FlyGirl - The First Edition

Chapter 29: Stewardess School

ALEX WAS ALL cheerful the next morning, just like a guy who hadn't threatened to institutionalize me. I ignored him and took an Uber to the TransGlobal training facility in the new World Trade Center.

Once there, the security guard check me in and directed me to a nearby classroom. I walked in and started to gag. The noxious smell of fake designer purses filled the room.

I took a quick gander around the room; sure enough, on practically every desk was a purse or accessory that screamed copyright infringement. Clearly my fellow TransGlobal trainees had taken a trip down to Canal Street, the home of designer knock offs.

I was not surprised. Going to Canal street was kind of an out-of-towner thing, like riding the Big Bus tours or going to the Statue of Liberty. I'd only been once or twice myself, but that's because Little Italy's a couple of blocks over and my fiance has still has ties to the community there.

This made me wonder if I was the only local. I heard someone yell in a loud, grating Texan accent, "Y'all. Stop! Y'aaaalllll."

I think I was. I was the only local.

Freaking copyright criminals. Don't they respect intellectual property rights? Don't they know that copyright infringement is not a victimless...whoa. Was that Chloe purse a knock-off or original? My feet began moving me towards it...and then I mentally slapped myself.

What do I need fakes for? I don't. I can buy the real thing. Hell, I probably have the real thing. I turned my back on temptation and claimed a desk on the far right of the room. On my right sat a haughty looking Latin dude. I nodded at him. "S'up?"

The Latin dude studied me closely, then nodded at my purse. "Is that real?" His accent was Castilian; his disdain was tangible.

"Is what real?" I looked around. Was he seeing something I wasn't?

"Your purse. Is it real?"

I touched it. "It feels real to me. It's definitely not imaginary." I felt around it. "It feels solid. Things aren't falling out. Therefore, I'm going to firmly state that yes, it is in fact, real."

He muttered something in Spanish and turned his back to me. Since I'm not the type to be easily dismissed, I tapped him on the shoulder. "What's up with the knock-offs?"

"They went to Canal Street yesterday," he sneered. "They're very...American."

"Yeah, those Americans. Am I right? I'm right, right?" I stuck out my hand. "I'm Siobhan, by the way. I hail from the great Midwestern state of Iowa, the birthplace of John Wayne and the only state with vowels as its first and last letters."

He looked down at my hand with scorn, and then slowly panned back up to my face. "Jorge," he answered without shaking it.

I kept it out there. "In America we traditionally greet each other with a handshake, Jorge."

He shifted in his chair, gave my hand the most minimal of shakes, and turned his back to me. Damn. If that's what passes for friendly here, I'm in like Flynn. "So where you from, Jorge?"

"Madrid." I noticed the extra roll on the "r" for emphasis.

"¡Bienvenido a los Estados Unidos, amigo!" I exclaimed with a strong pat on the back. "Donde esta la biblioteca!"

He glanced back at me, eyes flashing, hateful retort poised on his lisping lips, but before he could spew his bile the doors of the training room opened with a bang.

There she was. Frances. The BFF I made during my TransGlobal interview a couple of months back. With her coal black hair, pale blue eyes, and pale skin, she still reminded me of Snow White. Rather, she reminded me of a pornographic Snow White, because the woman had an amazing rack and a saucy attitude towards indiscriminate sex.