Stephen Keshner - Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

“Fuckin’ fudge-packers!” says Jerry Lovell, We got more fuckin’ fagots then girls on this crew.”

“That’s the industry,” I say. “They hire their own, the guys with cock-inmouth-disease… they’ve killed sport-fucking, that’s the problem.”

I have always sold myself out for acceptance, and I’m still doing it. I actually consider our group of gay males to be some of our best workers, conscientious, and dedicated to giving fine service.

D.B. says, If we all just woke up everyday and shot a faggot in the face, wouldn’t be no more problem.”

“Didja hear about the ground controller in San Francisco who asked the Southwest guy on ground frequency “what that animal was painted on his plane’s tail?”

“No.”

“Southwest pilot says ‘I dunno’ then thinks for a second and says ‘I guess it’s a gerbil.—

“Yeah,” Jerry adds “the City of Brotherly Love, it used to be Philadelphia, must be San Francisco now.”

Captain Jimmy Walken, is a florid-faced, bow-legged stump of a crazy Irishman. The name Walken doesn’t sound very Irish — but he’s as Irish as you can get — maybe he’s German! Anyway, Jimmy is always in a good mood, walking around with his head and hat both cocked to the side, eyes flashing.

Came a day when we were paired together as a crew. Continental flew two flights from Honolulu to Los Angeles and to San Francisco, both departing at 8:00 AM. Our DC-10 had pushed back from the gate, and we were heading out to the active runway, the “reef runway,” in Honolulu, which is quite a long taxi.

This plane is packed, every seat and every flight attendant jump-seat is occupied. There’s a knock at the cockpit door. It’s the Flight Service Manager, the chief flight attendant. He asks if we could allow “Janetfrom-another-planet,” one of our spaciest flight attendants, to sit on a cockpit jump-seat. In her ozoned condition, Janet had gotten on the wrong plane. She was supposed to be working on the San Francisco flight. Now, mistakenly on the Los Angeles flight, there was no seat for her anywhere in the cabin. To be legal for take-off, she needed a place to sit, and with a seatbelt on.

We are cleared “into position and hold” on the active runway, about to take off. Jimmy turns and says, “Janet, so long as I have a face, you’ll always have a place to sit.” A typical Walken remark, as he grants her access to the cockpit. She sits on the jump-seat and buckles herself in. Jimmy has saved her job. We take off, and the rest of the flight is routine.

It turns out that “Janet-from-Another-Planet,” offended by Jimmy’s remark, writes a letter to the FAA and to the Company, accusing Jimmy of some kind of sexual infraction. We are called in to see the Honolulu base Chief Pilot, Brock Pyle, a typical “office-puke.” He’s an ex-marine, with a close-cropped buzz cut, and that anal, meticulous nature with the personality of a dial-tone.

Brock asks Jimmy if there’s any truth to this story, showing him Janet’s letter. Jimmy looks at him, his hat cocked, and with those flashing, smiling blue eyes, says “Brock, I’ve been saying that to flight attendants for twenty-five years. If I told you I didn’t do it this time, would you believe me?” The office staff broke up, Pyle included.

Weeks later, Jimmy was called before an F.A.A. Board of Inquiry. The board consisted of five members, all of whom happened to be men, and the circumstances of the story were once again reviewed.

Jimmy was ultimately cleared of any regulatory infractions. After the official verdict was rendered, and we were all leaving the room, one of the F.A.A. guys booms out, “Captain, the next time you ask a flight attendant to sit on your face, just make sure you tell her to put her seat belt on, as well!”

While in cruise, on a back-of-the-clock flight from Melbourne to Honolulu, Captain “Filthy” Farnsworth and I decide the time was right to play a joke we had all ready, just waiting for the right new-hire flight attendant to show up. Now we had one.

I’ve disheveled my appearance, dampening my face and hair, generally making myself look sick. Then Filthy calls this new hire up to the cockpit, pointing out my condition. “He’s sick.”

This lady became immediately concerned with my illness. “What was the problem? What could she do? How did it happen?”

Farnsworth tells her that I had eaten something bad, that I was very sick, and anything she could do to ease my condition would be much appreciated, since he’s busy with the plane. She leaves the cockpit to gather up anything she thinks might help me out.

Meanwhile, in the cockpit, we’ve taken my uniform hat, lined the inside with a shower-cap to protect it, and dumped a steaming hot can of chili into it.

When the girl returned, I seemed to be in the final stages of up-chucking into the hat. Her look was one of grave concern. Filthy commented that hopefully I would now be feeling better, having vomited, and would she please take the now brimming hat out of the cockpit, “dispose of this for us will you?”

Averting her eyes, she reaches out and gingerly takes the hat from my lap. Just as she starts to withdraw, Filthy stops her, grasping her wrist. He peered curiously at the mess in the hat. Looking directly into her eyes he says, “Christ, this whole thing has made me hungry!” With that, he sticks two fingers into the chili, and starts eating.

The girl’s shade of green can’t be accurately described. Gagging several times, covering her mouth with both hands, she groaned and took off for the lavatory like her ass was on fire.

For the rest of the trip she was totally out of commission. Curled up on a blanket in the rear galley, she took some hot tea and a sleeping pill, getting up only to go to the lavatory every hour or so, continually proclaiming, If I live to make it back to Honolulu, I will tender my resignation immediately upon arrival!”

“Pretty formal speech for a sick young lady.” I tell her, “I’d be saying I fuckin’ quit!” I can’t get her to laugh.

She didn’t quit, and she’s still with Continental, a little older and wiser to the shenanigans of pilots.

A few years later, when I was a co-pilot on the 747, I ordered the fish for my meal. One of the flight attendants brought up my tray, with the main course plate covered in foil, which is common practice.

Removing the foil covering, I am staring at the bony skeleton of a fish. My face must have reflected my puzzlement, my mouth hanging open. I’m surrounded in laughter and the joke’s on me this time, as I look back into the face of that flight attendant from long ago.

I was going into my fourth year with Continental, and had spent all that time in the engineer’s seat on the DC-10 in Honolulu. Not flying the plane was driving me crazy, and my scan (the practiced, patterned review of the flight instruments) had gone to shit.

My last job had me flying six and seven legs a day for Eastern Metro, Jetstreams without autopilots, in and out of Atlanta-Hartsfield. I had been at the top of my game. My scan had been developed to a point where I saw all the instruments at once. This mid-focused Zen state allowed me to know everything about the airplane’s performance, without consciously realizing it. Now it was all gone, replaced by rust and lethargy.

At that time, Singapore Airlines was hiring expatriate pilots for their 747-400’s on five-year contracts, and I was more than ready for the change. My FAX and phone correspondence paid off, and I was invited out for an interview in Singapore. They provided tickets for me, and I arrived in Singapore with a few days to spare before my appointment.