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Smiling days with rich, famous

Years ago, I spent more than five hours locked up with The Everly Brothers. And they never sang me a single song.

They could have, I suppose, but I think they wanted to recline in their first-class seats for some well-earned rest. They were just plum tuckered out after an evening of singing “Wake Up Little Susie” and “Dream, Dream, Dream.”

That was in the 60’s, when I was a stewardess. Our popular midnight flight from New York to Los Angeles saved many performers another day flying back to the coast. Don and Phil Everly were a delight to have on board, not just because they were world famous, but they were polite young men. Their parents had done a good job.

I couldn’t get over how young they looked. I learned later they were two and four years older than me, and yet I felt like their mother. Well, at least a big sister. They reacted to each conversation like shy high school boys.

When I suggested cocktails, or asked how they wanted their filet mignon cooked, they blushed. When we offered steaming hot towels before dining, it was obviously new to them. Don looked up at me, confused, “It’s just a nice fresher-upper before dinner.” I explained, giving him the big, friendly American Airlines smile. He turned beet red.

CBS Sunday Morning profiled the Everly Brothers’ career last weekend, and it brought back a flood of memories from the night of that trip. I learned in Operations that they were going to be on our flight.

They were boarded early, in the last row of the first-class cabin. A common procedure, this allowed them to get settled before the passenger onslaught. They sat quietly reading magazines, and I didn’t think the average passenger even noticed them. But a few did.

The coach passengers who recognized them talked it up, were widely overheard. Pretty soon, passengers were coming to the cabin bulkhead to peek around the divider curtain. Mostly women, they checked out the guys, grinned and tittered, and handed the curtain over to the next peeper.

This was not unusual with recognizable celebrities on board. We tried, as much as possible, to see that they had a comfortable flight without interruptions. While most of them didn’t mind being recognized, they enjoyed more being “just folks” for a cocktail, dinner and a movie. No fawning, no gushing. We treated them nicely, but normally, the same as any other passengers.

A few, however, were dismissive of anything we tried to do. Joan Crawford, the tyrannical Oscar-winning actress, was married to the president of Pepsi. The morning we were advised that she would be onboard, the catering boss himself changed our soft drink supply, replacing all Coca-Cola products with Pepsi’s brands. I quickly learned that American had dealt with Miss Crawford before.

When she approached her last row seat, she reached for her name tag on top of the seatback. In those days, first-class passengers’ names were pinned next to the linen headrest. She pulled hers off, and rather than hand it to me, threw it on the floor. Imperious didn’t begin to describe her.

My flying partner and I continued to smile as we filled her demands for that morning’s Wall Street Journal, L.A. Times, and extra pillows. No problem. However, she was furious that she couldn’t have a glass of champagne until we backed off the gate. We just kept smiling.

But she saved her best salvo for cocktail time before lunch. Having taken orders for Bloody Mary’s and martinis, when I reached her row, I asked, “Miss Crawford, what is your pleasure?”

She replied, “My pleasures are none of your business.” For a second, I thought she was being funny – quick-witted. She wasn’t. I recovered and asked her what she would like to drink.

“A Coke,” she said. Aha, I thought, the beverage replacements were on target.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Crawford, but I can offer you only a Pepsi.” That was what she wanted to hear. She took the Pepsi and a mixed drink. She never touched the Pepsi. It was merely a power play. I could only imagine the phone call that the Food and Beverage Vice President received following a flight that offered her only Cokes.

This type of celebrity encounter was rare – a complete contrast to the type of polite men the Everly Brothers were.

We all acquired coping skills dealing with the narcissists, celebrities or not. We truly appreciated meeting the nice ones who put their pants on one leg a time, just like the rest of us.

Sometimes I regret never asking for an autograph, but I never wanted to alter the gracious experience we offered.

As the Everly brothers deplaned, I shook hands with them both, laughingly saying, “Bye, Bye, Love,” the title of their greatest hit. They laughed too.

And then they blushed.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.

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