Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

Willy and I applaud wildly, as Bubba bows deeply from his seat… “I know, I know, it’s great.”

“You should get that done in Nashville.” I say, knowing Bubba’s already connected down there.

“No, no, Kesh. Ever been to the Mount Fuji Country Western Music Festival?”

“Never even heard of it.”

“Yeah, last year on layover at Narita, we had a mechanical, kept us there three days waitin’ on parts. I found out that the Nippers are crazy for Country Western, and their annual Mount Fuji Festival was underway. Well shit, I had to get up there. It was a friggin’ zoo! Millions of drunkon-their-ass Nippers, all dressed up in these designer cowboy outfits, enjoying the hell out of country western music. Hell, I know half of them didn’t understand a word that was sung, but they loved it.

“They even got them a Nipper Country Western Super-Star, Charlie “Call me Johnny” Nikatani, he ain’t bad neither!”

“Bubba, you’re shittin’ me.” Falling now into his vernacular.

No joke, Steve. That’s what inspired My Sweet Narita Conchita.’ Got my agent contacting his agent, want him to do my song.”

A swim later, and Herr Lippi and Lovell greet Willy and I, although they try to avoid introducing us to their new lady friends in the pool. Lippi, however, has already told me the circumstances of the NOA T-shirts, so we remain properly respectful.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask Mark’s lady friend in the pool, the one who did the talking early on.

“Sure.”

“Well, as a result of your group’s … ah, uh “affliction,” you’ve all done lots of men, all types and races?”

“That’s true,” some of the girls gather closer now.

In your discussion groups, have you ever compared, you know, what race or creed of men make the best lovers?” Its a valid question, academically asked.

Some of them blush, or giggle. “As a matter of fact, yes, we have discussed that, and we mostly agreed that American Indians make the best lovers, they’re the longest lasting …but there are so few of them… Jewish men are a close second.”

“Well, then allow me to introduce myself,” as I extend my hand. “My name is Tonto Bernstein!”

Silly is back, carrying plastic bags filled with Shirley’s fried rice and takeout. Great, we all ravenously descend on the feast, tables and chairs hastily thrown together.

“Who’s got the hot sauce?”

“What we need is some wasabe” declares Bubba, who has put up his guitar.

Silly had taken a taxi to “Shirley’s II” in Harmon Plaza, off of Marine Drive, and she has already eaten. Eagerly she tells Willy and the table in general, that she’s met the most interesting woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

“The last person you ever talk to is always the most interesting person’ you’ve ever met,” I say joking, but caustic. There has always been an edge to our relationship. Has something to do with her jealously wanting Willy closer to her than to anybody else. Whenever Silly’s paranoia tells her that someone besides herself is getting too close to Willy, she reacts. Lately, I’ve been the target of her venomous sarcasm. Understanding where it’s coming from is one thing, being able to reasonably deal with it, another… It does not come easy to me. Feeling ashamed of my comment, I try to make it up to her… “So, who did you meet? Was it at ‘Shirley’s?”

Silly, recovering quickly, says, “This wrinkled up, ninety-nine-year-old woman at Shirley’s…”

Bubba interrupting, “Nolan’s widow! She’s Shirley’s Aunt. She still alive?”

“Yes,” Silly continues, “she seems to sit there all day long, and is willing to tell you everything.” Silly who has recently started her umpteenth business, Video Magic, is anxious to grab her video cam and run back to interview the old widow. She starts pulling away.

“Tell me first,” Willy Says. “Who’s Nolan’s widow…who’s Nolan?”

Bubba, who flew the Micronesian Islands for twenty years, tells Willy to let Silly go. He’ll fill him in. Silly goes running to grab her video cam from her room.

“Noland was Amelia Earhardt’s Radio Operator, her Navigator…” Not a very good Navigator!” I toss in.

“…anyway, his widow tells all the old stories about Earhardt and her husband. She thinks they survived the landing, but were captured by the Japs and brought to Saipan. She says they were executed as spies, at the jailhouse there, just north of the departure end of runway 7.”

“Shit, Bubba, I’ve been in that deserted jailhouse and it does have bullet holes in the walls.”

Much later, Silly’s back, it’s late and we’re rushing to catch the plane to Honolulu. “What did the old lady tell you about Nolan,” Willy asks?

Silly, dejectedly, That he was a drunken, no good bum!”

“That’s great footage,” Willy says, “I want to see that interview, Viacom will pay us a fortune for that interview.”

“No Willy, there’s something wrong with the batteries, or something’s no good.” Silly pouts. “I don’t think the video-cam is working.”

Willy and I glance at each other, another one of Silly’s businesses.

Transition

It’s 1994 and Continental Airlines has been going down the shitter, They are in Chapter XI bankruptcy, furloughing hundreds of employees, and I’ve been knocked off the 747’s ‘cause they’ve reduced the fleet from nine to five planes.

Flying the DC-10’s has been fun, big plane, same International routes, same Honolulu base, but now, to save money, Continental moves the DC-10 base to Guam. Geri doesn’t want to live on Guam. I want to move to Bali and commute to Guam (only a five hour ride), Geri doesn’t want to live in Bali. “It’s too far from her family ( in Indiana ).”

“But Honey, we are Airline people, we travel free,” I respond.

Truth is, she’s right anyway. I’m going to be traveling a few weeks every month. She’s the one, she and Kiley, now four-years-old, who actually have to live wherever we live, they are the ones who have to be happy, and safe.

Bali’s great, but the health care system sucks. If you become really sick, or get really hurt, you have to get out of Indonesia for any decent medical treatment. Guam’s Guam, people either love it or hate it, I love it, Geri hates it. Living in Hawaii is no longer an option. The commute to Guam, eight hours or more during the winter, would be impossible with so many more senior people than me trying to jump seat. Further, Kiley’s going to be starting school next year, and the public school system in Hawaii is the pits.

A Hawaiian Professor named Trask, a local a Kamaiina Heroine, has guaranteed mediocrity or worse for her people, by championing the cause of teaching and accepting “Pigeon” as a language acceptable in the public school systems…. this was Ebonics years ahead of it’s time. The Honolulu public school system is the bottom of the barrel, grade-wise in all comparative standardized testing. The “Haole” hate factor is also unacceptable to me. White kids (Haoles) are not just discriminated against, they are in physical danger from the local kids in the Honolulu Public School system, I think so, anyway. The fruit of Hawaiian and Haole mixed marriages are called Happas, half Hawaiian, half Haole. We call Kiley a Happa Hebrew, half Catholic, half Jew.

We never had any trouble with the locals, always accepted, ‘cause we’re wild, crazy, genuine and great…. but kids, they’re kids… I just can’t trust the deal for Kiley. Without Kiley it was different, Geri and I were more adventurous, it’s been completely different since our daughter’s birth, in Queen Kaolani Hospital.

We’re getting ready to check out of the Hospital room. Geri’s nursing the baby, I’m packing, and in walks a Candy-Striper with a clip-board. She starts asking questions: “Mother’s name?' I answer.

“Father’s name?” I answer.

“Mother is?”