4-Day Follies: Rise of the Ass – The Legend of Shaved Dog’s Ass
Pilots will always find something to complain about. The seats are too hard, the days are too long, the weather is shit, the coffee is terrible, there are no crew meals, the flight attendants are mean to us, scheduling will rape you if you pick up the phone, the 4-hour sit on day 4 before one leg home, the list is endless. This week, to keep it fresh, I’m complaining about working 5 days in a row.
I had a 3-day and couldn’t find a 4-day to replace it, so I picked up a 2-day that started the day after I got home. Sure I did it to myself, but if the damn company would just pay me to stay home and surf porn, I wouldn’t have to go to the work in the first place. It’s unjust. Obama still has not bought me a house, Jesus has still not fixed my car, and this is just the last straw. I’m going to slam my door when I leave for work, see how he likes that.
Day 1:
I slam my door when I leave for work and the driver’s window plummets into the door frame. I coax it out with a pair of pliers. Realize as I sulk off to work that this is not my work ethic. This is sullen complacency. They look almost identical, and I grabbed the wrong attitude by mistake. Oh well, maybe no one will notice.
Still dark when I mount the bus (from the front, no kissing). My old sim partner hops on at the next stop. He was upgrading to Captain when I was a new hire. Nice enough guy if a bit humorless, reserved and rigid. Every sim period, he would mope into the room like he just came from a funeral. (Maybe he did.) I’d try to lighten the mood with me-isms which invariably failed. But the simulator is pretty small. My hurt feelings wouldn’t fit anyway, so I left them outside.
We finished sims without a hitch, but his reserved demeanor or humorlessness, or rigidity failed him on the line. He didn’t make it through IOE (Initial Operating Experience) and they sent him back to the right seat for a year. He gives me a bland “hey” as we dock at Operations and shuffle off.
Make it to the plane early and revel in having a 70 million dollar airliner to myself. Skip up and down the aisle doing little straight arm vaults on the seat backs until I realize the shades are open and the rampers can see me. Dignified strut back up to the cockpit. It’s a cool morning, so I pop the window and let the breeze in. I really like opening the window. Maybe it’s because there are only 2 on the whole airplane and I have one of them. Maybe it’s the melodramatic “loading the main gun on a battle tank” window mechanism. Maybe it’s just neat to get a little fresh air. Don’t know why it’s so much fun to open the window, but if you put it together with the skipping, it probably has more to do with me than the plane.
Punch some buttons and savor the relative quiet of rattling baggage carts and diesel motors chuffing about until I hear some gargled yelling out my window. I sit up and stick my head out. Peer down at a Captain. He looks like a fun guy.
“Do you know the door code?” He yells up.
‘Well I did right up until you asked me.’ I shout back.
“I’ll ask one of the rampers.”
I give him a thumbs up and get back to fiddling with knobs and stuff.
Look at his name on the flight release, but it just looks like a random collection of vowels and consonants.
“Joe!” He says as he charges enthusiastically into the cockpit and thumps down his roll-aboard. We shake.
“I’m gonna go get some coffee. You want anything?”
‘I’m good. Thanks for asking though.’ He disappears again.
Joe returns and promptly explodes in the cockpit. 2 phones, sunglasses, trip log, paper, gum, and a bag of something baked from the coffee shop quickly litter the cockpit. He sits, takes a sip of his coffee, grabs a phone, and with no warning whatsoever, says, “Check this out.” Hands me his phone.
It’s a close-up shot of a lady’s (recently) shaved love taco. “Here,” he says and shows me how to zoom in. In-grown hairs are now clearly visible.
‘Well.’ I say.
“Chick I fucked sent me that.”
‘Not your sister then?’
“Check this out.” He says again and grabs the phone.
A shot of presumably the same girl smiling into the camera.
“That’s what she looks like.” Joe explains.
‘Cute.’ I say sympathetically.
“Look at this one!” He says, taking the phone and handing it back. It’s a shot of another girl cupping her breasts. “Fucked her too.”
‘Not married I guess.’
“Hell no! 2 ex-wives. One daughter.”
‘But that’s not her.’ Figure if a man introduces himself by offering up pictures of fuck buddies (he uses that term a bit later,) he probably won’t be offended by incest jokes. He laughs and grabs the phone back. Shows me a clothed picture of his daughter. Not the same girl.
‘She’s cute too.’ I say and somehow feel really dirty saying it.
Should be an interesting trip.
Easy day. One leg to southern Florida. Done by noon. Joe gets on the intercom and gives his welcome aboard spiel. I’ve heard this speech thousands of times. They’re not scripted, but the talking points are all the same. Usually tune it out, but his weather forecast for southern FL catches my ear. “…And the weather down in southern Florida is…. Let’s see…zero degrees with ½ mile visibility and blowing snow…” He grins at me.
‘I like you.’
On the short hop to FL, Joe tells me one of his fuck buddies is going to join him at the hotel. Tells me her tits are awesome and she has “one of those cute little tattoos on her lower back.”
‘A tramp stamp?’
Joe laughs heartily and gives me a respectful “well said, you are a smart and funny man” look.
‘I didn’t make it up.’ Odd that a man hip enough to carry 2 phones and comfortable using “fuck buddy” in conversation has never heard the term “tramp stamp.” And reasons I don’t fully understand, I really don’t want him getting it in his head that the concept came from me.
True to plan, we are finished with work and at the hotel by noon. Joe says he’ll call me when Tits McStampy shows up, and we’ll all go get a beer. The idea of being a 3rd wheel on this particular sex tricycle is unnerving, but I give him my number. 3 hours later, Joe has not called. Gritty images of mid-day buddy fucking flicker through my head like truck stop graffiti. I venture off to the gas station for a bit of my own party.
Strolling back with my bundle of B-BABs, I see Joe and 4 ladies on the far side of the pool. Well now, that’s just selfish. I ride up to my room to retrieve my sunglasses and head out to crash the party. The pool is deserted when I make it back down. After blinking at the lack of party for a bit, I head back to my room and the companionship of TV people.
My phone rings a couple hours later, but since I don’t recognize the number, I let it go to voicemail. Joe and Co. are off to the casino at 2000, and I should come along. I didn’t even know there were casinos in Florida. And Joe strikes me as a man capable of exploding in a truly spectacular way.
This might be a good time to explain the title of this Folly.
Dos Gringos is band. A particularly awesome band. 2 F-16 pilots who write hysterical songs about flying fast, blowing shit up, getting shitfaced on Jeremiah Weed and just generally being way awesomer than anyone I know. They have a song called “The Legend of Shaved Dog’s Ass” about the greatest wingman the world has ever known. The chorus goes:
…And his name was Shaved Dog’s Ass.
The greatest of wingmen was he.
He only said ‘2,’ ‘Lead, you’re on fire’
And ‘save the fat one for me’…
I’m not about to fuck the fat one (or anyone for that matter), and if he were on fire, I’d probably just wait around and pick the spare change out his smoking ashes, but I can be Shaved Dog’s Ass to Joe’s bus stop fuck mission. Maybe I can stay tight and keep the STDs off him long enough for him to get carpet burns in the hallway by the bathroom.
I head down to the lobby and wait outside in the smoldering orange of the Florida sunset. Joe comes down a few minutes later.
“Hey. Did you get my message?”
‘…Yes… That’s why I’m here.’
“We’re going to the casino.”
‘I know. I got your message.’
Joe introduces me to Stampy as she joins us and lights up. She plumes smoke and looks me up and down.
“And he’s cute too.” She says shifting her beer to her smoke hand to shake mine. I’d guess she’s around 40 from the neck up. She’s a surgically augmented 30 from the neck down.
She sets her beer on the edge of the garbage can to stow her lighter in her really really tight jeans. The bottle slides off into the abyss. I listen to her metallic cursing as she burrows in the trash to rescue her wayward beverage. Notice that she does indeed have the classic spikes and swirls of tramp stampdom printed just above her belt line.
“Show him your tits.” Joe suggests amiably after she emerges from the garbage can with her surprisingly still full beer. Her face squints down around the cigarette in her mouth and cross-lifts her shirt and bra without spilling her beer.
‘Those are nice. Are they yours?’
“No of course not. They’re implants. I love my boobs.”
I’m spared a response to this surreal exhibition by Joe pulling out his phone to take pictures. He grins approvingly and shows the pic to Stampy.
“Why would I want to see that?” She asks. “I see them every day.”
‘Not from that angle though.’ I point out helpfully. ‘When you see them in the mirror, they’re reversed.’
-Lead, you’re on fire-
I introduce myself to our 4th, Vivian or Victoria or something. She’s short, black and seems ill at ease with boobs on parade. I guess she’s a Shaved Dog’s Ass too.
We pile into the van for the 15 minute ride to the casino. On the way, Stampy tells us she and Joe are going to Hawaii next month. Neither of her 2 boyfriends know this.
‘So Joe here makes 3?’
“Yep. I like to party.”
‘Do they know about each other.’
“No. Not really. Well Joe does, but the guy I live with doesn’t. Neither does my boyfriend who’s meeting us tonight, so keep it on the down low.”
‘Wait…what?…’
Normally, when I ask people about the social threads that weave them into the tapestry of the human condition (for Folly purposes), they give me simple census stuff; married or not, kids or not, where they live, and occasionally hobbies or pets. They don’t generally cough up a hairball of interpersonal waste with beaks and band-aids sticking out of it that tries to bite me as it wobbles off the table. I stop asking about her relationships, but it’s too late.
Her boyfriend (not the one she lives with) found out that she has an overnight here in funsville. He works for another airline in a non-pilot capacity, so he hopped a plane to join her. He’s going to meet us at the casino later. She’s irritated by this because she’s already settled on Joe for the evening. These are not problems I would like to have or be within visual range of, but Joe seems unfazed. I stay in formation.
-Lead, You’re on fire-
“Will you go on a bathroom break?” She asks, turning around and resting her forearm on the middle bench seat. I don’t say anything for a while, searching for a contextual socket to plug this question into. I got nothing. It makes no sense.
‘What?’
“Tomorrow. Will you go on a bathroom break?”
‘Probably at some point.’
“I mean in the plane.”
‘I try to take care of that before we take off, so I don’t have to come out in flight.’
“No. I mean tomorrow, in the air, will you go on a bathroom break? I need 20 minutes. I want to sit on him for 20 minutes.”
The question pops inside out and into focus.
‘Oh… Sure.’
“Really?!”
‘Sure. But 20 minutes is way too long. I can’t be out of the cockpit that long. I can give you 5 minutes.
“How about 12 minutes?”
‘I doubt it. You’re going to have to be quick.’
“Come on! 10 minutes!”
‘We’ll see.’
Vivian or Victoria or something turns around, incredulous. “You’re not really going to do that are you?”
‘I’m just going to the bathroom. Someone has to go into the cockpit while I’m out. Whatever happens in there is speculation. But on a personal level, hell yeah! I’ve been flying planes for almost 20 years. Do you know how often this has come up?’
“No. How often?”
‘Never. Not once. But that’s the dream isn’t it? That’s true blue American hero type stuff. The stuff of myth and legend. Somebody has to do it. For America.’
“That’s fucking gross.” Vivian or Vitoria or something says.
(She has a point.)
‘Stay out of my seat!’ I add nervously.
The van drops us at the casino and says he’ll be back for us at 2300. We file past a shocking array of super cars lurking conspicuously in the valet; 3 Audi R8s, more Ferraris than I can count, An Aston Martin Rapide, 2 DB9s, a smattering of Porsches and enough Mercs to sink a cargo ship. We pass through the vast glass doors into the non-time perma-night of casino space.
We orbit counter clockwise 300 feet and find a bar. While I wait for Joe to buy us all a round, I sidle up to the slots. I don’t like slots, but as they are an inexpensive way to get free drinks, I have played them. An old woman with piled grey hair, thick glasses and lots of rings is using witchcraft and winning. It must be magic, because nothing about this game makes sense. There are 7 columns of tarot cards or something. After each spin, jagged white lines scythe randomly through the figures from top to bottom and side to side. I watch for a while, because it should start to make sense, but it never does.
Takes me a minute to find her credit display. $383. Before each slap of the spin button, she waves her hand in front of the screen wiggling her fingers in a vaguely aquatic Jedi way. It must work with a balance like that, but she loses every spin while I watch. I wander back to the bar to repair her mojo, no fucking closer to understanding how the game is played.
Beers in hand, we make our way past the slots and find a place to stand near the parquet dance floor in front of a stage. One band appears to be breaking down, and another is waiting to set up. The background noise is pretty loud, so I zone out and take in the casino. My ears perk up when the topic of puking comes up.
Vivian or Victoria or something says she can’t puke. She just can’t. ‘Sure you can.’ I say encouragingly, ‘You just need to find the right setting. A nice bathroom stall might be romantic.’ Back to spacing out.
The more Stampy drinks, the more enamored with me she gets. When Joe goes to the bathroom, she slides over, “You’re hot.” Lifts my shirt and makes admiring hissing noises. I look down at my belly fur and decide she’s easily impressed or has a thing for bears. Her hands reach up to bracket my head like granny about to pinch cheeks.
“Will you suck face with me for like 2 minutes?”
‘NooooOOOoooo!’ Bovine negation. I step back out of range.
“Come on!”
‘I’m married.’
“So? She’ll never know.”
‘Sorry.’
“Just a little?”
‘Nope nope nope. No way.’
“Really?”
‘Absolutely not.’
“Damn.”
Married or not, too many faces on that suck menu.
By the time Joe makes it back from the bathroom, the new band has tuned up and launched into a creepy medley of oldies. Unexpectedly, this is just what the crowd was after, and the dance floor fills up quickly.
Every dance troupe has a centerpiece; a focal point to anchor the performance. This is just as true with random disorganized civilian grooving as the pros. Sometimes the focus will monopolize the central geography of the dance floor and lead by example. Sometimes they’re lodged in the periphery, but you just can’t look away from the spectacle of awesome or embarrassing. And sometimes it’s the bewilderingly bold that steal the show. In this case, it’s all 3.
A middle-aged woman in a motorized wheelchair is rolling out the groove to a blunted rendition of Tom Jones’ “She’s A Lady.” (I should be clear before incendiary PC-ists rain down hell fire on my insensitive head – It’s a Rascal, not a Stephen Hawking blow-bike. A red Rascal to be specific.)
She scoots and spins, twirling the 4 or 5 plastic shopping bags hanging from the back of her chair like a mane of shopping excellence. Fucking fabulous. Drag Vivian or Victoria or something out on the floor to siphon off a bit of the rolling spectacular-ocity.
I don’t dance. Once upon a time in the 90’s when I was younger, and slightly less awesome, I asked a girl to dance in a club in Denver. Half way through whatever emo schlock rock was holding down the back beat, she leans in. “Have you ever taken dance lessons?” A flattering question reinforcing my well honed belief that I do everything well.
‘No.’ (But thanks.)
“You should.”
I really wish she hadn’t said that. Now I only dance ironically, when very drunk or if my wife forces me to. Or on rare occasions such as this, when I just need to bask in the glow of someone else’s awesomeness. I can’t really apply any of her motorized techniques, but the realization that she’s wearing flowered house slippers makes the trip worth it.
We retire to the bar so Joe and Stampy can suck as much face as possible before her boyfriend (not the one she lives with) shows up. This gives Vivian or Victoria or something a chance to re-ask the question that’s been crawling around behind her eyes since the van ride.
“You’re not really going to let them…you know…in the cockpit, are you?”
‘I’m not going to referee if that’s what you mean. There’s not enough room.’
“You know what I mean.”
‘I’m not going to let them do anything. I’m going to use the potty. If they can work out the logistics without crashing the plane, then yay them.’
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
‘It’ll probably be fine. I wouldn’t worry.’ She doesn’t look reassured.
Time for a pee. Stampy un-sucks Joe’s face and insists on going with me.
‘Fine. But we’re skipping.’
I skip past the stage, to the admiring glares of the band’s audience. Stampy stops me by the bathrooms.
“Come on, just suck face with me for a little bit.”
‘No and hell no.’
“Really?”
‘Yes really.’
“Your wife’s a lucky lady.”
‘I think she would disagree with you. She’s convinced I’m a selfish, insensitive ass.’
“I’ll tell her! Give me her phone number!”
‘You want to call my wife and tell her how lucky she is that I won’t suck face with you?’
“Totally!”
‘Or we could not do that. That’s even better.’
“Come on!”
‘I have to go pee.’
“You’re so fucking hot.”
-glr-
This situation refuses to stop gibbering and behave normally. As I pee, it capers around in my head, yanking on random neurons and evading reason. Ask the little head for a little processing power, but all it does is dribble into the urinal.
Speed pee and scamper out of the bathroom to be far away when Stampy emerges from the john, avoiding further invitations to suck face.
The boyfriend (not the one she lives with) arrives. Goatee, jean-shorts, Teva bootie-sandals and an acid-wash Tee shirt. I manage to get in a handshake in before Stampy and “Steve” launch into some industrial grade face sucking worthy of 2 16 year-olds in an Impala at the drive-in.
This disturbing avenue of confusion and conversation closed, I turn to Joe, but he’s already targeting Vivian or Victoria or something; sitting at the end of the bar, holding her hand.
-Lead, You’re on f… Oh fuck it.-
You want to stuff your T-16 up Beggar’s Canyon, be my guest. Watch out for the Womp Rats.
Call the hotel for a ride but the driver is busy until his scheduled return in an hour. I’m stuck with a front row seat to Suck Fest. Vivian or Victoria or something has received a bad news phone call. One of her friends here, has gone to the hospital with a mysterious illness. Joe is trying to convince her not to go to the stupid hospital since she’ll have a much better time in his room. She seems receptive. Stampy and Steve barely come up for air. A brief respite for a smoke and sip of beer, then it’s back to face slurping. This whole partner swapping deal has a seedy wood paneling key party vibe to it. A gold chains, Aqua Velva and fondue affair. Think I’ll just stand by the punch bowl and look preoccupied.
I wait, trying to ignore the slurping noises coming from Steve and Stampy. Gotta hand it to Joe though, looks like he might actually close the deal. Vivian or Victoria or something seems pretty well convinced her friend will be just fine in the hospital on her own.
The van finally returns. The 4-legged suck organism sits in the back. Joe and his target of opportunity sit in front. It’s a converted box van with seating for about 20. I’ve ridden in hundreds, but I’ve never noticed this before. The windows are canted in slightly. To make it slightly less boxy I guess. The horrible consequence of this is the reflected view of the interior. I can see the suck birds in the back seat. I spend the entire ride back not looking at the reflection of Steve giving Stampy the ol’ handjo. He’s got his hand down her pants and he’s rubbing away like he’s trying set her clit on fire.
I look fixedly at Joe whispering sweet crazy to whatshername, and try not to listen to the slurping sounds behind me. That shit will give you nightmares.
Day 2:
Stampy looks tired when I see her on the plane bright and early.
‘So. You ready for this one Maverick?’ I ask lasciviously as I pass her in the galley.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired and I woke up with a fucking cold.”
‘Chicken. Bawk bawk bawk’
Something’s gone wrong with the external air conditioning during the night. It’s 40 degrees in the plane. Vivian or Victoria or something is hopping up and down and rubbing her arms.
“It’s freezing! Nipples! Too many nipples!”
‘There can’t be.’ I turn around in the cockpit door. ‘Ok. Who’s got 3? You?’
I ask Vivian if she went with the hospital or Joe’s penis.
“I went to the hospital. I got back to the hotel about an hour ago.”
‘So you didn’t sleep at all?’
“No. I didn’t even take a shower or comb my hair.” She says glumly.
‘Well you look great.’ I say in my best car salesman voice. Give her a thumbs-up.
Thump down in my seat next to Joe.
‘So! Today’s the big day!’
“I don’t know man. I don’t see how it would work.” Joe pushes his seat all the way back and makes “from here to there” hand motions between his belly and the yoke.
‘Don’t worry man, fuck will find a way. Bend her over the pedestal or something. Just make sure she doesn’t grab the fire handles.’
“I don’t know man.”
‘You need to do this. For the children. So future generations of pilots will have something to look forward to. You could single handedly bring glory and honor back to commercial aviation!’
“Why don’t you fuck her then?”
I make an excited face, then slump. ‘Shit. I left my dick in my other pants.’
We button up and push. Something is not right in my lower intestines. As we lift off, my tummy is making “who ordered the fudge sundae?” sounds. By divine providence, I really am going to have to use the potty.
‘I gotta go hit the head.’ I tell Joe after we level off at cruise. He laughs in a doomed sort of way.
‘No seriously. I’m about to shit my pants.’ I press the call button and tell Stampy I need to come out. They call back when they’re ready for me, and I unbuckle to exit.
‘I just want to say, good luck. We’re all counting on you.’ Clap him on the shoulder and head out.
Stampy moves past me into the cockpit. She does not look excited. “Today is a great day for America.” I tell her as I close the door.
Reflect on the balance of life as I sit bare-assed in someone else’s pee and Joe is… What is Joe doing right know I wonder? The plane hasn’t flipped upside down or depressurized, so that’s probably a good sign. Or a bad one.
Vivian or Victoria or something stops me in the galley when I come out of the lav.
“Do you think they’re really doing it in there?”
‘I doubt it. I think they’ll chicken out.’
“Gross.” She says and scrunches up her face.
Moment of truth. I call the cockpit and Stampy comes out a moment later. She doesn’t look askew, flushed or well satisfied. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
Close the door and plop down in my seat. ‘Well?’
“We didn’t do anything. It wouldn’t have worked. There’s not enough room.”
‘YOU PUSSY!’ I burst out. ‘You had a chance to make aviation history; to do a good deed for aviators everywhere; to become a legend! An opportunity of biblical importance, and you chickened out! I’m very disappointed in you.’
“And she’s got a cold…”
‘You suck! I want your man card. You’re out of the club!’
I did my job. Kept sight and gave him every possible chance to succeed. But when it came time to shoot, he couldn’t pull the trigger. A shameful FAIL on the score card of aviation myth. But the dream lives on. Somewhere, sometime, someone will go balls deep at 40 thousand feet. Someone will succeed where we have failed. And we will know. Somehow, we will know. The event will radiate out like exploding star, and pilots everywhere will be buoyed in an elemental way, and feel the resonant urge to giggle and tell dirty jokes.
-end of line.