DISCLAIMER: This Folly is categorized as a class 8 corrosive substance under CFR 49 Part 172. Hazardous Materials controls are in effect. Do not spill this on sensitive people you don’t know.
Day 1:
Up at 0515. Get ready in the dark. Wade through a cacophony of really unnecessarily loud toys. My car has decided to go for broke in the “Shittiest Conveyance on the Planet” competition. AC has eloped back to Mexico with the oxygen sensor for the catalectic converter. The transmission is lonely and rattle-sobs whenever I push in the clutch. I hate my car.
At check in I discover the first leg is a deadhead to MCO. At least I can sleep on the way down. Gate agent gives me an aisle seat. I don’t like sitting on the aisle, so I plant myself by the window and close my eyes. “That’s mine.” Open my eyes. Self inflicted high and tight. (Look ma no mirror!) Velour shirt. Randy Jackson wrist clock. Cargo pants. He looks like he’s about to say, “Torturing small animals doesn’t really do it for me anymore.” I’m not about to argue with a watch of that magnitude. I move to my aisle seat.
I close my eyes again so I don’t have to say ‘hi’ or nod to every single passenger. If I hear one more joke about how you can’t fly the plane from back here, I’m going to start biting kneecaps. Just as I’m drifting off someone hauls off and punches me in the face. I see stars. A mumuamorph with a clear plastic purse the size of gym bag has clocked me and apparently everyone in front of me judging from the crop of stares sunflowering her passage. She is winded from the safari from row 1 to 11, and it’s a long way to 15. I let it go.
As is my custom, I fall asleep at the gate and wake up at wheels up.
Meet up with the Capt. in Orlando. He looks older, but is probably younger than me. About a 6 on the Coiffer Scale. Fair amount of product. Perfectly groomed hair. Hat stuffed in his bag because he doesn’t want to muss the magnificence, but is too much of a pussy to leave it at home on the off chance he’ll be spotted by management. But overall, pretty chill.
We exchange first date pleasantries at cruise for SJU. He’s divorced. (No surprise). No kids. (Surprise.) Lives in Southern Florida. Trying to capitalize on the “Cash for Clunkers” program by buying a clunker and trading it in on a new Porsche. Enthusiastically strange-fucking his way through his early 40’s. Pretty standard really. The miles between SJU and then BWI pass in a whimsical potpourri of tedium.
Day 2:
Early show. End up in San Diego. Capt. has a friend pick us up. His Mercedes is nicer than the hotel shuttle. They both say “dude” a lot. We go to the Hilton. The girl at the front desk asks what name our reservation is under. I resist the urge to look down at my uniform in a “Join me in not being retarded” gesture. Turns out we stay at the Sheraton now. Would have known that had I bothered to read my pairing. Back in the car. Drive 2 doors down. The Sheraton van driver is still waiting for us at the airport.
Call my cousin-in-law. (We’ll call him Kurt since it’s his real name.) Year 2 at SD state. First apartment. Requisite trip to Ikea with The Keeper of the Credit Card. I tag along for 3 hours of well lit Swedish efficiency.
Cram the bed/couch, bureau, bookshelf, desk and lamps into Mom’s X3 and origami in around the boxes for the ride to the apartment. Lots of stairs for carrying heavy boxes. It dawns on me that I really didn’t think this through.
3 bedrooms built on 2/3 human scale. The whole place is probably less than 900 sq. ft. Diorama of off-campus malaise. Lots and lots of brown. I force myself to not hunch. The wildly gyrating ceiling fan makes the pull bobs jiggle in a disturbingly organic way.
Clickclickclickclickclick…… I decide a demonstration of manly prowess is in order. Break the seal on his first all-in-one tool kit. (Moment of reverent silence.) Pull the blades and housing. Tighten things that are already tight. Put it back together. I think it’s worse now. Reward myself with a few of the roommate’s beers.
They drop me back at the hotel. I call my ex-sister-in-law. Her boyfriend gave me one of my most cherished possessions. He works for the Girl Scouts. Last year they had a 6 week mustache growing contest to raise money for underprivileged girls to attend camp. He took first place. They all got shirts. He gave me his. It has a huge glorious “Sellek” on the front and says “Mustaches for Girl Scouts!” bannered underneath. Breathtaking. People stare at me a lot. We decide to go to dinner.
I wait outside with my gift of Tecate. The Capt. and buddy return from an ill fated afternoon troll. It’s a bad catch. They may be new to heterosexuality. Just because it’s on the hook doesn’t mean you should eat it: 2 Shetland muffin-tops teetering on stacked heels and sheathed in an alarming amount of matching bedazzled denim. They don’t speak so good English.
I suggest a little background C-Span as a counterbalance to what is clearly shaping up to be a titanic lapse in faculty and judgment. Make a mental note to wipe down the controls tomorrow.
Day 3:
Capt. recounts a disturbing tale of dual queen bed parallel penetration. Consider putting in for OJI based on mental trauma. He has those kissey zits near his mouth you get from making out with bacon.
On with Chicago Center, we get this:
“<<Callsign>> xxx, for traffic turn left heading 010.” We do. Then, “<<Callsign>> xxx you’re not going to believe this, for traffic come further left heading 008.”
‘……. Ok.’
“Can you believe the next controller wouldn’t take the handoff unless I turned you another 2 degrees? Welcome to Chicago.”
Slam dunk descent from ATC to cross EEG (a navigation fix) at 19,000. VNAV says its 4500 feet per minute to target. We hit 5200fpm. That’s coming down at a mile a minute for you lay-folk. I can hear people and things rolling into the cockpit door. Cleared for the visual approach too close to the airport at 7000 feet. (“Visual” means “we got from here.”) Another slam dunk. I sing “I’m gonna put down the gear” to the tune of “Singing in the Rain” The Capt. laughs.
‘No seriously. Gear down.’
Get holding going into LGA. We have no assigned alternate, and no scheduled hold fuel, so we don’t have gas for this. I fucking hate the northeast. We orbit for about fifteen minutes. Maybe 5 minutes from bingo, controller clears us right 360 direct. Making the airplane turn 360 with the autopilot on is absurdly labor intensive. Get a BLEED TRIP OFF. (The air we siphon off the engine to run the air conditioning is too hot or under too much pressure, on one side.) Reset it. Trips again. Won’t reset. Write it up on the ground.
At the hotel, Capt. wants to go to Joey’s Place for a night cap, a sports bar not far away. 2 of the FAs want to go too. I change and head for the lobby. Wait for the Capt. for about ten minutes. Call his room. He’s not going. Maybe vanquishing crabs with the shampoo and little comb routine is more time consuming than I thought.
Joey’s is narrow, dark and loud. The jukebox has a startling variety. Someone puts on the Michael Keaton era Batman theme. Affixed to the bar is a very loud Jack. Jack is very drunk. Jack is an engineer. (HVAC) Jack is Irish. (Born in Belfast. Moved to Queens when he was 11.) Jack is short and smokes Parliaments. Jack clearly knows something about women that I don’t because he tees off into the flight attendants with, “You 2 girls lesbians? Which one of you is a lesbian? You girls are so fucking hot. What are your fucking names?” Jack cannot retain their names. I stop counting after he asks for their names again for the12th time. “I love that fucking bra strap.”
Jack plays golf. Shot an 81 this morning. Lets it slip that he holds the club crossover.
‘Wait. What? Why the fuck would you do that?’
“It’s from hurling.” He doesn’t look bulimic.
‘What?’
“Hurling.” He says by way of explanation.
‘You mean that Canadian game with the brooms?’
“Nah. That’s Curling.”
‘What. Is. Hurling?’
Says it’s an Irish game from Celtic times. Sort of cross between Rugby and Lacrosse. I don’t believe him. Barring Aboriginal Beetle Jousting, I thought I had heard of most real sports. Borrow the FA’s phone to look it up since I forgot mine. (Blackberries suck balls by the way.) It’s true. It’s a fucking weird game, but it’s true. Jack demonstrates his signature crossover chopping move repeatedly, as though this will jar something loose in my addled mind and I will know what the fuck he’s talking about.
Ever the tactician, Jack soldiers on in his romantic campaign on the FAs. “You got a boyfriend? What’s his name?” Turns out the boyfriend’s name is Kelly. This is unfortunate because Jack likes this name and the girls get to take turns being Kelly now. “You need to brush your teeth!” He advises the Kelly who looks like Marsha Brady from about 10 feet away. The bar is loud, so he almost screams this. I look at Marsha to see if she’s ready to go home with him now. What do I know? It’s been a long time since I dated. Maybe this kind of shit drives the ladies wild nowadays.
Nope.
He makes “fill my dog dish” head bobs at his beer. I buy him a round. The bartender looks me like I’m a big boy and if I want to stick my dick in the blender, well that’s my business. 2 bald black guys are sitting next to Jack, and I’m feeling chatty.
‘Can I ask you something? How often do you have to shave your head?’
“Bout every 4 days.”
‘You do it yourself?’
“Nah. I go to the barbershop.”
Jack is making ludicrous kill switch cuts across his throat with his thumb and staring at me like I just said, “My family used to own your family.’ I’m curious how many times he can shout “Are you out of your fucking mind??!” at the top of his lungs before the black guys notice. Apparently it’s more than 5.
I order a whiskey. Marsha (Kelly #2) wants to try it. It’s like watching a child drink Drano. If it’s possible to make a more disgusted face and not vomit, I haven’t seen it. I think she might have enjoyed “2 Girls One Cup” just a little bit more.
Day 4:
Spend a long time in the gym because we don’t leave for home until 1800. A guy comes in to use the treadmill. He must work here because I’ve seen him before. Black fanny pack over a black pair of those pegged workout pants that were the height of douche strength fashion in 1988. Black Reebok hi-tops with the little ankle straps dangling. Black wife beater. Long slick ponytail. A cut version of Steven Segal.
I don’t know what virulent strain of ferocious optimism is required to leave the house like this, but I’ll bet it can be surgically removed.
– end of line.