Last night I was looking through an issue of The New Yorker from February 1956. I came across an advertisement for an airline that was extolling the pleasures (100% wholesome, not even a hint of that) of its Pullman-like sleeping compartments.
Several things struck me about the ad, ranging from the gentleman pictured in pajamas and a robe, tucked under the covers, to the breakfast tray balanced on a pillow on his lap. It was the very picture of cultured living and propriety—right down to the smiling steward pouring coffee from an ornate, silver pot.
Questions immediately began pushing and shoving each other in an effort to be the first one asked. Where had he changed into those pajamas? In the airplane’s bathroom? That must have been fun. When he woke up, did he climb out of his berth, put his robe on and then climb back into bed so he could be served his breakfast by a steward that grinned just a bit too much? How far would that juice fly if one of his legs twitched? Did despots of old place a breakfast tray across your lap for more than five minutes as a form of genteel torture?
I am not generally claustrophobic, but seeing that breakfast tray pinning the man’s legs brought back seemingly forgotten memories of meals in the hospital and that second cousin to the straitjacket, the tray table.
To understand the full extent of the tray table’s horrors, you must know a little about hospital beds of the 1950s. First, the mattress was three feet off the floor, and the floor was granite. Hospital beds were built so the staff could work on you in relative comfort. This meant you were at counter height. Now, when you are only about 4’4” tall, being three feet off the floor is a serious matter.
When the side rails were down—the preferred position because it was less visually confining and indicated a certain maturity—you tended to stay in the center of the bed. I am told that in certain posh hospitals, the head and foot of the bed were raised and lowered by means of a crank at the foot of the bed, which would make the necessary adjustments with relatively little jarring. At the hospital I went to, at least on the pediatric wards, they saw no need to coddle the patients like that.
The head of the bed was yanked up by brute force to near the angle desired, and then you hoped the ratchet-like bar caught properly. If it didn’t, you would discover that when the head of your bed suddenly, and very noisily, slammed down. When you wanted the head of your bed lowered, someone, most often a nurse or nurse’s aide, would pull it up a bit and then trip a lever to release that ratchet bar. Then she would lower it to the position you wanted, and you, and she, hoped she didn’t lose her grip.
Because it required someone to come make the adjustment, and was somewhat physically demanding, your bed tended to remain in the same configuration for quite a while. If the head was pulled up so you were in a sitting position, the amount of real estate available to you was cut in half, and you were forced to stay in that position. It was bad enough having your leg packed in ice and elevated on a pillow, but being unable to shift the rest of yourself around was maddening. To this day I keep my hospital bed flat, or nearly so.
Not Made for Soup
Then there was that bloody tray table. It was a small table with rails along the sides and back and legs that folded down on each end. It was, and probably still is, a superbly designed piece of furniture. It was placed on your lap, and your tray was put on it at mealtimes (hence the name). You also used it to do your schoolwork, draw and put model airplanes together. The nurses and aides would set it up at the slightest provocation. Its fundamental flaw was, however, that you couldn’t move, or at least I couldn’t.
If I moved my leg, I hit the underside of the table or its legs. Either way, it would spill my soup. Soup was the one thing the hospital kitchen made that was consistently good. If I leaned forward, the table would tilt and spill my soup. If I tried to stretch and relieve the tension in my back, I would tilt the table back and spill my soup. If I kept my body still, I was either too far away to write or see the model part, or my hand would inevitably shake on the journey from bowl to mouth, and I would spill my soup. There I was, food just barely within reach, but afraid to move a muscle.
So, a note to the travel industry: If you are trying to entice me with visions of opulence and luxuriant living, don’t use breakfast in bed as the vehicle. Having my legs trapped under a tray is not my idea of the good life. Use breakfast at a small table next to a window overlooking Central Park, or on a balcony looking down on the Pacific coast—anything, as long as I can move without sending everything flying. And get a steward who doesn’t grin like that.
Read more Guy Boss at the Missing Factor.