DISCLAIMER: Testicular swelling is not a typical symptom. Structural integrity is not guaranteed for impact forces greater than 1 (one) g. Do no open outer casing: radiation hazard.
Day 1:
I am down with the sickness. I am ready to rock. I am revved up and ready to roar! Let’s go to work!
I am not actually any of those things. Had some leftover birthday enthusiasm. Shame to let it go to waste. Must’ve dropped it, cause there’s dirt in it and it’s cracked. A little gritty, but still feels good.
Pack up and leave for work in the morning. My car only has one dejected beep of unfulfilled need. Apparently cruelly ignoring its needs is working. Maybe I’ll drain the oil next week. Could probably get it to fetch a Frisbee or play dead. We’ll start with play dead.
Aside from the rain, it’s a mellow drive. I savor the mellowness. Reflect that it might be because I’m more mature now. A year older now and all growed up. I crack myself up. Bout as likely as becoming spontaneously Muslim or gay. Not for free in other words.
At the lot gate, my card won’t swipe. The gate guard waves it in front of the magic box and the PFM (Pure Fucking Magic) wizards inside don’t like the smell. Two tone reply that implies inexorably that I’m not getting in. I have her swipe it twice more. Then we debate the expiration date. (My birthday coincidentally). Says so right there on top in big letters.
I take this unexpected development and softball it like a roll of toilet paper out down the narrow hallway of the immediate future. Scribe out where I’m headed next.
1. Get the truck behind me to back up so I can back out of the lock and make a highly illegal U-turn strobing “Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” to both lanes of blocked traffic.
2. Figure out how to get from here to civilian parking.
3. Go through security. “Sir… Is this your bag?” Fuck.
4. Train to the concourse.
5. Somehow breech security and get to ops. (Hypothetically of course.)
6. Get steps 1 thru 5 done in under 31 minutes.
Nothing to it.
Step 1 goes pretty well. They guy in the truck just gives me a grim stare and the employees on the bus headed out can’t really see me from this angle. Good start. Pretty strong off the blocks.
Stumble a bit with step 2. Almost miss my turn, but the big “AIRPORT” (this way) sign helps out. That’s for me too right? Not just passengers? (I really am a complete moron, but I look good in uniform so they let me stay.)
Step 3 is where things start to unravel pretty quickly. North Side or South? (Doesn’t matter.) Ok. South. “Daily” parking will probably be the fastest. Coast into the ticket lock for “Hourly” as I stare at the big CLOSED signs over “Daily.” But…? It can’t be closed. I need to park there.
Back up 100 yards so I can pull into “Economy.” Play a little hand jive with the driver of a Porsche on his cell phone. (“Go around.” Not, “Go fuck yourself.” I am in uniform after all.) Seems he would prefer to proceed to parking in a more linear fashion. (Driving “through” the ugly blue Jetta with the reverse lights on rather than “around” it.)
The entrance to the economy lot is near the terminal. The lot runs back away from the terminal about half a mile. I know this because I drive up and down row after row, getting later, more frustrated and further away until I get to the end of the lot. I have 21 minutes left. Even if I found a space here, I would never make it.
Exit the lot which surprisingly does not charge me for the experience. Loop back around the airport and head for Park n’ Fly. I am the first one on the shuttle. Other passengers trickle on for about five minutes. We finally pull out and the driver goes down 2 rows, makes a full column u-turn and heads back to pick up more people.
A woman gets on. She is loud but not abrasive (yet). Sits next to me. Apologizes to the shuttle folk because the diver came back for her. Gives me an inquisitively confused look.
‘My badge expired. I couldn’t get into the employee lot. Not a big deal, but I didn’t plan for this. Now I’m going to be late.’
“Wow. You’re so calm. I like that. It’s a good sign. Who do you fly for?”
I tell her.
She nods. “I love your airline. You guys are kicking ass. I need to buy your stock. Great airline.”
‘It was all my doing. I did that.’
“Nice work.”
‘It was nothing.’
The shuttle finally rolls out. I have 13 minutes left. Call scheduling to let them know I’m here and inbound. As it’s ringing, I realize the woman is still talking to/about me. Something about “annoying the pilot while he’s on the phone.” I’m trying to give the scheduler my employee number and reassure the woman that it’s fine, she’s not bothering me. Blurt out a string of gibberish consonants and numbers. Do it over.
‘Hey. This is <>. My Airport badge expired. I’m on my way in from Park and Fly. If I make my 1158 check in, it’ll be by the skin of my teeth. (Only I don’t say “the skin of my teeth.” I say “a ginger cuntar” and wince as I remember that all of these calls are recorded.) Just wanted you to know I’m here and on my way.’
“Ok. Thanks.”
The woman is still talking.
Step 3 (security) is fairly quick and painless. Step 4 is equally easy.
Step 5: (Breeching security on the concourse) would be a big no no. So I XXXXXXX XXXX Vaseline on the XXXXXXXXX X XXX No biting! XXXX XXXXXXX. XXXX X XXXX XXX ? Not sure I’m rubbing this the right way. XXXXXXXX XXXX X XXXXX X A potato will fit in there?!? XXXX! XXXXXXX XX! Is this supposed to hurt? (Redacted for security reasons.)
Finally in ops, I log on and wade through the company memos. Click “check in” at 11:58:42. On time with 18 seconds to spare.
Make it to the plane about 30 minutes before departure. Get it ready to push on time. Now there’s a problem. An old man has boarded the plane with an oxygen bottle. In light of the fact that he needs it to live, he is reluctant to part with it. He’s pissed. They missed it in Sarasota this morning, so he thinks we are making up stupid rules just to be mean.
Yet another chance to practice my not giving a fuck. This man, through ignorance or intent has just brought a bomb on board. We don’t transport O2 bottles. Ever. But I don’t have to tell him. We have people for that. People like the gate agent who hears “oxygen concentrator” (allowed) even though the FAs said “oxygen bottle” 7 times and the Capt. said it twice.
The gate agent calls a supervisor, who also thought we meant “concentrator” and was on his way in to straighten us out. He calls a manager who eventually scares up enough comprehension, balls and authority remove the old man and his bomb. The cadre of company enforcers leaves without a word to us or the passengers as to why we are now late, or whether the situation is resolved or not. It’s good to be the king.
Head for MSP. Winds aloft are still wicked out of the WNW. Rough ride. Slow going. Cold and windy for the walk around. Only brought my blazer. Turn my collar up because that’s what they do in the movies. Does nothing. Realize I’m holding my breath cause it hurts to breathe. My ears hurt.
Minnesota is like a fun first date that turns out to have a felony record. Summers are sexy. Summers are cute and friendly. Winters there will skull fuck you and take your candy.
The fueler laughs at me as I skitter past holding my hat on.
“Supposed to warm up to 2 today!”
’2?!’
“Yeah! Warm huh?”
‘Can I borrow your bikini? Mine’s packed.’
The door code I have is old. Have to go back down the stairs, around the plane and scream like a little girl at the rampers. They mime huge mouth numbers at me and I trudge back up the stairs.
Finally back inside, the FAs are huddled in the galley red-faced from laughter suppression. Hands over their mouths.
‘What?’
One of them peeks around the corner with wild eyes. I look. —Wow.—
A woman in her mid thirties is slowly making her way forward from the back. White sweatpants and a grey shoulder-padded sweatshirt with airbrushed horses on it. Impossibly white sneakers. Shoulder length brown hair curled in that roller rink flip that was completely out of fashion 15 years ago and is now on par with a black habit for insinuating you feel sex is a sin.
She never looks up. Her head is canted down just enough to suggest she knows “specialness” is probably seeping through like a blooming red stain, but this is the way it has to be.
She has 3 large clear trash bags filled with clothes. She picks up one. Moves it up 3 rows. Sets it down on the left. Goes back for the second, moves it up 3 rows. Sets it down on the right. Goes back for the third. Moves it up 4 rows. Starts over. In this doggedly humiliating way she makes her way to the front and off the plane. I would have offered to help. I should have. But I’m fascinated and a little scared. I mean, what if it’s contagious?
We all take turns peeking up the jetway. Same technique. Moves one bag up about 5 feet. Goes back for #2. Goes back for #3. I want to go into the terminal. It is a really long way to baggage claim. I want to see.
How did she get to the plane? How did she get on? Did she have luggage to begin with? Did it break? We charge for extra baggage. By my count she should have had to shell out $175 extra to perform this little show. Was she raised by monkeys? Wolves? Aliens? So many questions. The gate agent gives me one last fleeting report. When last seen, she was still following the tried and true. Had almost made it out of the gate area.
I sincerely hope somebody helps her out.
I should have taken a picture. Damn!
Next contestant please. A fed (FAA Inspector) wants to ride our jumpseat back to <>. They generally try to be nice, but it still makes you more aware of HOW you’re doing things. Like a full 3 second stop when the cop is right behind you. Good thing I don’t make mistakes, and I’ve got that solid backup career as a Dish Cleanliness Technician (DCT) well in hand.
Turns out the Fed and the Capt. are old pals from way back. Fed just needed a ride to where we’re headed. I really don’t normally give a shit about Feds in bed with us. Sure they have the power to crush your career like an egg, but most of the time they’re just going somewhere and don’t want to pay. So they flash the badge and ride up front. As long as you have your license and medical certificates with you and don’t fly completely retarded, it’s generally all good.
I’ve seen guys on both sides of the pedestal completely lose it with a Fed on the jumpseat though. Go from Sky King to dust-bowl-era farmer in his one good suit and worn out shoes staring blankly at the banker about to take his land.
Back in <> we have a scheduled sit. About 2 and a half hours. Nadius is holding court in the crew lounge. He’s a good-looking outgoing 6-4 Irish glass of milk. People like to listen to him talk. He speaks in complete sentences, which is fairly rare for a pilot. He normally has his head pubes shaved down to Space Monkey or less. But in honor of manifest destiny, the spirit of Christmas, displacing indigenous peoples and possibly Kwanzaa, The fro shall grow. He hasn’t cut his hair in almost 2 months.
It has moved beyond farcical. Beyond parody. It’s actually starting to look good. Glorious even. It has a wavy bristling density that is screaming for a mustache. Starting to look like a scotch ad. Something out of the September 1974 Playgirl. The Nad with one size 13 Jensen Pilot Boot planted boldly on the table. One elbow resting comfortably on his knee. Conspiratorially leaned forward. Clip-on tie hanging off his open collar. A glass of scotch in one hand and a bottle of English Leather in the other – “I drink Chivas Regal or I don’t wear anything at all.”
I kid because I love. And because I can get away with it.
Crappy ride all the way to Akron. Descend to FL210 to try and find a good ride. No joy. Really really cold for the post flight. Capt. offers to do it for me.
‘That’s ok. I got it. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to freeze your delicate Captaincy off.’
Day 2:
Sleep in. Catch up a little on the Follies. Run into the Capt. in the elevator headed for the gym. We spend an hour or so ignoring each other and sweating. Ooze back to my room and whittle more Follies till it’s time to get in the shower.
Go to put my jacket on, and my wings are gone. Must have caught them on something and yanked ‘em right off. Looks sort of stupid without ‘em, like a half-assed Halloween costume.
Load up in the van and head out. ‘Shotgun!’ The driver makes a right on a one-way and waits at the light to turn left onto Tuscarawas (pronounced Tus•ka•rall•is. Apparently the “Ls” are silent and missing.)
A battered red Ford Fiesta containing a Midwest Omnivore of Indeterminate Sex (MOIS) is coming from our left. Signal on. Trying to turn the wrong way down our one way street. (She?) turns a little toward the van to make it plain we are in (her?) way before making a big and obvious collision-avoidance jerk of the wheel.
Gives the van driver a big moon-faced plate of scowly face, owling her displeasure from behind dirty glasses the size and thickness of scotch tumblers. She’s still turning her head to prolong the glare as long as possible when the car headed up behind us gives her a face full of honk. She swerves. Gets her stallion under control and makes a hasty right onto the next street. My poetic justice tanks are filled for the day. One less thing to worry about.
On the plane while we wait for boarding I type some Folly into my phone. The Capt.’s curiosity finally gets the best of him.
“What are you doing?”
‘Writing a letter to my dad.’
Sort of true. I mean, he will get a copy. The perfect impenetrable excuse.
Over PHL somebody transmits, “Oh shit! Oh shit! The engine’s losing power!”
You don’t say “oh shit!” on the radio. You just don’t. It’s a sign of weakness. Unprofessional ineptitude. The wings can both snap off and you’d better dig out your ‘pilot voice’ and say, “Center we seem to be having a slight controllability issue.”
All the chatter stops for 10 seconds. Like crickets after a gunshot. Washington Center comes back tentatively, “Sorry. I was offline. Missed the last.” Nothing. Guess they fixed it.
For our leg to CAK, one of the FAs is named Jessica. In the van I told her my 6 year-old daughter doesn’t like her name. Wants me to change it to Jessica.
“What’s her name?” The van driver asks.
‘<>’
“That’s my granddaughter’s name! What’s her middle name?”
‘<>’
“No way! That’s my granddaughter’s middle name too! Girl, Girl’s middle name Bailey!”
Weird.
The woman is touch and go. We have medics meet the plane at the gate.