DISCLAIMER: Follies are not a significant source of vitamin C. Don’t exceed 4 (four) follies in a 24 hour period. For external use only. Don’t scratch.
Day 1:
Drive to work. Car sucks syphilitic goats. Yadda yadda yadda. Check in for what was supposed to be a simple 1815 single leg to IND. Low clouds and mist hover menacingly over <<HOME>>. If you were an alien observing the airport’s reaction to shoddy weather, you’d have to assume clouds were poisonous. “A cloud! Run!”
My flight is delayed 3 and a half hours. The plane won’t even be here until 2000. I would rather get eyeballs tattooed on my nuts than hang out in the crew lounge for 3 hours and listen to the bitching. Get my gear and head for the international concourse. It’s usually pretty deserted. Buy a tea. Iced tea, (Since I gave up coffee.) Find an Air France gate. 200+ seats. Maybe 10 people in the area. Perfect.
Find a set of 3 seats on the end, in the corner with a table to my right. Nest up and start watching “The International” on my phone. Could be worse. Oh wait. Here it comes. Old doughy German man. Ruddy complexion. Breathing heavy. I fumble with pausing the movie and pulling an ear bud as he walks up, so he can ask me his question.
He doesn’t have a question. “No no nothing. Carry on.” The fucker sits down with one seat between us. A wide open gate. 200+ seats and Sgt. Shultz plops down right next to me on my little set of 3 chairs.
Kicks his feet out. Crosses his arms. Closes his eyes. (You’ve got to be shitting me.) His whole body is flushed. Stained cheap grey slacks. Hiker-tennies of indeterminate make and model. His metal watch band is so tight, pink skin is peeking out of the dimple furrow.
He can’t sleep. Sits up. Pulls out a blocky, dense and somehow European-looking cell phone. Reads some mail. Shakes his head a few times. Gestures at the screen. Leans back. Sits up again. Shakes his head at his phone. Reads some more. Types some. Sits back. Sits up. Types some more. (Possibly in an attempt to draw me into his experience.) I watch my movie feeling claustrophobically disinterested in his plight.
I want to move. (Or punch him in the ear.) I look longingly at the hundreds of other open seats. But fuck this guy, I was here first.
He keeps looking over at my movie. It’s fun cause my phone is propped up on my hat in my crotch. Then he’s looking over as I finally pause the movie to jot down this section on the unique douchey differences between American and European personal-space defaults.
He’s been sitting next to me for an hour now. Fucking hell! Breaks into his bag to fish out a candy bar. This takes several minutes. His rooting is shaking our set of seats like a little row boat in rough seas the whole time. I can hear his chewing over the ear buds. I can feel it through the shared structure of our seats.
I can’t take it. Give up and gather up my stuff. Off to the boy’s room. Back to the food court to get another tea. Iced tea. The live piano player in the atrium is playing “Sometimes When We Touch” with jaunty enthusiasm. Fitting. Go back to the same gate. Shultz is still there. Sit “somewhere – fucking – else” by way of demonstration.
Pick a set of 2 chairs – table, 2 – chairs. Golden. As I’m re-nesting, a 20-something walks up escorting an old man. The old man is animatedly trying to finish a story before they cross the invisible threshold between going and arrived. I know immediately the man is going to sit next to me. Something in the eagerness of his voice demands that the story continue, and I am in uniform. “Sorry to hear about your health problems. Aside from that it sounds like you had a nice vacation. This is your gate. Nice to meet you.” The young guy says, and shakes his hand goodbye.
When the old man does finally disengage from his escort and sit down next to me I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s an EU thing. He has a head of frothy white hair. His brows are permanently fixed in shocked surprise. The lines in his forehead don’t go up or down while he talks. They just get a little deeper. The story resumes at the beginning. He took a bus and a train to get to Heathrow.
73 year old Mr. Nicholson from Exeter U.K. was chief flight instructor for Exeter Airfield. Quit to become a Counsel (Lawyer?) When he arrived in the Colonies on holiday, Mr. Nick rented a car. (You probably think this will end with your typical “Old Brit on the wrong side of the road” catastrophe.)
No.
In one of those rare synaptic catastrophes where you end up with an embarrassing story about where you got that scar, he pranged it into the flip up anti-theft gate doing about 20 (after destroying all four tires on the spikes.) No problem sir. Here’s a new car. He does it again. Puts it in drive. Straight into a wall. They let him keep that one.
The whole trip he was worried they’d stick him with the repair bill. Tell him I don’t think it counts if you never made it off the lot. He’s relieved.
He’s returning to Mother England for a fortnight to sell his house. In two weeks he starts commercial truck-driving school in New Orleans. Doesn’t think he’ll have any trouble because the trucks are automatic and he has an automatic in the garage. Has a spot of bother ending up on the correct side of the road after turning a corner, but that will probably work itself out.
As he’s telling me this, he’s sort of slouched sideways in his seat, but his hands are clasped over his belly opera singer style. His posture is weirdly formal. Like he tipped over teachings history class. He’s drooling on the lapel of his jacket. (Enthusiasm drool not invalid drool.) There are coffee stains on his shirt. A little drop of spit is making its way down his right cheek but too chicken to jump. I try not to look at it.
He tells me of planes he’s flown and places he’s been. There’s more to the story. A lot more. But I have to go. He’s a nice man, and I know I have to, but I don’t want to shake his hand. He’s been wiping the spittle and drool with that hand. Fuck it. I shake his hand. It’s wet. I manage not to shudder. I have to stop when I’m out of sight and wipe my hand on my pants. Can’t suppress a little neck heave.
Get back to the gate and the arriving plane is now delayed till 2115. Wander down to the crew room. There’s only one Capt. present so I go ask him if he’s my guy. Yup.
I get an immediate micro-manager vibe, but he seems ok. I ask him if we’ve flown together. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember you.”
‘Oh. You’d remember me. I’m pretty awesome.’ That seems to break the ice.
We finally push for our one leg to IND 4 hours late. Already had minimum rest. Curious what will happen to tomorrow. Get a message to call scheduling on arrival.
Sometimes you eat the bear. Sometimes the bear eats you (with a little grape jelly and ball cupping.) Our whole day 4 has vanished. Now instead if getting home Tuesday at 2200, we get done Monday at 1530. 3 legs. 2 days. Still get paid for all that flying we’re not doing on day 4. Thanks Mr. Bear! That was amazing! Can I get your number?
Day 2:
Up early enough for the gym. The van smells like body odor. Impossibly bad. Maybe it was imported used from one of the sandy countries where bathing is considered unmanly. The 2 coconut fragrance trees do not have the authority or weaponry to quash the stench. Like a crossing guard trying to thwart an armed robbery with the hand-held stop sign.
Uneventful ride to MCO. Storm on the field when we arrive. You can see it. Rain tendrils like a fat grey jellyfish. Drifting west to east. The eastern most runway is clear. No reported wind shear or high winds. Just rain. I shoot it. Land and pull off and the storm hits us like wet burlap. Now there are reports of shear +/- 20kts all over the field.
2 hour sit. I go out to the NASA store to find my son a patched-up pilot jacket for Christmas. Find a better one back in the toy store with all kinds of fighter patches and NASA stuff on it. Get chicken wings at Outback and smile greasily at the other patrons.
Finally on the plane for LA, two high school football players come up. Want a picture. I show them stuff. “Do you really have to touch all these switches?”
‘I’m not even sure what most of these do. I think those are the ejection seats. No. It’s probably those.’
The flight is into the setting sun for 5 hours. Put my seat all the way down like a child in the driver’s seat. About 3 hours in we take turns in the lav.
I come out of the lav, stretch and reach for the interphone to call the cockpit. We’ll call her Cougra. (Early 50’s. Energetic. Not tall. Not hot.) Asks me if I need anything. Makes a Vanna White sweep of the galley.
‘No…. I’ve had it all.’
“Really?”
‘Yeah.’
“You have?”
‘Have what?’
“Had it all?” I look over the snacks once more to be sure.
‘Yeah I’m good.’
It’s at this point that I notice she’s drawing the fingernails of her right hand up and down between her cleavage. I look (which I assume was the point). Look up. She’s looking at me with something more than professional interest.
I am mostly immune to the idea that FAs might hit on me. I throw off this extremely married vibe I guess. And there are younger fitter models everywhere. Why would you bother with a truck like me? Unless it’s some sort of fetish thing. (Not totally true, the elderly think I’m the bee’s knees.) Maybe she’s older than she looks. I’m about 60% sure she didn’t have an itch.
We all walk to the hotel in LA. Cougra asks what everyone is doing. I’ve already done the math. We have 12 hours on the ground. Up early and it’s 2300 <<HOME>> time. I’m going to bed. Plus I follow a very simple credo when it comes to this sort of shit. If my wife doing the same thing would piss me off, I don’t do it. Cougra says she’s going to the crew lounge.
Day 3:
Wake up in the dark. Clock says it’s 0645. WTF??!! I’m supposed to be downstairs at 0645! Where’s my alarm? Where’s my wakeup call? I just sort of vibrate for a few seconds. The clock is an hour and 20 minutes fast. That was fun. I leave it set wrong so the next guy can enjoy the hilarity.
I’m playing with the touch info screen in the lobby, waiting on the Capt. Someone punches me in the arm. Hard for a child. It’s Cougra.
“Missed you last night.”
‘Did you go down to the lounge?’
“No. My boo called. He left his wife.”
‘Who called?’
“My boo.”
‘Your Beau?’
“Yeah.”
‘Do you mean your son or your boyfriend?’
“My boyfriend!”
‘Oh. Well I guess that’s good news then.’
“No! I’m not ready for that level if commitment!”
‘So he’s not staying with you then.’
“If that’s what he thinks he’s in for a shock.”
That does sound like fun.
– end of line.