Flying Too Close to the Sun George Jehn (best non fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

faded snapshots of New York’s famous Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. Erik recalled his high school texts stated LaGuardia was known as the Working Man’s Mayor. Along with these were framed snapshots of airliners which had flown from the airport now bearing Hizzoner’s name; once-famous carriers like Pan Am, Eastern, Braniff and TWA. Had his Honor been buried with a shovel in hand he no doubt would have dug himself up and used it to bash the skulls of the incompetent managers and politicos responsible for these airlines’ demise and destruction of workers’ lives. Out of the original carriers only three remained, with most utilizing bankruptcy filings to screw their employees out of pay and bennies. Would Shuttle Air be next? Would more pilot names be added to the group of former employees? Would his be one? As he sipped the thick hops, Erik wished like mortar, the brew would hold together the bricks of his stomach growing weaker each day. Just as he finished his first and was inhaling the musty vapor remaining at the bottom, Christina entered like a stage-struck starlet and he half expected her to throw a kiss his way. She immediately perched on the stool beside him and sans the uniform accouterments looked much sexier, no longer the captain but like any other attractive chick.

A smiling Christina ordered Erik another beer and facing him raised her bourbon sour and offered a toast. “You were great the other day,” she said adding with a wry smile, “If I overlook a couple of screw-ups.” Her mind was running at warp speed, busy working out a scheme which would hopefully include Erik.

He innocently returned the smile and gently patted her back, feeling her brassiere strap and soft skin through the light blouse.

“Last week was only the third engine I had go bonkers,” she said, “and the first time on a 727.”

The bartender interrupted, handing them two more drinks.

“The guy over there,” he said, pointing to a heavyset man Erik took to be in his sixties or seventies seated at one of the tables, “would like to buy you a drink. He said you did a helluva job, whatever he means?”

Christina and Erik smiled and raised their drinks in a gesture of thanks and the man did likewise.

“Who’s he?” Erik whispered. “Does he work for the airline?”

Christina took another slug of bourbon. “No. That’s Doc Hartman. He gives FAA pilot physicals and I get mine twice yearly from him,” she replied in breath now redolent with booze, referring to the requirement a captain must maintain a current first-class medical certificate and wondering if he could pick up her epilepsy on the next. “You should get your FAA physicals from him. He’s located at LaGuardia and is cheap compared to others and also uses the old type of eye vision chart where every pilot knows the twenty/twenty line; D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C. He probably saw us on TV the other night.” Christina requested another round, ignoring the neurologist’s order she have no more than two. “Perhaps you noticed, but whenever the cameras are rolling I put in a plug for women pilots. I had to put up with all the bullshit in the testosterone oozing cockpits reeking with male hormones, crap like the not-too-quiet whispers of dyke and lesbo.” She guzzled another long pull, stirring the half-melted cubes floating in the bottom of the glass with the straw and watching as they continued spinning and clinking against the sides of the glass. She was descending into a place where former secrets come to the surface and owing to the booze no longer cared. “Maybe I feel this way ‘cause I came from a broken home, one affectionately dubbed today as a single parent household, which was a nightmare for my mother. After I saw her totally dependent on my father for never forthcoming financial support, I vowed that wouldn’t happen to me.”

“You mentioned you’re divorced.”

“Yeah, twice, but I don’t get a dime from my two exes,” she added with pride through clenched teeth. “I don’t want my son and my—,” she stopped herself, “anyone to do without. So I pay child support. Unfortunately, alimony went along with it.”

To change the subject to a more pleasant one Erik asked, “How did you get into flying?”

“I started hanging around the local airport in my hometown of Lantana, Florida while attending Palm Beach State College. A friend worked there at the fixed base operation as a receptionist and I used to hang around. Aviation began as an escape, but flying also provided a sense of real accomplishment. The more I got into it the more I wanted to fly the big jets. Since most airline pilots were men it made landing the job more challenging. I had to be as good as or better than the boys. After I got my licenses, I flew seven days a week as an instructor and charter pilot and finally landed an airline job. But now, when I’m finished paying rent, taxes, child support and alimony there ain’t much left.”

For some individuals alcohol is like anesthesia on ice, but it had the opposite effect on Christina. A few bourbon blasts was as though the warden opened the jailhouse door and Erik didn’t know what to say with this transformation. Taking another swig she continued, “Before I knew it, the media sought me out for information on women in aviation and the semi-celebrity status created a lethal marital mix. My first husband’s lawyer argued because of my lifestyle and job, not only should he raise our son, but I should pay him alimony to become a househusband. My attorney tried to steer me away from agreeing, but pride and a lot of stupidity took over. After Michael’s precedent it was pretty easy for number two, Charlie to get money even though we never had kids. No more of the marriage game for me ‘cause it’s anything but.” She hesitated, and after another gulp continued. “I wish I had stepped out into the world