Nerdly was spending all of his spare time at the National Records recording studio, learning all there was to know about mixing, overdubbing, and generally blending music so it would sound good when put on a master recording. He was now a fixture in there, helping with the production of nearly every album being produced in any genre — everything from Polka to hard-core ghetto rap. The studio technicians had at first considered him a nuisance they had to put up with to keep the bosses happy but they had long since learned to respect his opinions and suggestions and he was now so good at mixing that he was often sought after by one team or another when a snag or problem developed.
Charlie had gone back home to Birmingham where he'd used his newly acquired wealth to open a vegetarian restaurant in the downtown portion of the city. Though there were many who said that attempting such a venture in the industrial deep south was a losing proposition, Charlie's newfound fame as the bassist for Intemperance was, so far, keeping the seats full and the bottom line printed in black ink.
Darren was still in the hospital suffering from the aftereffects of his bout with botulism. He had regained the ability to walk but his muscles were still so weak he could only stand for ten to fifteen minutes at a time, could only lift ten pounds or so. He was undergoing physical therapy but it didn't seem like it was helping that much. The doctors were starting to fear that he would never fully recover his strength and live a normal life. Darren didn't really seem to care about this. Whenever one of the other band members visited him he was always in a happy mood. This was mostly due to the sedatives, tranquilizers, and anti-anxiety medications he was perpetually stoned on. It was clear that he would not be able to participate in the development or recording of the next Intemperance album.
Jake had enjoyed some minor participation in all of the others' endeavors. He had gone dirt bike riding with Coop several times (getting a second degree burn on his right leg when he'd crashed and had the tail-pipe push into his calf). He had flown down to Cabo twice to spend a few days with Matt and get his fill of deep-sea fishing for the year (as well as to reinforce his desire to own a seagoing vessel of some sort). He had flown to Birmingham to attend the grand opening celebration of Charlie's restaurant (and the food there was pretty damn good, he had to admit, despite not having any meat in it — Charlie had hired the best vegetarian chefs he could find). He made a point of visiting Darren at least once a week (although he usually came away feeling depressed at the state Darren was in). But he had chosen to use his vacation time to pursue a hobby he had always wanted to learn: how to fly.
Finding someone to teach him and getting certified as a student pilot had not been as easy as he'd thought it would be. He had assumed that when one had money falling out of one's asshole, as he did, that you could just pick up the phone and get things rolling. That had not been the case. Four of the most popular flight schools in the Los Angeles region had turned him down when he'd applied just on the basis that he was Jake Kingsley.
"What's gonna happen," one school administrator asked him, "when you go off and get yourself all doped up and mid-air into a 747 and kill four hundred people? That will be on our conscience and, more importantly, the liability lawyers will come looking for us because we taught you."
"I'm afraid we only accept people who are responsible," said another administrator. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kingsley."
The other two schools had not even bothered to explain themselves. They'd just said no. Finally he found Brody Flight School at Brannigan Airport. It was a small school, owned by John Brody, a crusty, no nonsense pilot who had flown an A-1 Sandy for four years in Viet Nam and who had more than fourteen thousand hours at the stick in more than sixteen different aircraft. His twenty-four year old daughter, Helen, was the only other instructor he employed. He owned three aging but lovingly maintained Cessna 172s and rented a hanger at the airport from which to teach from. He had expressed the same concerns as the other schools but, unlike them, he had taken the time to listen to Jake's rebuttal to his concern.
"Yes," Jake had told him, "I drink a lot of booze. I smoke a lot of pot. I've been known to snort some coke on occasion. I'm a liberal, left wing, semi-communistic, womanizing, longhaired musician who likes to have a good time. But I'm also a very serious and committed person. I have never used any intoxicating substance before stepping onto the stage to play my music and I will never use any intoxicating substance before I get behind the controls of an aircraft. I take matters that involve my own life very seriously, Mr. Brody."
Brody had looked at him, his piercing blue eyes seeming to stare directly into Jake's soul. Finally, he nodded. "Okay," he said. "You seem sincere enough so I'll take you. But the first time you do anything that leads me to believe you will be an unsafe pilot, your ass is out of here. Is that understood?"
It was understood. The next step had been getting an FAA physical to certify that he was medically fit enough to fly an airplane. Again, the first three doctors he went to refused to certify him, not because of any physical malady — he was in top physical shape thanks to all the aerobic exercise that was involved in being a musician and his eyesight was tested at 20-15 — but because of his reputation in the media. All three of the doctors focused on a portion of the medical questionnaire that asked the applicant if they had certain medical or psychiatric conditions. One of the questions was "Have you been addicted to either drugs or alcohol in the last two years?"
Jake had answered 'no', as any reasonable person would do even though he was in the habit of drinking just about every day and smoking pot at least twice a week. Since he did not consider this to be addicted, per se, and since he did not intend to ever imbibe before flying he felt he was being truthful. The doctors, however, did not see things the same way.
"I'm rejecting you for lying on the medical form," the first had said.
"Lying?" Jake had asked, fighting to keep his temper in check.
"You said you're not addicted to drugs or alcohol."
"I'm not," he'd said.
The doctor had chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't you snort cocaine out of a girl's buttocks on one occasion?"
"No," Jake said.
"That's not what the papers say," the doctor replied. "And weren't you caught in a hotel room in New York with a couple of pounds of cocaine in your possession?"
"That case was dismissed," Jake said. "I have never been convicted of any offense in any court of law. I've never even had a speeding ticket."
"Nevertheless, there have been numerous reports of your drunken and drug addicted antics. I cannot, in good faith, certify you as fit to fly."
His exams with the next two doctors had gone pretty much the same. Finally he had brought Pauline along with him for the fourth exam. As soon as the doctor started questioning Jake's honesty on the drug or alcohol section Pauline had stepped in.
"Do you have any proof that Jake is addicted to drugs or alcohol, Doctor?" she'd asked.
"It's been in all the papers," the doctor said.
"There are reports of UFOs and Bigfoot in the papers as well," Pauline said. "Just because it's written down doesn't mean it's true."
"I have a reasonable suspicion that Jake is not fit to fly," the doctor said. "It is therefore my duty to..."
"Your duty," Pauline interrupted, using her courtroom voice, "is to examine Jake fairly and competently and come to a simple conclusion based on your training and the factual findings you uncover. He is in good physical condition, his eyesight and blood pressure are within parameters, and you have nothing other than third and fourth hand hearsay to conclude that intoxicating substances are a problem with him. If you reject him because of what you've read in newspapers or seen on the news I will haul your butt before the medical review board and tear you into little pieces before them. When I'm done with you you'll be lucky to get a job squeezing the testicles of death row inmates at San Quentin."