My day would start at 4:15 am, barely waking up from my buzzing alarm clock. Outside pitch black, lights turned off on most apartments, the birds not even up, the shining moon blocked by the chimney smoke of some apartment. I’d grab a quick breakfast, but only enough time for a banana. I’d wash up and change, give a friendly good morning to the same overnight doorman, and walk in the deserted streets to the subway station for an hour and a half to two hour ride. I’d stare at my reflection from the window across from me, and see myself in my black coat and button-down shirt, and a homeless person wearing a navy, Gap hoodie with the stitching worn off, his back hunched, hood up, dreaming away with a shopping wagon filled with bags of empty bottles. A paperback that I was halfway through was in my bag, but before I knew it, my eyes would close, consumed by sleep as the train continued to rattle against the tracks to Sutphin Boulevard, Archer Avenue, JFK.
You’d never really get to know what it feels like to work as a passenger service representative until you’re there, at the scene, behind the counter, wearing the uniform. Granted, it’s a stressful duty, waking up in the ungodly hours at dawn, commuting back and forth for two hours, dealing with passengers who beg for that aisle seat, standing for hours on end, developing blisters on your feet. But as an agent, you had access to areas you never got to see as a regular passenger. The rest area for the crew, the cockpit, post security checkpoint, the jet bridge. You had a briefing with the chief purser, and made terminal-wide announcements, cringing at hearing your own voice resonating throughout the hall. You got to check-in and escort occasional celebrities, company executives, and public figures, ranging from Steve Bannon to Gigi Hadid to Kiko Mizuhara.
You had the opportunity to man the front desk at the airline lounge, giving first and business class passengers access or denying them access. Once you took a stroll around the lounge, making a quick once-over, the people you let in were there, slurping on the noodles you gave them, reading the newspaper you offered them. You had the power because it was in a sense, your lounge. The microphone system was plopped right on the desk, as you had the power to make announcements and page people.
During training, I never thought I’d make it through. At the initial interview, my manager told me it would take at least six months to get acquainted with the job, as the computer system was difficult, and a year to be able to navigate around the airport alone. Come ten months later and he was right. There was so much to remember, so many tests and quizzes to pass, trainings to attend, background checks to undergo, and a wealth of company and airport rules and regulations to implement to the job.
But the stress and fury of information paid off. I managed to get by, and work without much trouble. I went from an anxious trainee in a generic suit to being dressed in the proper airline uniform, checking in VIP passengers with relative ease. In general, trainees were eligible to wear the uniform after they passed the check-in final training. I’ve seen my junior colleagues acquiring the same skills, and improving the same way, from the suit to the uniform, and that’s one of the gems of being a senior staff—what you taught them became a benchmark for their success.
Using my own judgement to satisfy passengers was one of the paramount things I’ve learned as a passenger service agent. Before they asked, I’d bump them up to business class if they were eligible. If they had a middle seat, I’d offer them an aisle if available. Customer interaction. The privilege of having the chance to communicate with them, to put a smile on their faces. After all, I represented the airline.
*
She was the first I told about leaving the company in person. A coworker two years my junior, she had a rather bubbly personality, and had dimples whenever she brimmed in a smile or broke into a laugh. We had the same off days, and we happened to meet in the evening one night. We were on our way to a restaurant, and surrounding the block were convenience stores, a New York Sports Club, among other bars and restaurants.
“Whaat?” she exclaimed. “You, Sean, are leaving?”
“I thought about it for a long time,” I said. In sheer reflex, I almost came to a halt, but we resumed walking. “But that’s what it’s come to be.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I looked at her eyes.
She seemed disturbed and upset, in disbelief, her eyes looked as if it welled up in tears, but it could be just from the reflection from the incoming car lights. We kept walking and the block started to become eerily hushed. There were minimal lights, a parking lot and residential homes surrounding us. The stores and restaurants we’d passed already. An unwelcome, bitter windchill blew toward us.
“I’m sure a lot of us are going to be sad,” she said. “I’m glad we get to hang out today.”
“It’s not like I’m going to leave the country,” I said. “I’ll be around.”
She laughed. “Right. Oh, that’s right.”
*
A lot of my coworkers worked here because they wanted to gain an experience in the airport business. Some wanted to work as a ground staff in the future, others aspired to become a flight attendant. My time with them was not limited at the office; we’d have dinner, talk about the day’s passengers over some drinks, and even throw a few strikes at the bowling alley. Yet as they were OPT (Optional Practical Training) workers, most were only here in the U.S. for a year at most. Just when I would become close with them, they’d leave back to Japan, right when we’re about to segue into the core of the friendship. There was an impermanency, like a teacher seeing their students graduate year after year. Yet this one year experience for them would bloom ultimately, and the rate of scoring a solid job back in Japan, whether it be a flight attendant, ground staff, or anything their mind could think of, would boost upwards. For me, it was pursuing a different career, a full-time career. Familiarity was comforting, but at times, a new setting, a new path to get your foot in was just as necessary.
“Always look to better yourself, to go for better opportunities,” one of my colleagues said.
Yet for me, I’ve been a sucker for airplanes and aviation since youth—I’ve loved everything about the airplane, from the views of the sky from the oval window, to the idiosyncratic smell of the cabin, to the sound of the engine starting up. I’ve always been appreciative of the mechanical whirring of the flaps just before landing, the soothing cabin attendant announcements notifying us the door had closed, incoming turbulence as the cabin rumbled, and to please stow our tray tables and seat back positions to the proper, upright position because the plane was expected to land in fifteen. The airport, in addendum, had always given me the vibe that I was going somewhere and that itself excited me. Thus, leaving this job was like bidding farewell to my lover, my crush, however my passion for this field would never leave me.
“Then why don’t you marry a flight attendant?” a veteran coworker once told me.
“But they’re always abroad,” I said.
“That’s perfect,” she laughed. “Otherwise you’ll hate each other so much.”
I once received an origami devil from a flight attendant one day, expecting to find her number inside. As I unfolded it, nothing was written.
*
Come my last day, I’d made my final speech in the office during debriefing, and tears welled up on some of my coworker’s eyes as soon as I shed a tear, unconsciously. My supervisors sat with me during lunch, my manager sat with me after work, wishing me the very best in my future, sighing every now and then. Usually I’d see him on the phone or typing something up on the computer, but at that moment, he was ensconced on the chair right next to me, with nothing before him, just himself, two arms resting on the side. Deep within him, I knew he was sad—everyone was—as he recited my name, quietly, on and on. It’s a very difficult job, as you look back, he said. A lot of people, after they finish their time here, they’d start to realize, for the first time, how much they went through.
For a moment, I thought of the time when I had to say goodbye to my relatives at the airport in Japan. I was going through the same emotions, the same melancholy feeling, where everyone was staying except me. They were showering me with gifts, treating me with the upmost care, offering to buy me cake, taking pictures with me, drawing my mascot character and thanking me on the briefing sheet.
Even if they had work the next day in the crack of dawn, my closest coworkers attended and threw a mini party for me. And one by one, we hugged and departed. There’s always a memory, a gem in everything, no matter how strenuous the job was. This office shared an amazing teamwork and camaraderie. It was the first time I saw, in my own eyes, just what teamwork meant. There was a reason All Nippon Airways was ranked a five-star airline. No other other airline would stay at the arrivals hall to arrange the baggage claim to make it easier for passengers to grab, to stay until all the passengers had cleared customs, to thank each and every passenger at the gate, to scour around the terminal to make sure everyone had boarded, all on top with tremendous care and politeness.
I was pushing back to a new phase in my life. And the memory I had will forever be chiseled in my conscious grasp.
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