of Arabia, over the Emirates, still east along southern Pakistan, hanging a left over Karachi, north past Lahore, following the fence and the no-mans land stretching north-south, defining the border between warring Pakistan and India. We land in daylight at Islamabad, the most Orthodox of the Islamic cities of this very Muslim country.
The plane is parked in the “Boonies,” way out on the ramp. I’ve got two hours to kill during fueling. The 747 burns 25,000 pounds of jet-A fuel an hour, we need 150,000 pounds of fuel, including reserves for the return. The “Packies” have to run our fuel to us in 5000 gallon trucks. Its going to take a hours.
I drift toward the grass perimeter, lighting a cigarette as I meander. Captain “Bubba” is kicked back in first class, catching ‘zzzzz’s.’ Wayne Cunningham, our Flight Engineer is busy with paperwork, fueling, weight and balance and such, while I’m relaxing on the ground with my smoke.
Two booted, cammo-clad soldiers approach me, machine pistols slung over their shoulders. Their faces are serious, definitely unfriendly.
“What is your religion?” one asks harshly. Shit, it’s Ramadan, and I’m smoking during the day.
“I’m a Pedophile, I respond, feeling the need to remain consistent with my Saudi Visa, which is stamped in Aramaic in my passport, and I have no clue whether it lists my religion, or not.
“What?”
“I’m a Pedophile.”
“What is a Pedophile?” they both demand.
Its the same as a Muslim, but we do not practice Ramadan.” I respond. They accept my explanation and walk away, leaving me to my smoke.
Captain Bubba has long, greasy hair, usually unacceptable in the industry, and a smirky, cynical demeanor. He is a PHD in music, who back up-home in Tennessee, plays the violin with the Nashville Philharmonic.
On our way back to Jeddah, Bubba asks: “Hey Rabbi, what’s the definition of a New York minute?”
The amount of time it takes between the traffic light turning green, and the first car honking?”
“O.K., O.K., What’s the longest, most painful ‘pilot-minute’?”
“I give up, go ahead.”
Its from the time you blow your wad, till you get the bitch out of your room!”
“Unfortunately, Bubba, I’m old enough to know what you mean!” Wayne has been whittling away, perfecting his “hooey-hooey” sticks. “
“Saudia control, Saudia 4-1, 3432 coming down estimating Medina 1315Z,
“Roger Saudia 4-1, maintain FL 390,
“Hey Rabbi,” Bubba asks, you sure give good A-Rab, you sure you’re not a Sand-Nigger?”
“No way, Bubba, my momma is pure Eye-talian and Daddy’s a German” I lie. I can be taken for Italian, Greek or Spanish. Olive complected, salt and pepper black hair…more salt than there used to be.
I start daydreaming about Geri and Kiley. Geri and I’ve been married 13 years now, and it’s been mostly good. Only being away from home so much has done damage to our friendship and love. Kiley is our elevenyear-old daughter, a smart, good natured girl, who adores and misses me. During these multi-week or multi-month trips, I fantasize about how it’s going to be when I get home.
The reality brutalizes the fantasy. They’ve got lives they’re living, and trying to re-mesh the gears of our family is hard work. Nobody drops everything when Daddy comes home.
“Hey guys,” I’m back from my reverie. You know what the worst part of this job is?”
“No, what?”
“Every few weeks they tear you away from your loved ones and send you back to your wife and kids!”
“You got that right, Rabbi.”
I’m trying to think of how to pay the bills and make enough money to stay home, permanently. Can’t come close to the money we need with any kind of work in St. Augustine. In the past few months I mentally count up the guys I’ve bumped into who’ve gone through divorces. Mikey Marks, Jaime Pinto, Dennis Reedy, Mike Lauro, and now our latest addition, Charlie PreMantis.
“Did you hear what happened to Charlie PreMantis?” The divorce, you mean?”
“No,” Bubba grins, The way it happened. Charlie comes back from three-month in the sand. He drives home to Connecticut, and his keys won’t open the door.”
“What did the bitch do, change the locks on him?” asks Wayne.
“No, better. He’s knocking on the door and some stranger opens the door and asks, ‘Can she help him?”
Charlie’s wife of 28 years had sold the house (for $60,000 less than market value), and moved out, lock stock and barrel. Address unknown, except for her attorney’s name and number.
“Shit,” I say, Charlie’s a pain in the ass ‘Felix Unger’ type, but a 28 year marriage, to end that way…”
“How’d the bitch sell the house without his signature?”
She used his ‘Power of Attorney.’ Pilots like us, ‘freight dogs’ who are away from home a lot, usually give our wives or parents power of attorney forms, in the event of the unexpected.
“Can’t trust those bitches no how.” declares Wayne, now asking me to test out his “new, improved hooey- hooey.”
I take the two sticks in hand. One of the hooeys, a piece of rough wood about the size of a drum stick, has a propeller fixed to the end of it. The other hooey is the same shape and texture.
Holding the hooey stick with the attached propeller horizontally, I rub the other hooey across its brother, back and forth, near my hand. Were all staring at the propeller. Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens when I try to operate Wayne’s hooey-hooeys.
“Here, Stevie, let me show you how,” Wayne says taking the device from my hands. He starts to run the ‘hooeys’ together and the prop starts to spin, faster and faster. Now watch, I’ll make it reverse direction.” Sure as shit, the propeller slows, stops and starts spinning the other way. I’m carefully watching everything Wayne is doing. He’s not blowing on the prop, he’s not moving the steady hand, nor twisting it. I’ve been trying to work at the trick of the hooey-hooeys for four years, and still can’t figure how he does it.
“Magic!” Wayne grins, more gum than tooth. He’s never told anybody how it’s done, but has whittled and given away a dozen sets in the time I’ve known him.
“Hey Rabbi,” What do you call a recently divorced Jewish woman?” Bubba asks.
“What?”
“A born-again cocksucker!”
Wayne says, “This boy and his dad are in the drugstore and the dad is teaching the kid the ‘facts of life’ about the condoms there…”
“Here we go,” I interrupt. We’re all smiling.
“So, Wayne continues, “the boy asks his Dad what’s the different packs for, ya know? How come a two pack, a three pack and a twelve pack? The Dad says ‘…son, the two pack, that’s for high school kids, you know, getting’ it on Friday and Saturday nights. The three pack, now that’s for college kids…they got the weekends and such … now the twelve pack, that’s for married men…you know, son, one for January, one for February, one for March…”
“Man… do married people get laid every month?”
Islamic Justice
Jerry Lovell, Herr-Lippi and I are shopping at the
The minarets start to wail their call for noon prayer, and the shopkeepers, hundreds of them, chase their customers out and close-up shop. They lock their doors and pull across their metal security gates.
Khaki clad, heavily bearded
Yesterday, one of our male flight attendants was busted, and shipped out of the Kingdom. He had made the
