DISCLAIMER: The Cockpit Voice Recorder (CVR) is not to be used for personal reminders. Lift is provided to compensate for gravity, not morale. Imminent contact with ground or structure is a legitimate reason to shit your pants. A 4 foot teddy bear counts as a carry-on.
Day 1:
Forgot my fucking phone. Wanted the new iPhone 3gs for Christmas. Compass, more memory, faster, shoots video. Pestered wife and family for it for months. Got it for Christmas. Took me 12 hours to transfer my old settings and load all my stuff back on to it. Excited to take it on the road. Follies are bound to be funnier with a more advanced phone. Charged it to make sure it was fully engorged with electrical potential while I showered. Left it on top of the fridge. Irony can be so ironic.
In the lot, I’m early so I walk to the first stop. There’s a girl there in street clothes. I slowly divine that she’s a pilot. As we co-lament about the long suck of back-of-the-clock cross country trips, a skinny pilot dude walks up. Stands outside of the shed. Staring in. Mouth breathing at me. Completely immobile. Hands at his sides. The pilot of Sleepy Hollow.
I let it go for a while. He couldn’t be looking at me. I don’t know this guy. Must be something really interesting in the corner of the shed behind me. My conversation with the F-Pilot dwindles and skitters to a stop. Only so much you can say on the topic of redeyes. I do some staring of my own, into the middle distance. Thinking about my phone, making a mental note about Ichabod. Ichabod….
He’s still staring at me. Like this season’s “Winter Pilot” mannequin just faced in my direction. I stare back at him for a while because nobody stares down the X. He sort of twitches and rotates mechanically a couple degrees. Stares at a spot 8 inches to my left. Fucking weirdo.
Stop at the gate to procure paper for notes. Write, “forgot my phone” and “Ichabod ”for later reference. Think feebly, maybe I could manually assemble the Follies. Get on the plane. Female Capt.
Tangential story: The Kent was selected to give the graduation speech for his police academy class. In front of the Mayor, Chief of Police and a couple hundred attendees, he gave a reportedly hilarious discourse on the journey of the class replete with off-color references to his classmates. Made reference to one of his black classmates as “Huggie Bear.”
His Lieutenant was in attendance. Black and not amused. The Kent gets called on the carpet the next day. Lieutenant fires him on the spot for “lack of racial sensitivity.” The Kent points out that his wife is half-black, which makes his kids a quarter black. The Lieutenant decides maybe The Kent is not a racist after all.
In that vein, my wife is a pilot. We met in flight school.
I have nothing against female pilots, and I don’t have a problem taking orders from female Captains. I’ve flown with a bunch of women and never had an issue, but the only 2 incidents where I’ve had serious personality conflicts in the cockpit (or flight deck as it is now coincidentally known,) involved female pilots.
Takes two to tango and I definitely have two left feet. But regardless of skill or experience, I am more cautious with female pilots until the ice is broken and boundaries are set or dismantled.
There used to be a tradition. Pilots would hide porn in the cockpit. Pictures of naked girls behind panels and such to be found by other crews. A female United pilot recently sued (successfully) for sexual harassment for rooting out and being exposed to such a photo.
Understandable. That sort of shit is offensive. But if you’re joining a fraternity of ex-fighter jocks and Type-A dudes, a law suit does little to foster equality. Makes everyone act appropriately, but in a resentful and careful way.
The best response I ever heard to this was a female pilot who would bring PlayGirl along and would replace all the “inny” pictures with pictures of cock. Tit for tat. Grosses out the guys without nuking crew harmony. Appropriate level of response. In the modern United States of Legal Compensation, no one has the right to offend anyone, and you can sue for hurt feelings. But like the tactical nuke, there are more subtle, surgical options with less collateral damage. But I digress.
FCapt. seems cool, but so were the two “issue” pilots. I am aware of my manners. Like dinner with my parents. Find myself subconsciously chewing with my mouth closed and keeping my elbows off the table. If you make a flying mistake (overflying your destination by 150 miles and not taking to anyone for over an hour for instance) you might still keep your job. There are avenues. The union will fight for you. There will be an investigation.
The only sure-fire way to an immediate and irrevocable dismissal is being accused of sexual or racial harassment. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. You are DONE. Guilty with no opportunity to be considered innocent. Your side of the story is irrelevant. The accusation is guilt.
Flying around with someone who has the inquisitional power to ruin your career, and destroy your livelihood if you offend them, is bound to make anyone a little more polite.
We are full with 2 laps (Infants.) Jumpseater up front with us. Female <
The jumpseater is skeletal and severe. Shellacked ponytail. Everything square and precise. Sounds like a female Ray Romano. Yin to the FCapt.’s Yang. FCapt is squat. Disheveled. Duster-length overcoat with no blazer or hat. Stringy hair. Looks like she slept in her clothes and brushed her hair last week with a garden rake. Her “out of cockpit” ensemble is accessorized with a brown mailbag purse slung crosswise like a courier.
Her only redeeming fashion quality is that if I walk far enough behind her, she just looks like a crazy bag lady with a lot of luggage.
She reads a lot. Highlander veined romance novels. Time travel, romance and swords. She’s married. Should probably introduce them to the World of Warcraft couple.
At cruise, Jumpseater Vampira nods off. I turn around to look. She has her shoulder harness on. Leaned forward in the straps. Head resting on her breastbone. Arms crossed, tucked into her armpits. I turn my head over a little. She looks like a bat hanging from the rafters. Stays like that for 3 hours. I want to take her picture but shucks, I forgot my phone.
Write “Bat skeleton” on my paper like some retiree keeping tabs at the dog track. Fucking pathetic. Manual override is not a viable alternate method for the Follies.
It is a LONG 5 hours to SFO. I jettisoned all my reading material after my last trip for the poor saps who had to fly over Christmas. There are selections in the “Library.” People, Us Weekly, In Style and People. Gifts from (for) the backend. I learn some irrelevant things I didn’t want to know about people I’d rather not be aware of. Nice shoes though. 4:30 to go.
FCapt. never yawns. Never moves. The Highlander’s skill with sword and shaft are evidently a good read. I get the nods. Punch myself in the head at irregular intervals to stay awake. Try to surprise myself. I consider busting pen to paper, but it seems queer. Can’t bring myself to do it. Seeing my chicken scrawl shakily caressing the idiocy of the Follies seems inappropriate. Like liver-spotted hands on a baseball bat.
Meet the return crew on the jetway in SFO. FCapt. F-FO. Some sort of common theme here. Can’t put my finger in it.
Day 2/3:
Sleep in till 0830. Don’t leave for the airport until 2245. The day is awash in possibility. Watch TV for 4 hours. Slough though the “International Operations” required reading. Watch Star Trek 3 and 4. Like seeing an old girlfriend at the mall. Fat. Sweatpants. Debilitatingly long crimson nails. Blutooth. (She was hot when we were dating. Swear.)
Take my new computer and walk the half mile to the gas station/coffee joint. Sit outside in the frigidity. Start the Follies. Forgot my feeble sheet of notes. Make it through the phone part and Ichabod. Fuck its cold. Walk back to the hotel.
Manage to do nothing for the rest of the day. Requisite 20 minute nap to offset the “flying all night.” The plane is an hour and a half late when we get to the gate. Sack out 5 minutes at a time until it shows up. Push for home at 0300 <
FCapt. recounts her trip to the mall. Spent 2 hours in the bookstore separating Highlander wheat from Highlander chaff. Went to the movies. Her hubby is looking forward to the second Alvin and the Chipmunks (The Squeakuel) but wouldn’t see “9” with her. Sounds like a good day. I got nothing. Went to the coffee shop. Day well spent.
Redeyes generally get back at o’dark 30. With any luck, you’re in bed before the sun comes up. We are an hour late when we land. Catch the 0900 bus. The sun is a wintery dim bulb. The bleary yolkish light is the perfect illumination of my joy at being caught in the daylight. Practice my vampire hiss on unsuspecting motorists. Home by 1000. My family already has the day partially assembled and I may as well power through.
– end of line.