Jumpseating -- the practice of bumming a ride aboard a human mailing
tube headed somewhere you need to go -- is one of the time-honored
institutions of the airline industry. Some use their privileges to commute,
others to move around on company business. But, in the right hands, it's
really more of an art. Come along for the ride as AVweb contributor Ken
Cubbin tells all in this humorous look at scheduled hitchhiking.
"Fella!"
"Fella!"
"Fella! ... won't you give me the jumpseat? Please?"
You
stand crestfallen as the gate agent informs you that there is already a
jumpseater listed.
"But ... I coulda been a contender."
It's true that most of us don't have Marlon Brando's thespian abilities (or
girth), but it goes without saying that each of us exhibits the same degree of
passion and desperation when it comes to asking for the jumpseat.
Tread Softly And Carry A Big Pen
Every day, in every major and many minor airports around the country,
micro-dramas play out. I have seen normally gruff individuals charm, beseech,
dramatize, and yes, even plead for mercy when trying to beguile a gate agent
into accommodating his or her request. As Shakespeare wrote in As You Like
It: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely
players..."
The whole jumpseating experience is a dynamic process of different
procedures for each airline and a myriad of uncomfortable interpersonal
interactions. Do I wait my turn in line with passengers seeking seat
assignment? Will the gate agent be irritated if I ask for a form while he or
she is seemingly overwhelmed? Perhaps I need to go down to this airline's
flight operations? Shoot! Who do I need to escort me?
Does this gate agent look -- insert as appropriate -- nice, angry,
disgruntled, disheveled, happy, courteous? Having decided on a particular
approach, we assume our character and step up to the podium. The power is held
by the gate agent -- a fact that does not escape some of the more
uncooperative ones. And the pilot, who is used to being in control, has to
accept that in this situation, the decision of whether or not he or she will
get the jumpseat will be made by someone else. Someone who has two million
things to do in too little time and under constant duress. Approach the podium
in the wrong manner; display the wrong attitude, demand too much attention and
you are going to find that it's not such a good idea to be pushy.
First step is to get to fill out the form. Once the form is filled out and
no other jumpseater shows up with higher authority to ride than you, the prize
is near. But we haven't gotten past the gate agent yet.
Chaos Theory...
For
men, we are now in familiar -- although uncomfortable -- territory. For we,
simply by being male, are used to playing our part in life's black-comedy
every time we try to get a date. In the mating game, power -- absolute,
undiluted and indivisible -- rests with the woman. Through the years we try to
learn the rules although, ultimately, understanding women -- at least for most
men -- remains as remote a concept as quantum physics. And asking for a date,
from teenage years to adulthood, remains excruciatingly uncomfortable.
Quantum physics ...yes, that's it! There is a pattern to what appears to be
general chaos. This has to be the key to understanding women! Now all I have
to do is figure out the pattern. Oops ... the light just went out. Never mind,
where was I?
Ah, yes ... the gate agent.
I find that courtesy and manners work better than charm and brevity. The
working life of a gate agent is arduous and most often unappreciated; the
least I can do is to take as little of his or her precious time as possible
and say, "please" and "thank you." Believe me, those two
words are too seldom heard by everybody, but especially by gate agents.
...Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...
For most airlines, it is preferred that you wait until most, if not all,
paying passengers have boarded. Therefore, we linger a while longer around the
departure lounge. People watch. The drama continues.
Uh-oh! Who's that running to the gate with a look of desperation on
his face? Is that a pilot of this airline going to bump me out of the
jumpseat?
Unconsciously, you are holding your breath while waiting for the axe to
fall. Whew! He was a passenger whose flight had arrived late from Chicago.
Exhale.
As you pass the gate agent and pass onto the airplane, you relax. At last,
familiar territory. People, not only of the same profession, but of the same
mindset. Most cabin crewmembers and pilots have traveled this same road. We
are the dislocated -- well, from work at least -- and the fellowship of
commuters embraces members with help and empathy.
So ends Act I. Well, not really. It ain't over yet.
...Plans B, C and D
The
airplane still has to depart without interruption such as a mechanical
problem, ATC delay, bad weather or other operational problem. And we all find
out the hard way that when things go wrong, you had better have an alternate
plan up your sleeve; Plan B.
Most physicists have never heard of Newton's Law of Commuting. It states:
When a disruption occurs to an airline's scheduled service, the effect will be
infectious to other airlines on a cumulative basis. Of course there are some
logical reasons for this law; for example, all the passengers delayed from
your canceled flight must be accommodated on other airlines. However, there
are also inexplicable disruptions that occur concurrently. Mystical forces
work against you. Airline A has a mechanical; airline B's flight from Memphis
is delayed; a flight attendant doesn't show up for his or her flight on
airline C; a storm front moves into the Midwest -- you get the idea. Of
course, by some obscene twist of fate, all these problems occur one after the
other. While you stand there fat, dumb and happy with your duly-signed
jumpseat authority in hand, it all goes to hell in a hand basket. That's when
Plan C comes into effect. Every experienced commuter knows you gotta have a
Plan C.
Plan C involves jumpseating to an alternate airport with the hope that you
will be able to jumpseat to your primary destination from that point. Maybe
Newton's Law of Commuting has not yet been complied with in this part of the
country. Yet. So, instead of jumpseating from Atlanta to Los Angeles, maybe
you opt for Phoenix instead. Wisely, you realize that there are many flights
from Phoenix to LAX operated by America West and Southwest Airlines.
Therefore, your chances of getting the jumpseat will be higher than if you had
opted for say, San Francisco where United Airlines pretty much owns the route
to Los Angeles. Keep as many options open as possible; that's the commuter's
creed.
If plan C fails there is only one option left: Panic, otherwise known as
plan D. If you reach plan D, you are in deep doo-doo. In fact, that's what the
"D" in Plan D stands for.
Self-inflicted Torture?
Of
course, it is only necessary to panic if you aren't going to show for a duty
flight. If you can't get home, your family will be disappointed and you will
feel irritated, but no great harm will be done. Of course, there will always
be the wrath of your spouse or the disappointment of your son or daughter
because you missed their recital. In more lucid moments, we commuters are
often found mumbling to ourselves: "Why am I doing this?" What makes
an otherwise-sane individual decide to live hundreds, if not thousands, of
miles away from his base?
Well, as most of us already know, usually that decision is made for us.
Either by an employer who decides that it's necessary to transfer to
such-and-such base in order to climb the seniority/equipment ladder -- and you
don't want to have to move every few years -- or by other factors. For those
of you not acquainted with other factors, let me sum it up in one word:
Family. We do extraordinary things for the people we love (or, in some cases,
fear).
Family factors include: Spouses with close familial ties to certain areas (gotta
love the mother-in-law); spouses with better jobs than we have (why are we
still working?); kids in school (won't they ever leave home?); real estate
inequalities (buy high, sell low is not preferable); visitation rights
(dispossessed kids) and many other subjective reasons. For most, the decision
is logical but, for me, I chose to live on the east coast when my base is in
Los Angeles. Therefore, that places me in the category normally eligible for
the insane asylum. Even my fellow commuters are incredulous as to why I have
made life so difficult for myself. I hope my medical examiner's not reading
this!
Glitter Gulch To Greensboro
So, many of you are probably wondering why I up and moved way across the
country to North Carolina when my base is Los Angeles. I'm glad you asked.
Well, not really, but I'll answer the question as coherently as I can.
I
fall into the category of "doing it for my family." But not because
we wanted to live in the same city as other relatives. Instead, ours was a
quest for a great place in which to raise our son. We think of it as an
investment in his future. Zack, the heir apparent (apparently not heir to
much) was reaching the age where we needed to get established in an area that
we thought offered the best mix of family-oriented values, education and
future job opportunities. (Not only for him; my wife and I may also need
employment.) Call me crazy, but we thought that Las Vegas didn't offer all the
qualities desirable for family life. Not unless you want your son to learn how
to play a slot machine while you do the shopping at the grocery store.
Not that Las Vegas doesn't have its fair share of youth clubs and other
kid-related venues -- there are, after all, the "blackjack for
tots," "keno for kids," "so-you-thought-your-mom-and-dad-had-the-money-for-you-to-go-to-college"
programs -- but the standard of morals in Lost Wages is pretty well
personified by the images of partially-naked women that adorn almost every cab
in the city.
Unless my son intends to be either a proctologist or gynecologist, there is
no earthly need for him to be spying buxom women at every turn in the road.
Unfortunately, my wife also told me that I didn't need to see them. Amazing
how insightful women are with these things isn't it? So we moved to
Greensboro, North Carolina. Lock, stock and barrel.
For those of you wondering how we settled on Greensboro for a place to
live, I cannot begin to explain without diagrams, charts and a discussion of
historical weather patterns. But I will say that we looked all over the
country before choosing. Of course, for each of us, the choice of where we
live is subjective. And just as well, or you might all move here to
Greensboro. I certainly don't need any more competition for the jumpseat,
thank you very much!
Pilots' Club
Only
we -- the fraternity of commuters -- understand the need to travel afar in
order to perform the functions of our daily toil. We are joined by a
commonality of hardship endured for either love and stability of our family or
quest for promotion. We are partners in our quest for the venerable jumpseat.
At least, that's the way it is, until we get to the departure gate; then, the
primitive instincts of survival take over.
It's as if every pilot in the world has been marked with an indelible
"P" on his or her forehead: We know each other. And when a pilot is
trying to jumpseat, there's a scent of desperation and need that permeates any
departure lounge. So real is this effect that often you sense rather than
cognitively realize that another jumpseater has just entered the hunting
ground. Like bad spies out of a Maxwell Smart episode (didn't the bad guys
work for KAOS? Hmmm ... there's that chaos theory thing again...), jumpseaters
sit in the departure lounge, pretending to read the paper, but with their
radar tuned for human beings with the letter P on their forehead, secretly
keeping an eye on everyone who walks up to the check-in counter.
Is that another pilot? Does she have a pass? Will I get bumped? Oh,
man! I see a P on her forehead! No, wait! That's just a lock of hair.
But
because we as jumpseaters have a common bond, we each look out for the other
guy. The unselfishness of airline pilots in this quid pro quo adventure
never ceases to amaze me.
"Oh no ... you have to get there by one o'clock ... you take the
jumpseat. I'll take the next flight."
"You need the jumpseat? I've got a pass, let me use that and you take
the cockpit."
And, through the good graces of fellow pilots, we board and travel to our
base or home. One, two, three, or in my case, six hours to and from work. And
why? Don't ask me. In this chaotic world, all of us, relying on each other,
have made a pattern out of the madness. If you're every down in Greensboro, be
sure to look me up. I'm the one the neighbors all point at while they shake
their heads.
To all those pilots who have given me the jumpseat and for all those who
I'll approach in the future, I say, "Thank you and God bless." See
you at the gate. You'll recognize me: I'm the one with the big "P"
on my forehead.
Ken Cubbin is a flight engineer for "a major international airline," presently
based in North Carolina. He is an Australian who began his career with
Qantas more than 25 years ago. When not performing cockpit duties for
"a major international airline," Ken pursues a second career as a
writer, devotes time to his wife and four-year-old son, and studies for his
MBA degree.
Email this article
You
stand crestfallen as the gate agent informs you that there is already a
jumpseater listed.
For
men, we are now in familiar -- although uncomfortable -- territory. For we,
simply by being male, are used to playing our part in life's black-comedy
every time we try to get a date. In the mating game, power -- absolute,
undiluted and indivisible -- rests with the woman. Through the years we try to
learn the rules although, ultimately, understanding women -- at least for most
men -- remains as remote a concept as quantum physics. And asking for a date,
from teenage years to adulthood, remains excruciatingly uncomfortable.
The
airplane still has to depart without interruption such as a mechanical
problem, ATC delay, bad weather or other operational problem. And we all find
out the hard way that when things go wrong, you had better have an alternate
plan up your sleeve; Plan B.
Of
course, it is only necessary to panic if you aren't going to show for a duty
flight. If you can't get home, your family will be disappointed and you will
feel irritated, but no great harm will be done. Of course, there will always
be the wrath of your spouse or the disappointment of your son or daughter
because you missed their recital. In more lucid moments, we commuters are
often found mumbling to ourselves: "Why am I doing this?" What makes
an otherwise-sane individual decide to live hundreds, if not thousands, of
miles away from his base?
I
fall into the category of "doing it for my family." But not because
we wanted to live in the same city as other relatives. Instead, ours was a
quest for a great place in which to raise our son. We think of it as an
investment in his future. Zack, the heir apparent (apparently not heir to
much) was reaching the age where we needed to get established in an area that
we thought offered the best mix of family-oriented values, education and
future job opportunities. (Not only for him; my wife and I may also need
employment.) Call me crazy, but we thought that Las Vegas didn't offer all the
qualities desirable for family life. Not unless you want your son to learn how
to play a slot machine while you do the shopping at the grocery store.
Only
we -- the fraternity of commuters -- understand the need to travel afar in
order to perform the functions of our daily toil. We are joined by a
commonality of hardship endured for either love and stability of our family or
quest for promotion. We are partners in our quest for the venerable jumpseat.
At least, that's the way it is, until we get to the departure gate; then, the
primitive instincts of survival take over.
But
because we as jumpseaters have a common bond, we each look out for the other
guy. The unselfishness of airline pilots in this quid pro quo adventure
never ceases to amaze me.
