As I scrub the dishes and plates, a pile of dirties still waiting their turn next to me at the sink, I think about “the joke.” Only Geri and I know the truth, the joke’s on us. We don’t have a dime set aside, we live paycheck to paycheck, and forced retirement is less than three years away.
I am juggling while walking a tightrope, Philippe Petit without a net, high over the financial chasms of ruin. To keep our personal and family life whole, I need to stay home as much as possible. Earning only minimum guarantee. We can’t pay our bills on minimum guarantee, so I have to sacrifice our home life to fly extra trips to make the bill payments.
Always juggling bills that need paying, versus time home as husband and father, I place one foot carefully in front of the other on the unstable wire.
But even our tightrope ends in less than three years. Washing and stacking more dishes and glasses, watching the pile of dirties grow next to my right elbow, I hear the party, the music and laughter, raging around me.
What the fuck am I going to do three years from now? My first and second mortgages combined are $2000 a month. It costs us $4000 total a month to live.
All my flying buddies are now turning forty. Entering their peak earning period, they have twenty career years left to accumulate wealth, to build up retirement accounts. I’m fifty-eight (and 1/2) years old, only one and 1/2 years left, until the age sixty mandatory retirement rule kicks my butt.
I’m chained to the oars now, having volunteered to row on the slave ship too late in life.
“Stevie, this is a great party, again!” Stella chimes, leaving more dirty glasses and dishes on the counter.
“It never ends,” I think. “Anybody need another Marguerita?” I ask, rejoining the group of smokers and tokers on the deck.
Watching Clint, his brother Mike, and Sheila sharing a joint, I bitch, “I can’t believe I had to give up drugs for my lousy profession, ain’t fuckin’ worth it!”
Sheila laughs, coughing and choking on the smoke she’s trying to hold in. Clint throws out the proverbial pothead adage, “You don’t cough, you don’t get off.”
Next day, I’m prioritizing bills to pay now. Piles of stuff, junk, intermingled with what might be important, litter my desk, waiting to be deciphered. I’ve been home for a week, and I’m moody now, melting down. I’m getting ready to leave for the Hajj. I’ll be gone for the better part of three months. Geri and I are arguing over petty shit. My lousy disposition leaks out, causing me to bark at both Geri and Kiley. I bark, I apologize, I bark, I apologize. Poor Geri’s trying not to react to my mood, we both know the symptoms and the cause.
“Kiley, I’m sorry honey, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I was wrong.” This in the spare room, Kiley watching a Lucy rerun on Nick at Nite.
Kiley hugs me, holding me close she says, “That’s all right Dad, I love you.”
“I love you too, Sweety, I’m sorry.”
Leaving home is becoming harder and harder for me to do. Being home, an actual member of the family, feels so comfortable, so good, that the pain of impending separation is searing my soul.
“I hate this shit!” I tell Kaput, the black kitten napping on an office chair next to me. Kaput has no advice for me.
Alan Quine and Christmas in Paris
Alan Quine, Newt “Neutron” Silva and I are getting fucked up every day for Christmas week in Paris. The Sofitel St. Jaques crew room is the scene of this marathon crime.
By 2:00pm we show up, each of us with a couple of bottles of excellent twelve-fifteen franc merlots and cabernets,
Flight attendants and pursers come and go, drinking and schmoozing with us, as we sit drinking from our $2 bottles of fine French wine, smoking Cuban cigars, and
Changing venues, we gorge on Nova Salmon, omelets to order,
This decadent Parisian orgy lasts through Christmas and New Years, broken only by one flight to
Miguel, the boyfriend, is a fiery, no-holds-barred Broadway dancer, who we all immediately take to. Miguel arranged for forty bottles of wine and champagne for the birthday party. We pot luck the rest, and by midnight a home-made carburetor of ganja is being passed around a crowded, well lubricated room filled with flight attendants and two crews of pilots.
Alan and I are talking about Vietnam. In the Marine Corps, my job was carrying a double-E-8 radio with a whip antennae sticking up, announcing to all the world that if you shoot in the direction of this antenna, there’s sure to be a lieutenant or captain nearby. The job is usually given to the loudest wise-guy in the rifle platoon.
Al Quine had the same job for the army, with their equivalent radio, the Prick-8.
“Prick-8’s” for two loud-mouthed, wise guy pricks,” we agree. Miguel, working the room, but overhearing this discussion, is suddenly transfixed. “What was it like, what was combat like?” he must know, he must!
Alan leans back, a cigar in one hand gently held, one white eye-brow cocked, says. “…we were flown for hours (it seemed), and the choppers dropped us in tall grass. Then we listened to sounds of the helicopters getting further and further away.”
He makes sounds of receding blades, finally disappearing… “whump, whump, whump, whump, whump….”
“Now we’re out there all alone, in the middle of this stinkin’ jungle. Then a guy says ‘I’ve got to shit!’ Then the next guy says he’s got to shit, and the next…” Looking at me but mesmerized by memory, he smiles, “Is that how you remember it?”
I can only nod. Alan takes a puff of cigar.
We look at Miguel, he is very still, transfixed…he has never been this close.
What’s to say? Underwhelmed, Miguel moves on.
The Purser’s 40th birthday was a major success. Fifty people have crowded into the crew lounge, and the wine and champagne have been flowing liberally. An improvised carburetor, fashioned from an empty cigar tube, is being passed around among the flight attendants, in a moderately discreet fashion. Captain George Bolus, now no longer
drunk and wanting to kill Neutron Silva, is peacefully sleeping on a folding chair though the din.
Asshole-in-chief, Captain Bob Foreskeen has been pinching nipples at random, mine included. Warning him to cut it out, warning him again (what’s that all about?), finally I have to deck him, to the approval of all. Perhaps in cowardly retribution, he orders three hundred dollars of cheese platters up to the party, and when it arrives, he signs the name and room number of some girl flight attendant.
We all find out about this a few days later when the girl is in tears. The hotel management is calling all our rooms to try to find out who actually did it, and Foreskeen is trying to get Al Quine and I to believe that the culprit was Newt Silva.
Thankfully, Miguel, our gay purser’s
The young lady flight attendant, the original butt of the