Samantha

It’s sort of a thankless job, being a flight attendant. Crap, I’m tired of the “PC” people, just call me a stewardess anyway.

No one makes eye contact with a stewardess, except for horny males looking to score a flight attendant and brag to their friends about joining the “mile high club.”

Let me tell you a little something. It’s not physically possible to have sex on an airplane. I’ve busted plenty of people trying it. Next time you get on a plane, go to the bathroom and try and envision yourself in there. It’s not possible.

That’s beyond the point though. When I first started the job, right out of college, people used to care about what the flight attendant said before the plane took off. Nowadays, it’s eyes on books, on the seat ahead, or continuing a conversation with a business partner or family member.

I guess I really don’t mind. But as much as I might ask 60 people what they want to drink during a flight, it’s really a lonely job.

And after a while, it got really, really drab.

Don’t get me wrong, occasionally you’ll have the mid-level celebrity that can’t afford their own timeshared jet. Sometimes you’ll get a pair of newlyweds that will merrily tell you about their engagement – but that just brings you back to the harsh reality – it’s tough to maintain a relationship in this line of work.

Of course, when the whispers started – it became a whole new ordeal. Members of the opposite sex started to engage each other, ask each other’s names. More importantly, handsome men wanted to know what my name was. The downside was seeing the frown when the name wasn’t even close to that whispered in their head – but at least it opened up communication.

I typically fly a boring loop – the pain and pleasure of seniority after so many years means that I get to set my schedule. My boring loop? Houston to Kansas City to Chicago and then back to Houston. Not exactly the beach, Europe, or an amazing travel destination.

One of the strange things I do, I guess because I had a fear of planes before I started this job, was to count the amount of flights. That way, I could mark milestones that I had accomplished – 500th flight, 1,000th, and so on.

Today, on my 1,458th flight, I became thankful for my job. You see, these people that hear these whispers, I’m not sure if all of them are going to come across the name they hear. It may just be a temptress – to make you think that life is going to be fine and dandy…until you hit 70 or 80 and realize that life was crap and you’re all alone.

Anyway, my job puts me in the face of a lot of people and today I’m thankful. Robert Smith, it’s a scary normal name, there are hundreds of Robert Smiths out there. This Bob Smith though…he has to be my match.

You know sometimes, before the whispers started, a girl could get by daydreaming about her potential soulmate. She could dream about what he would drink, what he would eat, his tastes, etc. Well, I held onto that, even after all this crazy whisper talk. I always envisioned my soulmate drinking a clear soda. A Sprite or a 7-Up. Even a Ginger Ale. It’s sophisticated without saying I’m so grown-up that I just want a coffee.

In the flight attendant business, we can read you like a book by your drink order. It might not be spot on for your whole life, but we can tell how you are feeling that day.

A water says that you are a chronic allergy sufferer, you have fear of the recycled air on the plane or you’re a skeptic that thinks we’ve sabotaged the drinks. An alcoholic beverage on a plane? That means you either truly have an alcohol problem or that you are nervous about plane wrecks to the extent that getting a bit loopy will calm your nerves.
A soda? You’re in a hurry to get where you are going, you are usually obese, or you are a teenager that just doesn’t know better. A juice? You are a health freak, a child, or have medical issue. There are other variations to the rule, but that’s a good baseline to go buy.

Bob…Bob was a Ginger Ale man. It told me he was successful. It told me he was above the fray. It told me he was the one.

Maybe me?

I’m not sure if it’s just me. Maybe everyone has a crush somewhere along the way.

Mine…well, it happened over the course of four years. A perfect smattering of fate and luck landed this gorgeous brunette in the same degree field at college. Over four years, I think I had 14 classes with her, but who’s counting?

One class in particular stands out. It was small, maybe 20 students or so. She sat in the second row, three seats back. I remember getting caught in constant daydreams and fantasies on those warm spring afternoons….dreaming that maybe she’d come up to me after class and ask me to hang out or something. I dare not make the first move.

I remember looking at the rickety chair/desk that she sat in…thinking that it should be replaced with a seat made of gold, perhaps with a string quartet playing upon her entry into the classroom. That may be a bit much, as she held what I like to call “an acquired taste” beauty. Line her up in a row of 10 random women, and I might be the only one to call her the most attractive or best looking.

That small class, my best opportunity to introduce myself or stand out came and went. Finally, my senior year, with two weeks left before being birthed into the real world, I ran into the aforementioned “dream girl” at a bar.

“Hey, you’re in my major right?” playing it cool, forgetting that she probably did remember me from group projects where I still didn’t have the fortitude to talk to her.

“Yeah, yeah…” she said, a little perturbed to be interrupted while waiting for friends.

“Well, I know we’re all getting ready to graduate…but, can I have your number?”

The longest pause in the world occurred. It was somewhere between five seconds and five hours.

“Sure…but I have to warn you, I’m seeing someone. But, you know, just in case you want to talk shop or network after college – sure”

She pulled a wadded up receipt from the bar and wrote her number on the back.

“Here you go.”

I nonchalantly put the receipt in my pocket and played the finish cool, “well, have a great night – I’ll be in touch.”

The receipt should have been framed. It was nearly under lock and key as I gathered my things after finals. Would I use it? What would I say? How would I say it? What if her home was hours and hundreds of miles away? If it was that easy to get her number, what took me so long?

Quote

Society is like a stew. If you don't keep it stirred up you get a lot of scum on the top. - Edward Abbey, naturalist and author (1927-1989)

Me

I think every kid has that one experience, where they run away or get subtle revenge on their parents or do what grown-ups often call “sticking it to the man.”

 

I stuck it to the man (dad) once – and it involved the two greatest athletic feats I’ve ever accomplished.

 

Let me set the arena for these grand Olympic-worthy endeavors…my family owned a feed store. For those urbanites, a feed store is an agricultural general store, where farmers get seeds, ranchers get feed and pet owners get supplies.

 

My dad is and was a cunning small-town businessman. He bought an old semi-trailer, parked it next to the store, and kept some feed in there – an ingenious way to get some extra square footage. However, on this day, he had done something to this young 10 or 11 year old.

 

The nature of the feed business is that bags of feed will occasionally get busted. Often, you’ll find all different types of horse oats, cow pellets, etc. on the floor (I should know, my job at the family business was to sweep the floor every day.) On this day, my dad was at the back of the trailer, moving feed to recoup even more square footage. Whatever drew my ire caused me to pick up a huge horse oat – a solid mass of 2-inch-by-2-inch hardness. I wound up just like Nolan Ryan and fired the missile with as much gusto as a youngster could.

 

“Thud.”

 

A perfect throw, connecting with the left shoulder. A gold medal throw.

 

My dad, 6’1”, 300 lbs…spun around faster than I ever knew he could. For six hours, that was the last I would see of him.

 

You see, my second athletic of achievement was running straight home. I was a sort of latchkey kid…I always had the key to the house around my neck on a string. So I ran six blocks home, at breakneck speed. I went to my room, moved a chair in front of my door, hid in the closet, and probably prayed.

 

The interesting thing – my dad was already bright red when he turned around to engage in a fearsome punishment – was that my father didn’t chase me (or if he did, I was truly fast that day.) He also didn’t say a word about it six hours later when he came home. I even came him a courtesy hour, where I didn’t leave the closet in fear of accidentally opening the bedroom door to the sight of a man with a belt, a paddle and a plan.

 

I’m not sure why I never got punished. Maybe the hours of torturous waiting were punishment enough. Or maybe my dad admired my speed.

Ruby 1

I’m a big believer in “you have to know where you’ve been, to know where you are going.” Let me fill you in on the 82 years you’ve missed.

• I’m 82.
  
• Despite the hearing aid you see, I don’t have a hearing problem.
  
• My family, thinking I’m just out of earshot, will often complain about my “sassiness,” even in my old age.
  
• Despite my “falls,” I don’t have a balance problem, or problem getting around for that matter.
  
• Despite what the Department of Transportation says, I can still drive.
  
• I owned a really cool coffee shop before Starbucks was even an idea. My coffee shop is not in my hands anymore, but it’s still more comfortable and more personable than that mega monstrosity.
  
• I lost my first husband during the holidays. He fell off an icy ladder putting up Christmas lights, hit his head, and time of death was called the day after Thanksgiving. That was 14 years ago.
  

 

I’m not telling you all this for sympathy, apathy or any other “athy.” I just want you to understand, I’ve been through life, handled its ebbs and flows with as much dignity and grace as I could muster. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised when I heard a name whispered out of nowhere as I sat down for my daily crossword.

I know I said I didn’t have a hearing problem. It was so faint though that I had to turn up the volume on my hearing aid.

“Nooooooooorm. Wiiiiillllllllsssson.”

No way, no how. I’d been reading the newspapers about these voices people had been hearing…how they were calling it the next evolution of man. How these voices were leading people to their “supposed” true love. Some people were unfortunate, hearing names whispered in their heads that didn’t ring a bell…didn’t connect to anyone they’d ever met.

I knew Norm Wilson.

Before I tell you anything about Norm from my church, let me first give you my opinion on this whole ordeal. I was happily married for 43 years before my husband, George, fell and freakishly passed on. Sure, sometimes the marriage was more like a routine than anything else. We had lots in common – we loved Barq’s Root Beer in a can, not a bottle. We both were expert jigsaw puzzle workers, George usually taking on the most formidable part of the puzzle and I gravitating to the most colorful part that caught my eye. We traveled parts of the world together, seeing Sydney’s Opera House, Stonehenge and even the Taj Mahal. We were both small business owners, and found solace in being able to discuss issues and feel that we both were in the same boat with the same problems. And we had three children, and loved and gave them all we could.

Needless to say, 43 years of love, of marriage, of experiences is tough to turn your back on…especially if these whispers were messages from above.

The most I knew about Norm was that he was new to our church, a widower, and played a mean game of dominos. He came to church each Sunday, sat at the back and wore a black derby cap that he’d take off out of extreme courtesy the second he stepped on the threshold of the door to the entry lobby. I’d never spoken to Norm, just heard everything through the typical church gossip mill. From my perch in the choir with other older women, it’s easy to dissect the congregation and who is sleeping, snoozing or just downright not paying attention.

Norm was attentive for a back row churchgoer. And he was my name.

Me

Chicks dig the jacket.

Sure, it might be a washed-up, old hand-me-down...but it works like a charm, fits like a glove, conjures up more cliches than you can shake a stick at.

Torn at the wrist, torn at the cuff, torn at the elbow - it's a slightly bit Western, one-quarter rock and roll, and completely leather. A brown suedeish leather with bright orange stitching that screams out like an angry road rager flashing a middle finger.

It's from my father...30 years and 120 pounds ago. He said it went through some bar fights, some romances, and a peace-loving era. Looking at it, you might think piece-loving might be more apropos.

I wear it still...I'm getting ever closer to the day when it will probably get retired. It's timeless to me, and although I haven't been through bar fights or numerous romances with it on - it has served me well. 

Looking back on it, I think my father gave it a good marinade...some seasoning if you will. I just enjoyed the finished, tattered goods.

Isaac

You know, the whirl of the cappuccino machine can sound like a lot of things. It’s tripped me up once or twice, sounding like a whisper or even a familiar voice – enough so to make me spin around and drop a customer’s drink.

Well, tonight after closing, it happened again…and I was just about to score another victory for the demented cappuccino noisemaker when I realized I’d unplugged it before counting up the money in the register.

I’d heard some high school girls talking about it the shift before. It was kind of a ridiculous idea, and I thought maybe it was just teenage angst and underworked imaginations coming up with a concept to make the dire mission of finding a prom date so much easier.

The girls said people at school were starting to hear whispers – once a day and always a proper name. No one could really place the name so delicately slid into their ears. Only one girl that they knew of had been told a name of a boy they knew. The strange part was that the lucky girl that had been whispered a familiar name was already dating him.

The so-called “whoosh” sound I heard…I’d figure out later was Sarah Sasson. With so many “s” sounds in a name, I have to give myself a pat on the back for being easily confused with the whooshing nature of Ruby’s Grind Coffee Shop.

After any double shift, the surrounding noises walking home sound like static…just a noise to tell you stuff is going on around you. Just like when a TV channel fights through the static to get the reception back loud and clear – a day-old newspaper with bird poo and mustard stains caught my eye.

I wouldn’t call myself an environmentalist – so don’t think I’m picking this newspaper up for the good of mankind. It was the headline that caught me…

“Whispered Names Have Meaning”

I flipped through the article quickly to see if it was graced with any other repulsing delectables – any sign of disgusting liquids past the blotch of bird crap, and the newspaper was finding the nearest trash can. Miraculously, I found that the article covered six pages, with only an engagement photograph of a couple that looked too happy to be real – almost like the filler photos when you by a frame at Target.

It only took the first paragraph to realize that the article was going to require undevoted attention that my overworked, drooping eyelids would fight to offer…

New York -- Psychologists, sociologists, various doctors and biologists agreed today that the whispered voices experienced by all members of the human race are the next evolution of humans. The whispered names might represent a sixth sense, and while speculations exist that the name refers to one’s intended partner, others continue to research.

It continued:

Tom Sanders and Linda Knoblach are a matched couple that both heard each other’s names and met the following day. They met while shopping at a grocery store, minutes after having heard each other’s names for the first time. Upon bumping into each other, Tom and Linda decided it best to exchange phone numbers and have told scientific authorities that they feel compelled to get to know each other.