I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.

I knew he was full of shit...

I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.

Subject: An FCE.

Dear Mr. Weston,

My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.

Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.

An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.

I truly hope you’ll enjoy flying for us.

Dr. Owens

Chief of Personnel Affairs, Elite Airways

I opened the attached document and only managed to read through the first paragraph.

Son of a bitch...

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Six years ago...

Oh, New York!

New York, New York, New York!

Everyone in my family warned me about you, this city. They said you’d lure me here with your dazzling lights and glittering billboards, with the sweet scent of success that wafts through every open window on Wall Street, and with the high hopes and dreams that flow up and down the Hudson River.

Then they said you’d pull me deep into those waters and drown me...

“You won’t survive a month there,” my mother said. “It’s only for the people who actually have something going for themselves.”

“You don’t have what it takes and you never will,” my oldest sister said.

“Just don’t get mad when we say, ‘We told you so,’ when you beg us to come back.” My father sent me those words via text message the day I left. Then he added, “You’ll definitely be back, Gillian. After a month at most.”

Well, I’ve survived more than a month. It’s been SIX MONTHS, and I’ve proved the three of them (and everyone else in my discouraging family) wrong. Dead. Ass. Wrong.

At only twenty-three years old, I’m living my wildest dreams. I’m staying across the street from Central Park in a fully furnished Lexington Avenue apartment, having weekly coffeehouse dates with nice guys who actually believe in chivalry and romance, and working at one of the most revered places in all of Manhattan. (Yes, I’m mainly making very lengthy coffee runs and drowning in endless hours of grunt work, but this is the place I’ve wanted to work since I was thirteen years old, so I don’t care.)

And if that isn’t enough, just this morning, I received some amazing ‘this-can’t-be-my-life’ news that I can’t share just yet. Nonetheless, I have a feeling I’ll be writing about that soon.

Until then, I simply wanted to start anew with a fresh blog since my previous one died from neglect. What better way to begin than by saying life couldn’t be any better right now?

I hope this never changes.

Write later,

Gillian Taylor

Gillian

G.T.

T.G.

TayG

**Taylor G.**

No comments posted.

GATE A3

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

Present Day

I think I hate my life...

“Have a great day in New York City!” I smiled as the first class passengers walked past me and stepped off the plane. “Thank you so much for flying with Elite Airways! Enjoy the Big Apple!”

“Hope you enjoyed flying with us today!” The other flight attendant onboard, Christina, joined me in the farewells. “We sure enjoyed having you!”

One of these days, I was actually going to believe the gleeful words that came out of my mouth at landing, but today was not that day. Even though all of the passengers on this flight were quite polite, today’s trip was nothing more than a repeat of every flight I’d been assigned over the past year. It was a reminder that I wasn’t a ‘real’ flight attendant yet, that I was still on ‘reserve.’ Still trying to figure out when the promises in the monthly employee magazine would come true for me.

Every third Sunday, like clockwork, that glossy “How We Fly” magazine arrived in my mailbox—taunting me with broken promises and pretty pictures, reminding me of all the reasons I’d first applied. It was the idea of traveling to places like London, Milan, and Tokyo within the same month. The high possibilities of traipsing across vineyards and countryside roads on my days off. And also, the slightly vain wish of walking through the airports in one of their famous blue uniform dresses and custom airline-issued Louboutin heels, looking just like the glamorous women in the commercials.

Alas, I missed the fine print. There was only a “chance” of flying to beautiful places night after night. The only “traipsing” occurred in the five steps from the airport shuttle van to the stopover hotel. And until I was off reserve status, I would continue to receive last minute, short trips while the flight attendants with seniority picked all the best routes first.

“Is it me, or is this the slowest group of passengers you’ve ever seen?” Christina muttered under her breath.

“They’re definitely the slowest.” I noticed that rows fifteen through thirty had yet to open their overhead bins.

I am definitely going to be late tonight...

“Have the schedulers finally allowed you to bid on lines or are you still on reserve, Gillian?” she asked.

“Reserve.”

“Really?” It’s been a year since I last saw you and you’re still on reserve?” She looked as if she didn’t believe me. “Don’t tell me they’re still giving you that, ‘Wait until we finish all of our mergers’ excuse.”

I gave her a depressed look and she laughed.

“Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, at least you actually live in New York. You don’t have to share a crash pad with a bunch of other reserve attendants that you don’t know.”

“I guess...” I said dryly, and she shot me a sympathetic smile.

We remained at the front of the plane for what felt like forever, keeping our voices cheery and light as the hockey team at the rear continued to move like molasses.

When the last player finally exited the plane, I grabbed my bag, said a quick goodbye to the pilot and Christina, and raced through the jet bridge. I had exactly twenty minutes to catch the next bus to Manhattan.

Emerging into Terminal 7, I rushed past gate after gate, dodging hordes of travelers with every step. As I ran, the numerous restaurant signs, gift shop displays, and coffee stands all became a bright blur. The conversations between tourists, the arguments between gate agents, and the announcements from the speakers were all background noise. All I could hear was the sound of my heels clacking against the newly buffed floors.