Why I Will Never Accept a “Free” Upgrade to First-Class Ever Again

I was at my gate at LAX, waiting to board a flight back to Florida. I’d spent the week in the Los Angeles area completing flight attendant onboarding training for the charter company that hired me. Leaning against a post, I did what one does at an airport — people watch. 

A big presence came into my peripheral vision. The guy was over six feet tall and ripped, probably in his late thirties to early forties. He must have been an athlete and maintained himself well. His Chris Hemsworth-like physique was sure to grab any woman’s attention, but his fratboy vibes made him seem like Will Ferrell in Old School, which attracted dudes. I was more fascinated by his outfit. His white T-shirt and jeans were most definitely designer by the quality and cut of the fabric. However, his accessories were fucking weird.

He wore a mini backpack that seemed more fitting on the back of Cher in Clueless than on a grown-ass man. To make matters worse, the tween-esque backpack was bedazzled with shiny black spikes that sent off glittery sparkles under the harsh glow of the terminal’s fluorescent lights. His shoes matched. The loudness of his getup starkly contrasted my unassuming outfit of black leggings, a cropped white T-shirt, and white sneakers. My grey backpack had no crystals or bits of flair to call attention. My eyes moved from his dark sparkle backpack to his face.

I get how someone could find him attractive… but I can’t with that backpack. So ostentatious.

The gate agent announced that my flight was delayed, and I groaned. 

“What’s going on?” a voice asked loudly and forcefully, demanding attention. I turned to see Sparkly Backpack Man standing less than a foot from me, his chest puffing up, looking towards the gate. 

“Flight’s delayed an hour,” I responded. While his voice boomed, mine was calm and flat.

“Going back to the bar! Who’s coming with me?” He spun around and swaggered toward the tequila bar. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the drinking buddies he had attempted to call forth. I turned my gaze to my phone, withholding the attention he wanted. 

I used the hour delay to grab an iced latte from Starbucks and some snacks. Back at the gate, I shuffled through the line to scan my boarding pass. This is usually a mundane process, but Sparkly Backpack Man was behind me putting on a show. He cracked jokes with a guy beside him in line. He talked like he was trying to be heard over live music even though not a guitar or drumset was in sight. After every joke, he quickly scanned around him, seeing how people reacted and who he could draw into his performance. I couldn’t help but laugh as he flirted shamelessly with the gate agent. Noticing he had a new audience member, Sparkly Backpack Man started talking to me.

“What seat are you in?” He asked me after the initial banter died down.

“Umm…” I double-checked my seat assignment. “Thirty B.”

“Oh, ew.” His face screwed up like someone dropped something silent but deadly. “You’re back in gen pop.” 

This was my first time hearing the term ‘gen pop.’ It sounded like something the snotty, rich bitch teenage girl character would say to embarrass the sweet nerd girl from the working-class family in a high school rom-com. “Work is paying for my ticket.” I shrugged. “I’m flying for free. I can’t complain.” 

As we walked through first class, he stopped to put his suitcase in the overhead bin above his seat. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“I’m Claire. You?” I turned to look over my shoulder. 

“Luca.” 

“Well, it's nice to meet you, but I must continue to the peasant section.” I gave a dramatic sweep forward with my hand. “Have a nice flight.”

Luca laughed. “Enjoy gen pop.” 

I wasn’t worried about being in gen pop. I had a window seat, a playlist, snacks, and a book to read. I was completely settled and ready to hunker down for the five-hour flight, as were the two men in my row, when a flight attendant stopped by. They asked, “Excuse me. Are you Claire?”

“Yes.” What the fuck is going on? 

“A gentleman in first class has paid for a seat in first class for you. Please follow me.”

My row mates snapped their heads toward me and seemed to be analyzing my appearance to determine if I was hot enough to get a stranger to spend money on me—or I was the one sizing me up. 

“Oh! Okay.” I gulped. “Cool.” I hastily gathered my things and followed the flight attendant to first class, where the seat next to Luca was waiting for me. I thanked him and sat down. As soon as my bum hit the seat, a feeling of dread came over me. 

“Ya know, I figured it’s a long flight,” Luca said, “I need some entertainment, and you seemed fun, so I thought you could entertain me.”

Double fuck. My dread became panic. I don’t enjoy talking to strangers. After meeting me for the first time, most people describe me as ‘quiet and reserved’ and maybe even ‘standoffish.’ They’re not wrong. So being assigned as the personal clown for a giant attention-craving man-baby with a fondness for sparkly accessories for five fucking hours didn’t make me happy. I wish I was back in 30B, listening to Taylor Swift. I tried to think of a reason to return to my original seat, but nothing clever came to mind. I got a different idea. This will be practice for being a corporate flight attendant. He got you a better seat, so roll with it. I was ready to perform.

Fortunately, the flight attendant was a quick pourer, so the flowing vodka tonics helped me settle into my role as a charming flight companion. Luca told me about his former NFL career and how he now lived a bi-coastal life between Florida and California. He told me about the Italian side of his family and the Puerto Rican side. I snuck in a bit of astrology and figured out he was a Virgo like me. He thought our matching signs meant compatibility. I’ve never met a Virgo man who wasn’t off somehow, like a strange fondness for saliva, but this fact didn’t fit my character, so I kept it to myself.  I quipped, giggled, and ‘ooo’d and ‘ahh’d at all the right moments. My performance was stunning… too stunning.

With the first leg touches, my nerves set in. The contact was brief and low on the thigh, but there is something weirdly intimate and longing communicated when a man puts his hand on a woman’s leg. Then Luca threw in some playful stomach touches. Shit. Trapped in the chair next to him, I had limited options to squirm away. I knew I was fucked when he started calling me ‘babe.’ 

“Would you like to go to dinner with me Thursday night?”

We were only two hours into the flight. Can you imagine saying no to a date and then having to sit next to that person for hours? I had no choice. I had to accept but gave myself an out.

“The only thing is, I’m on call for work, so there’s a chance I might be put on a flight and won’t be able to go.” 

I didn’t get put on a flight, but another reason to cancel the date presented itself. My friend Brittany had a weekend getaway with a guy that ended in disaster. She cried on the phone, telling me all about it.

“Do you want to hang out tonight?” I asked. “I don’t give a fuck about this date with the plane guy. I’ll cancel it. We can just chill.”

She sniffed. “I have a better idea.” Her voice had a tone of determination. I knew I wouldn’t like her idea and that I wouldn’t be able to talk her out of it. “Get Luca to take us both out!” 

“What? Why?”

“We’re pretty cute girls and deserve to be taken out to nice dinners!” Brittany was a Florida native and was like my personal concierge, getting me accustomed to Floridian culture that was so foreign (and uncomfortable) to my Midwestern sensibilities… like how almost everyone does cocaine and men paying for everything is a right, not a privilege. 

“Ugh, I don’t know. Is a dinner actually gonna make you feel better about what happened?” 

“Text him! Text him right now.” 

“Fiiine.” 

I was nervous Luca would get mad that he wouldn’t have an enraptured audience of one. But he didn’t seem bothered. He said he would invite a friend along to make it a foursome. 

Once seated at the restaurant table, Luca said, “This was supposed to be our date.” His seafoam green eyes bored into me like he was holding my head underwater. All my relief that his outfit contained no sparkles sank into the pit of my stomach. He gripped my hands tightly and nodded toward his friend and Brittany. “Why are they here?” 

“I didn’t think it would be a big deal.” I was beyond flustered. “And you agreed to it.” I wanted his creepy sea demon eyes to look elsewhere, and the vice grip off me. 

When the waiter arrived, I picked up the menu. Once freed, I did my best to keep my body positioned away from him. Luca kept trying to lure me into sidebar conversations with just him, and I stubbornly redirected the conversation back to the whole table. Brittany eyed Luca, sulking, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. 

“So, Luca. Why are you so pouty?” She threw the question out so casually as she buttered a piece of bread. Oh no.  

“I thought I was gonna be on a date with just Claire.” He gestured toward Brittany and his friend. “But here we all are.” 

“You just met her. That’s probably why you can’t tell how uncomfortable she is right now.” Brittany cut a piece of steak from the large ribeye in the center of the table and placed it in her mouth. She chewed her beef deliberately and stared Luca down.

“No, she isn’t.”

I squirmed. “You guys, sto-” 

“What do you even know about Claire?” Brittany was on a mission. She stabbed a piece of broccolini on her plate. 

Luca’s friend excused himself to the restroom. I sat dumbfounded as Brittany and Luca debated what I liked and didn’t like, how I felt, and who knew more about me. My head moved back and forth like I was watching a tennis match.

“What do you even like about her so much?” Brittany’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay, this is what’s gonna happen.” I slammed both hands on the table. “I’m going to the bathroom. While I’m gone, you two can get out whatever you want to say about me, but as soon as I get back, this” — I waggled my index finger frantically back and forth between them in the air — “is done.” 

They both looked at me, surprised, like they hadn’t realized the person they were talking about was there the whole time.

Lingering in the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror. I tugged at the bottom of my black skirt, pulled at my blouse, and tapped my heels. No part of me wanted to return to the table. Should I call an Uber and leave now? The bathroom was at the front of the restaurant. I could easily slip out unnoticed. 

My phone buzzed. Brittany texted.

U ok? What r u doing in there?

The rest of the dinner was awkward. Luca’s friend kept getting up and down from the table, disappearing for five to ten minutes at a time until finally he didn’t return. Luca hardly ate a bite, sulking and glancing moodily around the restaurant. Finally, our plates were cleared from the table. He took the valet ticket for Brittany’s car out of his pocket and slid it to me across the table. “I’m not gonna pay for this.” He looked at me defiantly. “Unless you promise our next date is just us.”

I took the ticket and put it into my purse. “Okay.” Bruh, you’re gonna lord a $25 valet ticket over me? Are bitches really that hard up in Florida they put up with this? 

Outside by the valet stand, Luca demanded the ticket back and paid it. Out of trained politeness, I thanked him for the evening. The next day he texted me cheerfully, like we hadn’t had the world’s most awkward dining experience. He invited me to come to a cabana pool party at a casino. I responded: 

Listen, I appreciate what you did on the flight

and for dinner. That was very generous of you.

But I’m not interested in you the way you are in 

me so I think it’s best not to see each other again.

What? I’m not interested in you, 

what would make you think that?!

Unlike Brittany, I don’t enjoy engaging in pointless back and forths for sport. I left that text on read. That day, I made a decision. If ever again in my life, I get offered a first-class seat from a generous stranger, I will stay back in gen pop.