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I put my car in time out for a week. Wife went back to SFO to throw a baby shower for her BFF. Had her car to drive, so I abandoned the awfulamobile in the driveway so the neighbors could bask in the glory. Told the kids daddy’s car had been bad and it was ok to hit it with sticks.
If I wasn’t sure it would be aggressively ignored like some stag girl slow dancing at prom with the PETA sign, I would have abandoned it at the <<Nearby town>> Pavilion (of crime) in hopes some sap with more balls than skill would harvest its flaccid organs. The image of pathetic, hand-whittled Mexican parts rusting on the murky shelves of some black-market parts chop shop fills me with dark hope.
Day 1:
It has cooled off with the rain. My mobile suck cocoon is now just moist instead of moist hot and sticky. Unfulfilling somehow. Real trouble looms if I try to take this thing into the icy season with no defrost or heat. <Meh> It’ll probably work itself out.
I’m halfway to the airport before I realize something’s missing. I count the lights: EPC, Check Engine, Driver’s Airbag, Low Coolant…..wait…? No beeps? The “Parking Brake” light is out. Man. It’s the sweet nectar of quiet. No beeps.
Too quiet. Turn on the radio. The beep disappearance may be an organized plot. The “Hot Surface” light on my electric stove has been on for a month. Noticed it too vanished yesterday. Not sure what the machines are trying to tell me, but if I ignore it, maybe they’ll fix more stuff.
The Capt. Franz Shaftenbrusier (not his real name), is beer-bellied, big and German. Slap some lederhosen on this guy and he’s a bouncer at Oktoberfest. I have a hard time with his glottal German accent. He has to repeat everything twice. Notice he’s wearing a Stupid Pilot Watch both Nadius and I probably still have in a drawer somewhere.
Going to see an old friend in LA. Old high school friend. A year ahead of me. Works as a developer for TV and film now. (Don’t know what that is.) I haven’t seen him in 13 years.
When he calls, I’m already outside like I’m waiting on a trick. (Just finished actually.) Pulls up in a massive Dodge Ram crew-cab truck that probably has shits larger than my Jetta.
Flannel shirt. Jeans. Cowboy boots. Rolex. He’s taller than I remember. Feral goatee gone full beard. Subtle fauxhawk that looks like it was sculpted in a tree shredder. Looks like he just rolled out of bed, but it cost a lot to get there.
We stop by Kinko’s so he can print out a script he just finished. We hand deliver it to a man who runs a writing/acting lab.
I’m excited to see the “writing/acting lab.” I picture a poorly lit/funded research facility where Michael Dudikoff clones relentlessly crossbreed typewriters with the 1985 Supercuts catalog in a desperate plot to produce American Ninja XXX – Enter the Closet.
No. Nothing so exotic. It’s an unassuming bungalow ranch house in Santa Monica. The writing/acting lab tech looks like he yanked off the ascot seconds before opening the door. Like it’s there in negative somehow. He’s holding a massive bulldog by the collar while we talk. The dog is a cube. A potato head dog. You could attach the parts in any orientation and it would look pretty much the same. I stare at the wheezing end.
Go to dinner. Catch up. He quit drinking 20 years ago. I have a hard time conceptualizing this. Like imagining life on the prairie in the 1700’s. Interesting, but it makes me tense somehow like I need to keep an eye out for bears. Give up. Order a beer.
He’s traveled around the world. Been to places I can’t connect to a specific continent much less country. Dating like mad. Stolidly not married. Was a model. Actor. Director. Producer. This whole life is totally alien. I’ve never even seen a screenplay. I get to ask him most of the questions I’ve always wanted to ask – What’s an executive producer? Well then what’s a producer? Oh. Then what does the director do? And what’s a shot list? How long does it take to make a movie?
I’m not printing the answers here because fuck you. Get your own Hollywood friend.
Day 2:
Manage to sleep in till almost 0730 west coast time. (A personal best.) Do some good in the luxurious gym. Half hour into cardio, I realize my towel smells like fish. The more I wipe the more rank it gets. Probably not me.
I want to ask someone to throw me a new one, but the gym is filled with men speaking rapid Spanish. Authentic somehow in their subtly foreign, soccer-themed gym clothes. I can’t remember the word for towel.
I get back to my room and shower. My bathroom towel smells like walnuts. If this is some sort of new olfactory dimension to customer service, I am not grooving on it.
On my way to the lobby, the elevators are faster. Efficient. And now speak with a light female German accent. I picture an elevator repair montage set to some jaunty synth music. Thick glasses, a soldering iron, lots if green light and many wipings of a high sweaty brow. Cross cut with the elevator programmer facing his fear of elevators on an analyst’s couch with a lot of hand gestures. Maybe a victory fist at the end as the elevator doors slide shut on his ride of redemption.
In the airport, Capt offers to buy me coffee.
‘No thanks. I’m trying to quit.’
“Really?”
‘Yeah. Too expensive. And when 6-12 shots a day make you sleepy it’s probably time to cut back.’
“You sure?”
‘Well. Maybe a small wouldn’t hurt.’
“You don’t want the Venti?”
‘Sure. Why not.’
It’s iron will like mine that inspired the Rascal and the grabber stick.
A 40ish woman with a severe ponytail and glasses that suggest one of the -ologist careers that doesn’t require medical school, is chatting with the Capt. at the condiment bar. Something in her posture is vibrating. I can’t put my finger on it. Her upper arms are jiggling, but that’s not it. Like she’s on serious speed but stripping the gears to keep it in 4-Wheel Low.
“I’m glad pilots go thru security.”
‘Pardon?’
“I’m glad pilots go thru security. I was just in Ghau-TE-MAH-lah and wow. They don’t even HAVE security by our standards.”
—— I’ve written it phonetically to try and convey how corrosively annoying it sounds when people say Guatemala with a Spanish accent to indicate they were so enlightened by their visit, they are now duty bound to slather on a little accent, like the indigenous. (Because they SPEAK Spanish.)
Like saying “Seeneoor Froog’s” with an accent when you’re on vacation in Mexico, because you’ll get better directions. (Something I can’t seem to stop doing.)
I say ‘Hmmm’ and wander off to let the Capt. field this one. It takes a few minutes.
On the plane, the Capt. has chocolate. After 8 Mints. The FAs love it. I think it’s a bit creepy but I eat em anyway. It would be physically impossible for him to Ruffie-man-love me in the cockpit without my active participation. And I never kiss on the first trip.) So the worst that would probably happen is a long nap. Mmmmmmmm minty.
One of the FAs comes back up to tell us the other FA was unappreciative of the mints and sent her up to ask if we had any chocolate with nuts in it. “No I didn’t!” You want the nuts!”
I can’t help it.
‘Ladies. Calm down. Our nuts are enough for both of you. But you were tattling and you were rude. Go sit in time out. No desert for bad girls.’ They are both in their 50s and luckily find this hysterical. Thank you sexual harassment wood nymphs! (You really don’t want the nymphs mad at you.)
He’s flying us into DEN. Blows the completely visual join for 35L by a half a mile. Doesn’t look up and notice till I say ‘Wow we blew right thru that.” We’re lined up for the middle of the airport.
Day 3:
Snowing when I aim my bleary orbs at the morning. Go to the gym. Nothing but cardio gear so I don’t have to feel like a pussy for not lifting weights.
After, I can’t remember what room I’m in. Try every door on my end of the 3rd floor. Mumbling to myself. Trying to look like a harmless sweat-drenched Wookie for the freaked out peephole peepers whose rooms I’m trying to key into. What the hell?? Did my key expire?
Ooze down to the lobby. 5th floor. Not 3rd. Right area. Wrong floor. Golly that was fun. All the cool kids are doing it these days.
Headed to MCO, the Chief Pilot is on our jumpseat. The Capt. seems nervous. Keeps making little mistakes. Don’t want to call him out with the big man on the bench, but he’s planning to burn a lot of extra gas based on a bad assumption that we will be too heavy to land in MCO.
He’s not getting it. I’ve tried 3 times. Try and give it to him from one last vantage point, like “Flip the turtle over. See? There’s the asshole? Right there next to the tail.” He finally gets it. The computer was programmed incorrectly. Good to go.
Getting ready for SJU, a tiny beautiful doll of a 4 year old comes up to the cockpit. Stays for 20 minutes. Her mom just goes on to her seat. Put her in my seat. Show her the cargo fire test. She does it over and over. Takeoff configuration horn. Over and over. GPWS test. Over and over. “How do you fly this? Can I fly? Can we go now?” Tell her I don’t think she can reach the rudder pedals. “Yes I can!” Push the seat all the way up. Her little sandals barely reach the edge of the seat.
Fucknut Schnitzlesnacker coughs up a little child-geared optimism, “I think your mommy left. Got off the plane.” I’ve already thumped him in the head with the paperwork before I realize I’ve done it. ‘Don’t say that!! Are you crazy?!?’
“I thought you wanted your seat back.” He says sheepishly. He doesn’t have kids. Except for that one back in Germany, and she never proved it was his.
The little girl is scared now. Clambering over the center pedestal like a monkey loose in a space capsule. ‘It’s ok sweetie. Your mom’s right back there. You can stay if you want to.’
She immediately plops back down in my seat and starts playing with switches. Capt. gets up to go to the head. She climbs down, scurries around the pedestal and climbs into his seat. “Can we go now? How do you fly it?” Eventually I pry her out of the seat and send her back.
Cute.
New set of FAs for the SJU leg. Annette, Angel and Brian. Capt. Says it sounds promising. Tell him not to get his hopes up. “Angel” could go either way.
Snake eyes.
Angel is male, short, round, bald, Puerto Rican with designer glasses and an implausible case of heterosexuality. Two daughters 12 and 7? I ask him what his wife does cause I can’t make ‘straight’ fit in the ‘gay’ hole. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
Not much going on in the Caribbean tonight. They clear us to the outer marker for runway 10 in San Juan. 900 miles out.
Capt. and I change and head out to The Brickhouse for some wings and beer. He buys. Good wings.
Walk around searching for new bars. Cobblestones, strobed green and blue from the prowling police cars. Buildings tightly packed, and festooned with rusting iron balconies. Narrow pastel alleys surging with trumpets and galloping congas. Thick, rain dense smells of spicy food and piss compete for the olfactory spotlight. Fabric of foreign cool.
We walk for a while. He stops two cops to ask where the bars might be. One gives us directions to The Pink Spot. Pink awning. Cliché techno and lots and lots of dudes. Maybe we should stop holding hands. Keep walking. It’s hot and raining off and on. We sweat a lot. Gunter is about 6’5″ and pushing 270. He looks waxy and not well. We find a bar with girls and air conditioning. Order rum drinks.
We don’t quite click. His accent is still hard for me. The music is loud so I just give up and laugh and nod a lot. Works about 60% of the time. If he stares at me I know I probably missed the mark.
‘Wait. What was that you just said?’
Day 4:
0406. The world ends. I wear earplugs to sleep. Simple solution to hotel mayhem. Other guests can thump and bump until animal control confiscates the sheep, and I am blissfully picking up z’s and putting ‘em down.
The fire alarm is so loud, I sit bolt upright in the dark with my right arm sticking straight out in an ‘evil monkey’ for no particular reason. Hurts my ears even with the plugs. Repeats a couple times and shuts off. Figure if it were a real fire, the alarm would continue, so I flop back down and make sure I didn’t just shit the bed.
Just as I’m drifting off into a fairly vicious nightmare, the bomb goes off again. Now I’m pissed. Get up and get not naked. Make sure my important shit is in my man purse in case this is for real. It’s 0430. Yank open the door to give the hallway a piece of my mind. Compare belly fur with the guy across the hall. (Mine is more luscious.) Back to bed.
10 Minutes later a single warbling screech rips my ears. The front desk announces (loudly) in English then Spanish that they are investigating the source of the alarm and evacuation is not necessary. 10 minutes after that the screech is followed by a bilingual apology for the malfunction and a suggestion that we should “resume our regular activities.”
Fuck.
I drift off a while later. Some subtle change makes me open my eyes. Its utterly pitch black. There’s always some light leakage from somewhere. Under the door. The clock. The window. The bathroom. Something. I might as well be in the gimp hood. I can’t see anything. This is more scary than the fire alarm for some reason and I bolt upright again.
Fucking power failure. Comes back on after a few minutes. Now the clock is brightly strobing 12:00 12:00 12:00 to herald the hotel’s return to the 21st century. Can’t figure out how to set it in the dark, so I just shove it off the night stand. Now it’s mocking me from the floor. 12:00! 12:00! 12:00! 12:00!
Fuck.
Tired for some reason when the fire alarm scares the shit out of me again at 0815. This one of those rare occasions when I realize the only thing that will salvage my day is exercise, and somehow scrape up enough gumption to actually follow through. Don’t remember most of it.
In the van, a Sprit Airlines FA and her daughter are headed home after a little vacation. She’s based in FLL now, used to be based in DET. I’m feeling sleep addled and spry, so I pipe in with, ‘The thing I love most about Detroit is it’s really really far away from where I live.” Her daughter still lives there. Polite smiles from the Detroitians. Score one for the good guys.
The Capt. has been going on for days about this chicken place in the airport. Sounds good. I’m hungry and the unrefrigerated sandwiches I made 4 days ago are a bit of a gamble at this point. The place is a washed out cacophony of yellow and smells like boiled goat asses, which I would definitely chow on before trying the anything from the spinning poultry-cicles in the rotisserie.
“What are you getting?” He asks.
‘I’m good.’ He seems genuinely disappointed.
As I’m stowing my kit in the cockpit, I look down and there are a pair of sunglasses on the floor between the seat track and the bulkhead. WTF? They look like my sunglasses?? They ARE my sunglasses! The plane flew from SJU to MCO and back. Two crews. No one noticed, stole or crushed them. We almost never get the same plane 2 days in a row. The odds of me finding MY glasses intact and unscratched are about the same as finding a crackhead under the jumpseat. Fairly low in other words. It’s a tight fit.
There’s a woman on the plane with a 3 month old. She was headed to Detroit and got on the wrong plane. When she checked in, they gave her the wrong boarding pass. TSA, herself and the gate agents failed to notice that “Shannon Whitman” doesn’t really rhyme with “Ralph Palmer,” or that “San Juan” doesn’t sound a whole lot like “Detroit.”
Said she heard the announcement (5 times) that this was the San Juan flight but wasn’t really paying attention. (NO!) 4 hours to SJU. 4 hours back to <<HOME>>. 4 hour wait for the next DET flight. 2 hours to DET. A 15 hour tale of air travel frivolity that should keep her dateless for the next decade or so. Thanks for flying with us Ralph.
– end of line.