Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

The Sandbox is Forever

As weeks drone by, the Saudia flying dwindles to zero. Other companies with Saudia contracts, have reached the correct corrupt official, and have been awarded our trips. But we are still there, prisoners of Jeddah.

The snorkeling along the Red Sea reef, the endless games of “spades” while enjoying our Cohibas and Partagas, have given way, finally, to dull, bitching sessions. Were not flying, were going crazy, what the fuck are we still doing stuck out here in the sandbox, away from home? Night after night, the same old routine: the walk for Schwarmers, then having eaten, back on lobby duty, twenty pilots, unable to leave the Kingdom…. ('flying can start back up at any time,” says screw-scheduling).

We are tired of each other, and of any further conversation. We all just sit around with the thousand-yard- stare, beginning to hate each other.

Jaime Pinto, in full “commercial travel” attire, comes flying down the hall, his wheelies and his flight bag clipping behind him. Heading for the check out desk, he yells, We all have twenty minutes to check out and to make the airport bus. Were going home!”

Startled, staring at each other, we all jump up. Jaime stops, turns to face us, and starts to laugh. Its a practical joke. Unbelievably, Jaime has gotten us all, the mood is broken, and our hearts and spirits are back.

Our crew members are not alone at the Durrah Al Aroos Resort Hotel. Saudi guests fill a majority of the rooms, and much of the lobby is taken up with Arabs, enjoying their tea and breakfast.

The morning after Jaime’s joke, Captain Charlie extra-pickles takes center stage.

Post-breakfast lobby duty is in full swing, when a loud, nasal singing fills the echo-chambered hotel, moving along the balcony, overlooking the entire lobby.

“Another openin’, another show…” doing his best Ethel Merman routine, dressed in shower cap, bathrobe and flip-flops, Charlie finally appears at the top of the carpeted, marble staircase.

Everything stops. No one moves, Muslim nor infidel make a sound. Without pause, Charlie dances a few steps down, and one or two up, down, then up the staircase…he is Shirley Temple and Bo-Jangles, now singing, “There’s no business like show business.”

Extra Pickles times it perfectly, he arrives at the bottom of the stairs at exactly the same time as his closing notes, “…let’s get on with the show!: He ends with a flourish, arms extended.

Pandemonium….the room erupts with applause. All the Saudi’s, and all the foreign Americans devils have jumped to their feet, and are wildly applauding Charlie extra-pickles performance. He’s beaming, he’s a hit!

Charlie, Lovell and Barclay head for Kuala Lumpur, leaving Mark and me stuck in Jeddah, the “Land of No'. We decide to meet up in my room in half an hour, and head for dinner somewhere.

“…Hilary Clinton? Who the fuck believes anything she claims to stand for? Make believe, lying, obvious bitch… with her desiccated, pinkohippy agenda!”

“That’s it, Rabbi,” Herr-Lippi says, “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really feel about the Clinton-cunt, as in C.U.N. T, cant understand normal thinking!”

Lippi laughs, he’s hangin’ in my room, waiting for me to finish washing out my underwear in the bathroom sink. I squeeze the last of the water out of my three pairs of skivvies, and hang them to dry on a towel.

“Why don’t you use the same inside-outside-backside-frontside routine Al Waleed uses? You’ll get four uses out of each pair.”

“Right, Mark, and I’ll smell like camel-shit, just like Wally Al Waleed does.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Hey, I actually got a bunch of those paper panties they sell in Jakarta, seven to a box, check ‘em out. 5,000 Rupes a box, that’s about forty cents a box, about five cents a pair, think you can afford ‘ern? I even gave them the Rabbi’s’ liquid and fart’ test, in the Hilton pool, fuckin’ amazing, they held together.”

“Paper panties, you sweet little-girl Rabbi you. Still playing ‘you bet your shorts’ when you think you’ve got to fart? Fuckin’ Indonesian food, I never know if I’m gonna’ fart, shit, or let a liquid-bubble go in my drawers.”

“Herr-Lippi, you’re a class act

“Thanks, Rabbi, speakin’ of paper panties…. know what Grandma pussy tastes like?”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Depends!”

“‘Depends!’ I got it… Depends!… thanks Mark, I’ll be sure to tell that one to Geri’s mom, Beverly, she’ll love it.”

“Mark, when I turned fifty my dad told me, “…son, there’s three things you want to pay attention to now… never turn down a chance to use a bathroom, never trust a fart, and never waste an erection”

“Sounds like good advice… who’ve you been flying with lately?”

“Mark, I can’t remember who I was with, but I can tell you that I was in Room 1018 in Luxemburg, triple-4 in Dubai, and now I’m in 1212 in Jeddah.”

“Anything interesting going on out in those garden spots?” Mark wants to know.

“Well, I watched the Millenial-2000 Airshow in Dubai, from the roof-garden of my hotel. Spectacular. The commentator was talking in Arabic and French.”

“I watched the Scotts beat England in soccer, narrated in German, in Luxembourg, and I saw the Holyfield fight in Paris on TV, blow-by-blow in French. That’s good, ‘blow-by-blow in French,’ get it, get it? Come to think of it, I must have laid over in Paris at some point last week.”

“Lipster, those fuckin’ bathtowels in Paris? They always smell like cod-liver oil to me, you ever notice that…. not that nice, fishy-pussy smell, but the ugly, mediciny smell? “

“No, Rabbi, I’ve never noticed,” Mark smirks, “But you’ve got that magnificent, sensitive Jew-nose.” Mark is one of the few guys I’ve told the truth to about my Semitic heritage. He’s cool, making racial and ethnic slurs about everybody, harboring no real hatred towards anyone.

“Hey, I finally ate the Pizza Pescatore you always mange in that place next to the Sofitel. It was great. Man, they heap on the scallops, shrimp and mussels. I hit it with the hot-pepper-oil shit, mierde, fabuloso.'

“That’s fabeyeux in Paris, Rabbi.”

'Right, d’accord, fabeyeux, vraiment! Let me practice my limited French, Herr- Lippis of Marcos.”

“Well, get that fat Jew ass of yours in gear, before the rag-heads close down the schwarmer for evening prayers, I’m getting hungry.”

“What’s going on with you and your old lady….. seeing your kids at all?”

“The bitch is hanging on, waiting for my settlement to come through. I see the kids once in a while. The little one is building a computer and teaching me about the web.”

“Jesus, those kids ‘re great.” I say. “Kiley’s very special, and we miss each other a lot. Man, I’ve got to get away from this shit, and get home, do something that’ll keep me home.”

Lippi agrees, he’s got two young kids, and we’re averaging only eight days home a month.

Home

“I’m the only broke Jew I know.” My hands grabbing more dirty dishes from the dining room table.

Geri adds, “Yeah, I married a Jew, and got the only one without any money.”

Our gang of friends seated around the dining room table laugh at the joke. The parties are usually at our house, a three story glass and deck beach house, whose space, and personality makes it the perfect host. It’s the house and my profession as a pilot, that have our buddies believing that we have money.