More Confessions of a Hostie by Danielle Hugh Read Free Book Online

I grab a handful of sick bags and hand them out to those in the toilet queue. I also hand out extra bags to the few people who have remained seated and are yet to fall sick. In an act of brazen satire I even hand the B.O. man a sick bag – well, actually I just throw it on the spare seat beside him whilst moving away at the speed of an Olympic sprinter. I also keep a sick bag for myself.
    It is not just the rear of the aircraft where we are having passengers fall sick. The mid-section of the plane is mostly a travel group of Japanese school children, and the kids are only too eager to try and taste everything Western. They eat Western food, drink bucket loads of Coca-Cola and eat Western candy. Their bodies are not used to processing so much non-Japanese cuisine and are unable to cope with the Western overload. The turbulence only makes thing worse, and these kids soon enter their own world of pain.
    The toilet queues grow. The turbulence increases. The perfect storm that’s still raging outside is turning more destructive by the second. There are over a dozen sick adults and as many children now desperate to use a toilet. The aircraft is shaking quite violently, and as much as these people need a toilet, they can’t use one. The seatbelt sign comes on.
    â€˜Everybody, please take your seats while the seatbelt sign is illuminated,’ I try to yell in the most non-threatening voice I can manage. I feel so sorry for these people. I can see the morose look on the faces of those sitting near the B.O. source as they return to their seats. They would rather risk possible physical injury from the turbulence than return to their stench-effected seats – I can’t blame them for feeling that way. I’m sitting near the stink bomb as well, and I feel the exact same way. The passengers have no choice, but to sit down. I have no choice, but to sit down.
    My smelling sensors have become so badly violated that I am becoming somewhat immune to the disgusting smells. Even so, I sit in numbed silence. ‘God, I hope this ends soon,’ I whisper under my breath repeatedly.
    The seatbelt light stays on for what feels like an eternity. That gives me plenty of time to contemplate the gravity of the situation and the cause of most of it. Everyone in the back few rows has been sick except for the man with the worst body odor in the history of bad body odors. Is there no justice? Where is karma when you need it?
    The amount of time it takes for someone to vomit is inversely proportionate to the time it takes to clean it up. When the turbulence subsides and the seatbelt sign is finally turned off, the crew work overtime to clean up the mess, and that mess is everywhere. I wish we could send someone into the toilets wearing a full protective body-suit, like they do when people enter toxic waste areas. All we have are wafer-thin disposable gloves. The air-freshening sprays onboard have all been used already. The B.O. man is wearing them as cologne.
    Cleaning the violated toilets is too graphic a process to describe here. Regardless, they still have to be cleaned. It is probably the worst part of our job. There is no point complaining – it just has to be done. The first toilet I clean is in the mid-cabin. Fortunately the mid-cabin toilets are not as badly violated as the ones in the back are.
    As I walk to those rear toilets, I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. I used to feel the same way when, as a child, I was being taken to the dentist. I dreaded the experience, but I knew there was no way to get out of doing it.
    When I do return to the back toilets, the one located behind the B.O. man is occupied. I explain to the queuing passengers that I need to go inside to clean it for them. Of course, they understand.
    One passenger even says, ‘You poor dear.’
    As the toilet door opens, I see that the B.O. man is getting off his seat and stepping into the aisle. He rudely pushes past several passengers