“Why not?”
“Because the co-pilot is incapacitated, sir.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“He passed out soon as my lips touched it, Terry piped up. “I declare, it was too much for the poor boy.”
“Don’t you think you should stop doing it then?” the pilot suggested.
“Ain’t hurtin’ him none.” Terry disagreed, giggling. “An’ I surely do enjoy it.”
“Steward!” Captain Corcoran proclaimed. “I’m taking those controls back!”
“No sir! I’m flying this plane!”
“Don’t do that!” Captain Corcoran shouted.
“Don’t! It’s dangerous!” His mounting concern was obvious over the PA. “We’ll lose control! We’ll go into another spin! We’ll cra--!”
This time, most of us were braced. Most, but not all. One very young and attractive stewardess was flung sprawling into the aisle, her uniform skirt well up over her hips.
“Dear Lord! That poor girl isn’t wearing any panties!”
“Please, sir! Keep your hands to yourself!”
“Yeah! Get your paws off her! I saw her first, Father!”
“You have your wife, my son.”
“I should live so long.”
“So should we all!”
“What would the Pope say?” the stewardess wailed.
“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t speak Polish8 .”
The stewardess fought her way to one of the johns and locked herself in as the plane once again righted itself.
“Pilot to control tower. Pilot to control tower.”
It was the steward’s voice. “Request landing instructions.”
“Just follow the radar beam in, Captain Corcoran,” the control tower replied.
“Negative, control tower. This is not Captain Corcoran. This is an inexperienced pilot at the controls. I don’t know how to follow a radar beam. Request manual landing instructions. Repeat, request manual landing instructions.”
“Where is Captain Corcoran?” the control tower wanted to know.
“I have relieved him of command because of erotic instability. He is tied to the bulkhead. He is also gagged.”
“Don’t y’all just adore bein’ trussed up an’ all? I mean, bondage is such fun.”
“Who was that?” the control tower wanted to know.
“A passenger. She’s seeing to it that Captain Corcoran remains calm.”
“Oh. Well, where is the co-pilot?”
“He’s unconscious.”
“What caused him to lose consciousness?”
“An attack of fellatio.”
“What?!”
“Look, there really isn’t time to explain it now. I have to land this aircraft. Will you please give me landing instructions?
“Roger. Turn thirty degrees and start your approach. . . . That’s it. . . Very good! . . . Now bank . . . gently . . . gently . . . Let down your flaps . . . That’s it . . . You’re doing fine. Now your landing gear . . . good, good . . . Now, turn ninety degrees . . . turn ninety degrees! . . . TURN NINETY DEGREES, DAMMIT! . . . NEVER MIND! PULL UP! PULL UP! PULL UP ON THE STICK! . . . Jesus! What happened?”
“I don’t know.” The steward sounded like a balloon with the air let out. “I just froze. I froze at the controls.”
“Well, get hold of yourself, man. Relax. We’ll try it again.”
“No!” The steward sounded panicky. “I can’t relax! I’m afraid! I can’t do it! I’ll freeze again. I can’t relax!”
“Jesus,” the control tower realized, you’re too low for the passengers to bail out. You have to relax.”
“I can’t! I can’t relax!”
“Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, fellas.” It was Terry’s voice, self-assured and sexy. “I can relax him. Y’all just leave it to me. Now, sugah, you just lean back an’ close your eyes an’ do how that there control tower says you should. All righty, control tower, I have found the zipper to his uniform trousers an’ y’all can tell him what to do now.”
“Start your approach again . . .”
“My! Such pretty skivvies! I never did see such pretty skivvies! Now where is that-—? Ahh, here it is . . . Well, hello there, darlin’. You sure do stand up an’ salute pretty now!
“Bank slowly. . .”
“Mmmmm! Y’all do like to be kissed, don’t you now?”
“Check your flaps . . .”
“An’ I can surely tell you like to be kissed by the way y’all swell up.”
“Check your landing gear . . .”
“Now, steward, honey, y’all let me suck this here wonderful pecker whilst you just relax an’ enjoy it!”
“Now, turn ninety degrees . . .”
“Mmm! Mmm! I can tell you are so-o-o relaxed now! Mmmmm!”
“Now, a slow bank . . .”
“Ooh! You’re so relaxed that y’all are goin’ to come in my mouth right now. Wait! Let me get it all the way back in an’ down my throat! Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”
“Now just set her down easy . . .”
“HERE I COME!” the steward yelled.
It was a three-point landing.
CHAPTER FOUR
“The quarterback is a nymphomaniac!”
“I hate it when you talk that way.” At the other end of the long distance line Stephanie Greenwillow’s voice bristled with unsheathed feminist bayonets.
“But she is. She really is.”
“Nonsense! There is no such thing as a nymphomaniac.”
“Really? Well what do you call a girl who balls the whole football team in one night and then the very next day nearly cracks up an airliner because she has to have sex so much that she takes on the pilot, the co-pilot, and a steward?”
“In the first place, I don’t call her a girl. I call her a woman. You got that, boy?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Stephanie --!”
“And in the second place, what do you call a man who has several women over the span of a day and a half? I’ll tell you what. A make-out artist! That’s what you call him! A stud! You admire him. But when it’s a woman, you call her a nymphomaniac! Really, Steve, I’d hoped you might have learned something from our relationship!”
“Oh, I did. I did. I learned how never to watch a Superbowl game.”
“But you haven’t.” She ignored my interruption. “You’re still a hopeless sexist!”
“That’s right! Call me names! I call you up long distance from San Francisco to discuss my problems with you, because we do have this relationship, and you get on your women’s lib high horse and call me names!”
“Did have!” Arctic fury. “Did have this relationship! Past tense! I am not going to fall into the trap of sacrificing my principles to keep from ruffling the feathers of some sexist male!”
“Okay, lady! If that’s the way you want it!” I went on to tell her specifically where she could insert her principles. The instructions were to no avail. She hung up on me before I got to the really graphic and pithy part.
Steaming, I flung my clothes all over the fancy suite Charles Putnam had booked for me at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and dived into the shower. I stayed there a long time. Water therapy. Nothing like it for terminating relationships.
Later, not at all hungry and feeling more sorry than angry, I went up to the Top of the Mark for a drink. Sensitive to my mood, the headwaiter gave me one of the desirable window tables. From it I had a spectacular view, particularly of the bay when the revolving cocktail lounge brought it into sight. Drenched in romantic starlight, with a moon like an orange basketball hanging over it, the sparkling vista only added to my self-pity and feelings of loss. Stephanie had been special—-infuriating, but special. I knew that there was no sense trying to call her back. Stephanie would have castrated her grandfather for The Cause. She’d never made any secret of just how expendable I was. So I sighed and stared out over the moonbeams at Fisherman’s Wharf and assuaged my sorrow with a third scotch.