“What’s the slight hang-up, Sheamus?”
“I can’t seem to get in touch with my partner, Paco.”
“What’s Paco’s last name?”
“Rodriquez something, or Gonzales something…”
“Oh.”
When we arrive, Paris is ecstatic. The timing of our 48 hour layover includes France winning the World Cup, and the Bastille Day celebration in one shot. France explodes in double celebration, and we join the jubilant crowds on the Champs Elysee, cheering the bus carrying their hero soccer team. An outpouring of millions of people, greater than the liberation of Paris during World War II. Sheamus is “up,” having fully recovered from his riches to rags descent. We have great big bowls of garlic mussels at a favorite restaurant, fabeyeux!
Next week, back in New York, Sheamus is trying to get me to invest in a new venture… Its seed money, baby, just chump change.”
“How much are you talking about, Sheamus?”
This during a five minute break from Recurrent Ground School training, two boring days of torture, conducted by Engineer-cum-asshole Bruce Quinn, everybody’s “hero.” Word about Bruce’s inability to tell whether the gear was down and locked going into Islamabad, had traveled quickly. This class he was just slightly less of an asshole, apparently embarrassed that everybody knew about his “incident.”
It seems that Sheamus is in lust again, another Indonesian Kupu-kupu he met on the last Hajj. He’s keeping her in a Hotel in Kuala Lumpur, and has lost a ton of flesh, he’s down to dating weight. He pulls me close, we’re now alone in the hallway, whispering, “I’m thinking of bringing her into the country, down to Miami, and into my home. Tell my wife that she’s the new maid, just got her from some Indonesian Au Pair service. Rabbi, I talk to her every day on the phone….I’m teaching her three new words a day…. today’s words were ‘dog,’ cat,’ and ‘blowjob’.”
“You’re not a real pilot, Sheamus.”
“What?” Sheamus taken aback.
“That’s right. A real pilot would bring the girl into his home and tell the wife that now she (the wife) is the cleaning lady.” I turn back to the classroom as I watch Sheamus’ mouth drop open.
Home
Home, at last, this is going to be a good one, a long one, the flying has slowed some. I’ve resolved to be more gentle, less controlling, in my relationship with Geri and Kiley.
Were a one-car family, and we like it that way. Geri has picked me up at the Jax airport, and the ride home has been light, pleasant banter. No bullshit yet about money problems, or the honey do’s that need to get done around the house. Geri drops me at home, and returns to work.
Showering, scrubbing off the dust of a few continents, I change into shorts and a t-shirt. I get the washer started, and Emma, our male cat, is suddenly underfoot, rubbing, walking between my legs. Following his castration a few years back, Emma has become heavy and lazy, sleeping on his back in the sun after meals. I’ll never forget coming home and Kiley, all of about four-years-old then, rushing out to confide to me… “Daddy, daddy, Emmie had his balls cut off today!”
“You’re a chow-hound, Emma,” I accuse. If you overeat, Mommy’s gonna be all over me…but you’re wounded…and I know how to take care of veterans,” as I fork more tuna into Emma’s dish.
I find that I’m talking to the cat more often, enjoying the conversation, but wondering if there’s something wrong with me. I dismiss it, I’m content at being home.
“There was this Princess, who was a prisoner of a wicked Sultan…” Kiley’s rapt, I’ve got her attention. “…to save her life this princess, Sheherezad, comes up with a plan. She starts telling these very interesting stories, one each night, to her evil captor. All morning long this Sultan keeps thinking of last night’s story, and by afternoon, he can’t wait for tonight’s new tale. So Sheherezad comes up with 1,001 tales.” I’m driving Kiley to school, a morning ritual which we both love. If you want, I’ll get the book out of the library, and well read it together at night.” Another of our rituals…. I usually fall asleep faster than she does, but not before she elbows me awake a few times…"Dad!…DAAAAAD!”
Kiley says that “yes,” she’d like to read those stories with me.
On one condition,” I put to her, that you let me play one of my ‘uckie’ CD’s for you afterwards, called “Sheherezad,” by Rimsky-Korsakov.” Kiley laughs, knowing that she’s being taken. “After we read some of those stories, I want you to close your eyes while you listen to some of the music.”
Its a deal,” she says, high-fiving me as she gets out of the car.
“Parent pick-up,” I call after her. She smiles, and waves, she knows its parent pick-up when Fm home.
Kiley loves ‘Bare-Naked Ladies’ and ‘Mambo #5,’ and tolerates my Italian opera as I make pancakes and bacon for her and her sleep-over buddies on the weekends.
“I need to hear Italian opera when I cook,” I explain. “I can’t cook without Italian Opera.”
Kiley comes up to me, looks me in the eyes lovingly, and says, “Dad, I’ll never understand you.” Then she wraps her arms around me, hugs me and kisses my shoulder.
“I love my wife!” …Pilot humor…
Temptation
“Geri is a wonderful, beautiful person. We’re very lucky, because we were loving friends for a few years first, having been partners with other people in a group for about five couples. We all partied with each other all the time. Then we discovered that we loved each other.”
I was the only passenger in first class, and the flight attendant on this short flight to Atlanta seems genuinely interested. She had initially commented on my wedding ring, telling me how beautiful the three colors of gold looked. Then she got me talking about my wife.
“After a few years, my marriage to Ilsa had broken down” I continue. “Geri’s relationship with Larry ended, and we realized that we were in love with each other. It sounds messy, but it wasn’t,” I explain, “There was never any hanky-panky beforehand.”
The flight attendant, an attractive thirty-something with real class, seems mesmerized, fascinated to meet a pilot who loves his wife and is actually monogamous.
As we begin our descent into Atlanta the lady straps herself in, asking if I’d like to join her for a drink at her hotel this evening. Not at all suspicious of her motives, I explain that I start reserve at midnight, and have to get back to my crashpad, but thanks.
“There’s a phone in my room,” she chides. The elevator in my brain finally reaches the top floor…her remark means (a) I’m invited to her room, not just the hotel cocktail lounge, and (b) the offer of the phone suggests I’m invited to spend the night.
I am flustered, I just spent forty-minutes enjoying the telling of my personal love story to this woman. A tale of fate, good fortune and faithfulness, and I am now being asked to spend the night cheating on my wife.
“Thanks anyway, some other time,” I say, graciously allowing that she just wanted to continue the conversation.
“Okay, well nice meeting you,” she concludes.
A few weeks later, I’m in San Francisco, returning from dinner to my room. In the corridor, a girl is carrying an ice bucket.
“I know you,” she smiles, “the pilot who’s faithful to his wife.”
“Right,” I respond, trying to remember her name.
“Joan,” she says sticking out her hand and rescuing me, “and you’re Steve.”
“That’s right,” shaking hands now, “You have a good memory. You look so different out of uniform.”
“Well, now you have no excuse. I was just going to fix myself a drink, and you have to join me, I want to hear the rest of your story.”