Station Breaker

28 The Frat

I spot my prey from across the street as they get out of a van laughing at some inside joke. Dressed in navy blue suits with their jackets over their arms or tucked into their small suitcases, they enter the Hotel Solara as a pack.

It's a nice place, not too touristy. It's more of an executive hotel close enough to all the good bars and restaurants. It's exactly the kind of location where I knew I would find them: An international airline flight crew.

I know their ways. I know their language.

Sometimes the pilots mingle with the flight attendants, sometimes they don't. This looks like a mixed group, which is good for me.

Infiltrating them is tricky. If you just go straight at them, they'll assume you're trying to screw the hot redhead the co-pilot has a thing for. You'll run into the alpha male, almost always the pilot, and get shut down right away.

Worst is when the most senior flight attendant, a woman who stopped getting passes before this century, decides to cock block you out of jealousy. She'll make you a pariah and signal to the group that you're some desperate loner that shouldn't be approached. Even if the redhead liked you, she doesn't want to risk fifteen hours trapped with a woman implying every way possible that she's a slut.

This takes a delicate approach. I learned this when I was an eager college student desperate to fly in the jump seat or get free travel to other parts of the world.

I learned the master approach to these tribes and how to become one of them.

It doesn't work every time, because they don't always have what you need, but when they do, it's golden. You're in.

While the alpha male and the alpha female of the pack protect them from outsiders, there's one person whose job is to bring novelty and excitement to the group: Their social secretary. The gay male flight attendant. If he's black, it's even better.

Yes, it's a cliche, but if you grow up black and gay in white circles you have to learn real quickly how to defuse prejudices and read the room.

He's the tallest one of the group. Early thirties. As he walks through the doors with the others, he exchanges a big laugh with the silver-haired captain.

This is good. Real good. It's a team that likes to fly together. One happy family. If one of them is cool with you, they will all be.

Their plan is going to be to go up to their rooms, get changed, then meet back in the hotel bar in a half hour where they're going to decide where to go to dinner. If it was earlier in the day, there would have been a high chance that they would splinter off into different groups — the flight attendants going shopping and the pilots to the beach to read.

This late, they all just want to get a drink, get something to eat, and for a couple of them, possibly get laid.

I just want a ride back to America.

I make my way to the hotel bar, check my appearance in the mirror and make sure that my tan hasn't sweated onto my collar.

I order a Diet Coke because it looks like it might be a hard drink and rehearse my story in my head. The bartender seems pretty disinterested in me as he goes about doing a bottle count.

There's a television in the corner that's playing some talk show with the volume muted all the way down. Thankfully it's not the news.

I take a sip of my drink and watch as the co-pilot — the one with less silver hair — comes into the lounge and takes a seat and checks his phone. Two flight attendants come down a few minutes later, managing to change into suitable evening wear in less time than it takes me to get a tie on straight. These ladies are world travelers.

After the pilot takes his seat, the social secretary enters the room with a bombastic laugh, wondering aloud why he's always the last one down.

The pilot comments that it takes him so long to get his hair just right — which everyone laughs at because he's bald.

I'm hoping the social secretary will take everyone's drink orders and come to the bar where he'll make a sidelong glance at me and strike a conversation.

Instead, it's the pilot. He walks up, gives me a quick nod, places his order then returns to the group.

Damn it.

Now I'm going to have to try a different approach. I can still make this work.

I just need to think of a…

"Hey look!" says the social secretary, "It's that crazy asshole that hijacked the space station!"

Shoot me now.