as facial cream and mouthwash.

Author's Note

Bonus points for whoever knows the origin of the chapter title!

9: Distilleries of the Skies

Have you ever served alcohol before? No? Alright, allow me to fill you in on a few details. There are many types of drinkers. Some drink to get a light buzz, others like the taste, a few do it out of peer pressure or because they think it is a social norm, and then you have the ones that simply don't know when to stop. Mind you, there are countless reasons why one would drink, but these are some of the common ones. The group you primarily have to worry about are the latter, especially if they are angry drunks, as opposed to happy or loud drunks.

When it comes to dealing with passengers who have consumed enough alcohol to take down a dragon, you sometimes need to get creative in the way you manage the situation. For instance, back when I was still three or four months into the job, I had encountered a particularly intoxicated griffon who had boarded, likely enjoying himself a little too much in one of the bars back in the terminal. The doors hadn't even closed yet, and he was already asking my colleagues for cider. Again, our operations manual outlines how we handle situations when passengers are showing different signs of intoxication. Loud and demanding drunks will either get their drinks delayed and diluted, or outright denied, depending on the specific behavior.

After hounding my colleagues like this creepy fellow I once saw in a nightclub doing to passing mares, I decided to intervene and speak to the passenger myself. "Cider" and "Now" were the only two words the feathery feline managed to slur. In economy class, we normally serve a cider by providing a plastic cup, and a can of Sweet Apple Acres Original, Sweet Apple Acres Light, or Zebrinian Dry. Those are the only three choices for the peasants in working class. So when our griffon friend continued insisting on a can of cider, I told him that we were currently very busy, but that I would personally get him his drink now and if he wanted more, I'd get it after take-off. Since the can is about twice as large as the cup, I decided instead to pour the cider into the cup, minimizing the amount he would drink, but not before making half the cup nothing but ice. That way, it won't seem watered down, and it fools most passengers by giving them less to drink. Now I think it goes without saying, but this should be done out of sight of the passenger.

Sometimes, however, you may come across a passenger that is so wasted, they won't even know the difference between a shot of vodka, or a watered-down excuse of a fermented potato. In cases like this, get your cup full of ice, add the water first, then gently pour a portion of the alcohol into the cup. Since water density is higher than alcohol, the important stuff stays on top, fooling the drinker into thinking the alcohol is stronger than it actually is. You can also wet the rim of the cup with alcohol to further the illusion. Again, all done out of sight.

Not too long ago, my crew and I were operating a night flight out of Baltimare, bound for Vanhoover. Service had finished, leaving us with a good hour before top. As my crew were preparing several silver trays with a selection of water and juices, a unicorn stumbled into the galley, barely able to keep his balance, despite using one of the counter tops for support. Squinting around, his bloodshot eyes landed on me.

"My friend," he started. He opened his mouth, but paused, raising a hoof as if telling us to wait. Gazing off into the distance and thinking for several long seconds as to what he would say next, he finally continued, "Two vodkas."

Yeah, wasn't going to happen. The symptoms of alcohol intoxication, along with symptoms caused by an environment of reduced oxygen will combine, exacerbating themselves and making the user feel more drunk than usual. Judging by what we saw, this fellow definitely had his fair share. "Sorry, we are going to be landing soon. We have already closed the bars." I decided to lie.

Ignoring my response, he turned to the mare beside me. "My sister! Two vodkas. And a whiskey." The mare in question simply shifted her eyes between booze pony and myself, unsure of what satisfactory response she could come up with.

"Like I said, buddy, the bars are closed," I showed him one of the bar carts, and pulled on the handle; the handle that was not meant to open the cart's door. "See? Flight is almost over."

Shuffling closer, he draped a hoof around me and nuzzled my cheek, whispering, "My friend, I know you can do this little thing for me, my friend." As he did this, he pulled a bit out and slipped it into a pocket on my uniform. A single bit. I'd have laughed at risking my job for one bit, if I hadn't been so uncomfortable with being cheek to cheek with a pony who acted like a cat rubbing his scent on everything.

"Okay, I'll tell you what," I leaned away, attempting to shield myself from the shimmering breath of a thousand alcoholics. "For a rich and generous pony like you, I'll check with business class and see if they have any of the good vodka. If you go back to your seat, I'll have it sent straight to you. That sound good?"

"Is good, my friend! You good pony, friend!" he bellowed, hugging me and promptly leaving, faceplanting twice in the process.

I had a thing or two to say to my crew about failing to monitor alcohol consumption. Still, I managed to teach a couple of the newbies how to simultaneously delay and dilute a drink.

Unfortunately, it doesn't always end well when it comes to not monitoring alcohol consumption. During my early days when I had been freshly promoted to business class, I had operated a Manehattan to Canterlot flight, mostly packed with those on business. Having already been in the company for about three years at this stage, my cabin crew senses were honed quite well, and glancing around at the business class cabin that had almost completed boarding, I had a strong suspicion that something was wrong. Just this feeling of impending doom.

Doing a quick sweep of the cabin, I observed the passengers. Not a single one wore a smile. In fact, many appeared tired, irritable, or both, but the majority had all taken advantage of several servings of alcohol before the doors had even closed. Not sure who had served those, but it certainly wasn't me. Halfway down the right side of the cabin, I noted a couple arguing quite vocally in the two outboard seats 10J and 10K, with the wife continually blaming her husband for ruining their vacation, or something. Before I could listen in to more of the conversation, my concentration broke as I heard something else nearby.

"Psst."

Glancing back, I tried to find the source of the sound.

"Psst!" The passenger at 10B on the left outboard aisle seat made himself known, tugging on my tail. "'ahtaj aljalid i shraby, hehehe." he whispered, pointing discretely to a small flask nestled within the inner pocket of his jacket and looking quite proud of himself. I wasn't quite sure what the stallion wanted, but judging by what he was pointing to, the droopy face one might almost confuse for a stroke, and the slurred speech, I'm guessing it had something to do with alcohol. I also assumed by the accent and words he was trying to speak that he was somewhere from Saddle Arabia, so I attempted to look for a member of the crew who might understand his request.

Before even getting the chance to head off, I heard a muffled smack and a collective gasp from the cabin. The source of the commotion appeared to be the arguing couple, with the wife holding a hoof to her cheek in shock, and her husband gritting his teeth in the type of anger reserved for those who have endured a twelve hour flight next to a screaming foal. Without warning, the wife smacked back.

It all went downhill from there.

The husband cocked back a hoof, no doubt intending to retaliate. Instead of punching his wife, he elbowed a passing unicorn, causing the innocent bystander to tumble into the passenger seated in the adjacent aisle seat 10F. The passenger seated there twisted herself around and bucked the unicorn back towards 10J. The formerly innocent bystander proceeded to light up his horn, sending 11F's glass flying in 10F's direction. Ducking, the glass missed her head, shattering upon impacting a griffon in 9E. Fuming, the griffon vaulted over his seat, spilling his drinks on adjacent passengers, and tackled the unicorn. Within seconds, a domestic issue had erupted into a classic bar fight between twenty-four business class passengers. Punches were thrown, champagne flutes and tumblers soared overhead, baggage was hurled, and feathers from participating pegasi and griffons soon fluttered throughout the cabin.

Completely dumbfounded, I backed out slowly, with the intention of calling security from the terminal. That's when I noticed the Saddle Arabian was missing. Until I peeked into the galley and saw him with aircraft equipment on the right side aisle, a sense of purpose to his actions that one would interpret as I was born for this moment. Before I could reach him, he let loose a mighty battlecry.

"HYYYYAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I could not believe my eyes when I found him charging down the aisle, propelling one of our meal carts in front of him. At the last second, he leaped up on top of the cart, surfing it down the aisle, as it began plowing through the angry mob, sending them flying like bowling pins. The lucky few who weren't in the cart's path were hit square in the face with round serving trays he dual-wielded, resulting in a rapid succession of 'THWACK's before shooting through the curtain dividing business and economy. A series of shrieks and screams came from the other side, before a loud bang and the shattering of countless dishes told me the cart had finally hit a seat and stopped.

As security rushed on board to take down the last few that remained standing, I headed quickly to economy to find our other friend. Crossing the aisle and passing through the smaller front part of economy, I found the meal cart on its side, its contents of cheeseboards and desserts strewn across the aisle, and its driver wedged underneath one of the nearby aisle seats, motionless, save for an occasional flick of his tail.

Needless to say, the Captain was absolutely livid. With half of all the business class passengers taken away by security, we were ordered to offload all alcohol. And to top things off, who had to be traveling in first class? The CEO of EAL, of course.

It was a dark, dark day for aviation.

"I'll tell you something, Flitter," I finished, setting aside my second empty cup of tea. "I've never seen cabin carnage on that scale in my life. You remember that changeling invasion that happened in Canterlot? Replace the royal guards with fifty Saddle Arabian cart-surfing tray-wielders, and those bugs would have disappeared faster than a new joiner when faced with a medical case."

"Speaking of that invasion, where were you at the time?" Flitter's tone became more serious. "Everypony working for EAL is based in Canterlot, right?"

"Yep. I was in Sydneigh during the invasion. Since there was a giant bubble around Canterlot, flights could neither come nor go. The company messaged our hotel, asking them to keep our rooms indefinitely and charge any room service directly to the company. Kitchens were pretty much cleaned out in minutes. Dangle the prospect of free food in front of crew, and you have a recipe for disaster."

Glancing sideways at the hyperactive pony still serving customers at the counter, Flitter giggled. "It's a good thing Pinkie isn't crew then."

"The company would be financially worse off."

"You don't know Pinkie as well as we do here. Bankruptcy would be the word I'd use." she paused, stretching. "Alright, as much as I hate to, I need to get back to work. My break finishes in ten minutes."

"No problem. Guess I'm just going to wander around a bit then," I rose, leaving a stack of bits on the table. "Oh, and I'll let you know if I'm in Ponyville again at some point. I'm sure I owe it to you to hear one of your workplace rants at least once."

"Eh, if I had any. Still, if all goes well, you'll be letting me know when you're back in Canterlot instead."

"Ahh, that's right. Good luck with that, by the way. Now get out of here before I get you in trouble!"

4: Digestive Disasters

By this point, I’m sure you’ve glanced a couple of times at the large bottle on the table, so I think I’ll get this story out of the way.

We had just received the call from the Captain that we had twenty minutes until top of descent, or ‘top’ for short. Top is basically the point at which cruise ends, and we begin descending to the airport. Top is also the point at which the crew start dancing and celebrating the end of a flight, shedding themselves of their in-flight service uniforms and donning their ground uniforms. So once again, I’m at the back of the aircraft in the galley, ensuring all the paperwork has been completed. While I completed the alcohol stocktake and juice order forms, the rest of the crew were busy in the dark cabin answering call bells, assisting the mid-galley operator with her paperwork and sealing of containers, or planning ahead for landing preparations, while avoiding waking up the passengers on this night flight. It was at this point that the events of an unspeakable horror would unfold.

Placing my signature against one of the forms I was filling out, I turned around to hear a young colt stumble into the galley, clutching his stomach with his hoof. The brown colt, whom was wearing one of those helicopter hats, looked up at me. I recognized him immediately as the unaccompanied minor we were taking to Ponyville.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“Nooooooo...” he groaned.

Seeing a child in distress, the first instinct of many of the female crew would be to run up and give the colt a hug, going 'aww, you poor thing', or some other mushy maternal action. With my disdain for children however, and a long history of close calls with nauseous passengers, my first instinct was to back away and grab a can of ginger ale to help sooth that upset stomach. Though by the time I had frantically retrieved the can and offered it to the colt, his face appeared to turn a subtle shade of green, and his cheeks began to swell as if he was playing a bagpipe. Unfortunately, I suspected more than just air would be blown through his pursed lips shortly.

Throughout my career as a flight attendant—and trust me, it’s quite a long one—many ungodly sights have taken place right before my eyes. I’ve seen an intoxicated mother change her filly’s diaper on a seat, only to hurl a partially-digested mixture of tomato juice and vodka ineffectively into said diaper, then run up and down the aisle in a frenzy, repeatedly shouting "It got in my mouth!" I’ve seen a stallion projectile vomit the four casseroles he vacuumed up towards unsuspecting passengers three rows ahead, resulting in a domino effect that caused two others to participate and turn the cabin into an abominable jumping fountain of gastric art. I’ve witnessed the Elements of Harmony Applejack and Rainbow Dash taking turns hurling their stomach contents into each others’ laps, as if playing some twisted game of ‘Bet You Can’t Beat That’.

Despite everything, I always had one thing going for me. No matter how many sick bags I’ve had to seal in biohazard bags, no matter how many times I’ve had to scrub a steaming puddle of vomit out of the carpet, and no matter how many times I’ve felt as if my sense of smell would just give up and die on me after inhaling the pungent mixture of bile and airline food, I’ve always walked away with my uniform pristine and unsullied.

This time, I faced a primary school colt with his muzzle directed straight at me, and a stomach filled with tonight’s meal of ravioli and likely some helpings of chocolate from a basket one of the crew offered to the passengers. Moments after I realized he was about to explode, I propelled myself away from the left side of the galley, rolling out like Daring Do in that scene where she slips under the sliding door at the last moment. Coming to a stop at the right side aircraft door, I watched helplessly as the ensuing chaos played out in slow motion.

The first convulsion sprayed against the coffee machine, deflecting radially and coating the adjacent stowages upon impact. The colt managed to bring his hooves up to his mouth before the second wave came, but it appeared to worsen the situation, shooting a stream of the vile substance vertically, coating the ceiling and covering up the call bell indicators. As I continued watching with a mixture of shock and awe, his head began to swing side to side, saturating the remainder of the galley like a garden sprinkler.

As the passage of time returned to normal in the aftermath, I remained on the floor, staring into my poor galley as the extent of the fallout became apparent. Barely a surface remained untouched. If not from the direct impact of stomach juices, then from the force of gravity. Breathing through my mouth, I slowly stood up and approached the sobbing colt, avoiding the fluid dripping from the ceiling, while a mixture of emotions flowed through me. Repulsion and anger were definitely there, but I couldn’t help feel at least somewhat impressed with...with THAT.

He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, tears streaming down his face as he pleaded for forgiveness. That’s when I realized I had made a terrible mistake. His eyes bulged and cheeks inflated, before a final torrent of semi-solid matter covered me completely, working its way through my uniform and embedding itself into every follicle in my body. The worst part? The worst part was that I closed my mouth too late.

Deciding not to risk a neck wringing, the shaky colt disappeared into the cabin in a puff of smoke. I however, simply stood there alone, for a good long while, just coming to terms with my fate. I then proceeded to add my contribution to the galley floor.

Author's Note

My reaction to finding my galley coated in brown biomass: