“Well then, Rabbi, you probably know that those Imams lifted the death sentence on old Salmon.”
“Yeah, Charlie,” now smugly, “I’ve seen Rushdie interviewed a few times on those PBS interview shows.”
“Then you must have heard he’s just written another book?”
“No, No, I didn’t hear that.”
“Yeah,” Charlie informs me, Its called Buddha is a Fat Fuck!” Yul howls, I redden as I laugh, my ego sucked me into that one, and Pickles was masterful, as ever.
Yul and I were turned around upon our arrival in Paris, told by the Station Manager that we had to commercial to Athens. We had time to change into our commercial attire, sports jacket, tie, and slacks, and head for the first-class lounge. All our overseas repositioning of crew, “commercialing” is business class or better, when available.
Yul Leviv and I check into the lounge, now comfortably ensconced in plush couches, drinks in hand. “ Ve haff tree oors ‘till dee Olympic flight to Ahhthens,” Yul literally sprays this advise at me, taking another strong pull on his Absolut. “What?” I ask Yul repeats it, and this time I get it., we have three hours to kill. I’m half deaf, but Yul born in Europe and raised in Israel has an accent which defies anybody’s first hearing. The more you ask Yul to “say again,” the more excited he gets, and the worse it comes out. He spits his ‘plosives, to boot!
Yul’s an older man, with white, close-cropped hair and the lips of ‘froggy the gremlin.’ This will be the first time I’ve ever spent any private time with him. He quickly knocks back three more of the free double vodkas before we go to the gate. On the plane, Yul leans towards me to advise me, in confidence, “Portnoy iz a hamosexl!"
“What?”
“Portnoy,” he spits, “is a hammosex’l,” more spray, “Ee lives wid a mann, he haz breazts."
“Oh,” I say.
Yul leans back in his seat, satisfied now that he has alerted me to this crisis, and is at once asleep.
In Athens now, the young Greekin and reekin’ cab driver, excited to be driving two such distinguished Americans to their hotel, animatedly engages us in conversation. I’m conversing, Yul is snoring.
“How long will you be in Athens,” he asks? “About 16 hours.”
Not sure that he has used his English correctly, he repeats the questions, “No, no… How many days is your holiday in Athens, in Greece?”
Tired myself now, “Less than 16 hours.” I’m on autopilot now, trying to disregard the heavy Athens traffic, the hotel check-in process yet to come, the whole bag-drag were still faced with.
“What, you come to Athenie for, for less than one day? Why you do?”
“To eat at Chicken George’s,” I respond. Yul smiles at this, his eyes still closed, he is awake.
I have been truthful, though enigmatic with the taxi driver. After a shower and a nap, we will eat at Vasili’s place, known to the airlines as Chicken George’s. Whenever we layover in Athens, Chicken George’s is a must. Now I’m glad Yul is with me, since I’ve gotten lost trying to find the restaurant, on foot, the last few times I’ve been out here. It has no street address, and nobody knows the real name of the place, only that Vasili and his family run it, and that the food is terrific.
Sitting at Chicken George’s later that evening, we are stuffed. We’ve consumed barnyards of roast chicken, huge Greek salads, gallons of unsweetened ice tea. Rubbing my big belly, I confide, “I fly for food.” Yul agrees that he thinks that I do. Leaning forward, Yul says, “Have I told you that Portnoy is a hammosexl?”
We throw the chicken bones and leftovers to the stray dogs that lurk about the place, tired of shooing them and the aggressive hornets away from our food and sodas, we stumble tiredly back to our hotel.
Jeddah Contract
I’ve been keeping in touch with Geri primarily by FAX, with the occasional $100 phone call.
Our pilot pool is made up of former Continental, Pan Am, Eastern and Braniff guys, as well as old ‘freight dogs’ who never managed or cared to get on with a major carrier. Not one “scab” among us, were proud to say, enabling us our valued “jump-seat” privileges with other union airlines.
Since we are all “born-again virgins,” having had to start with Tower Air late in our careers, our pay is low. I’m making $65/hour in my fourth year with the company. This may seem like a lot of money to some, but Federal Aviation Regs. mandate “flying no more than 1000 hours a year". That means that I can’t make more than $65,000/year under ordinary circumstances. Thankfully, our contract provides for “deadhead” pay and extended duty pay (blood-money), which add a bit more to my salary. However, after taxes, hotel rooms in New York (our base), and meals/expenses on the road, our net income is still low. It hardly compensates us for being away from home an average of 20+ days a month, flying the world’s largest jet airplane on international routes.
Not at all the outside world’s perception of the rich airline pilot.
Geri has been desperately trying to reach me. Communications between “The World” and The Kingdom” are difficult, at best. I get a message from the front desk that a FAX awaits me at scheduling. A phone call to scheduling, across the compound, alerts me that, your wife wants you to call home, its an emergency.” The original FAX from Geri is days old! My heart in my mouth, not knowing who’s dead or dying, I try to call home. No answer at my home, none at my folks, nor at hers. I am in a panic, trying to remember my sisters’ phone numbers in Boston, and Neenah, Wisconsin.
After hours of trying, I reach my wife. Thank God nobody’s dead, it’s not that kind of an emergency. I normally pay the bills each month, but since I haven’t been home in months, Geri’s taken over that duty. During our last conversation, ten days earlier, she asked me “how much can I send out?” The fifteenth of the month was approaching. Knowing I had a terrific month, and should be receiving nearly $6000—this 15th, I instructed her to send out $3000—worth of checks, clearing our financial decks.
She tearfully explains that all our checks have been bouncing,” she has no cash for food, and the bank has been hitting us with $26 NSF charges for each bounced check, hundreds of dollars of extra charges, on top of the havoc to our credit with mortgage banks, credit card companies and the rest.
Seems that the new CEO at Tower Air, Terry Holcomb, has instructed payroll to withhold most of the money owed to the pilots and flight attendants, and only $1500 of what was due me was direct-deposited for me, against the $6000+ I was owed.
Mutiny. Twenty guys all with shortages between $4000 to $10,000, are in my same financial boat. Phone calls are made to the V.P. Ops and the Chief Pilot’s office. A petition is drafted and signed by all, implying that not a throttle will be moved until we are paid, and we are coming home now!
To be fair to Tower Air, I have to say that this was the first time the Company has ever been late with, or withheld pay. Its still not a good sign however, and I get home in time to have to deal with all this shit.
The Company cuts me a “personal loan” check for $3000 to tide me over “until we get this payroll mess straightened out…” (nobody yet admitting any intent), with a promise to reimburse us all for any NSF bank charges we’ve experienced. Joe Berry, on the flight home, says, “Tower Air isn’t a company, it’s an ‘Outfit’…and the ‘Outfit’ I’m gonna retire from, hasn’t even started yet!”
He is referring to all the “scumbag outfits” we’ve all collectively worked for in the past. We’re all holding our breath, not wanting to start over again, on the bottom of another ‘Outfits’ seniority list. Unlike other professionals with years of solid experience to sell elsewhere (pharmacists, lawyers, C.P.A.’s and such ), out-of-work, or unhappy pilots cannot up and leave for the same, or a better, situation. Chained to the Seniority System, an unemployed pilot, with 10,000 hours of hands-on experience lucky enough to be hired elsewhere, must start at the bottom of the new company’s seniority list, the lowest pay rate, in their worst city, flying the shittiest schedule.