Stephen Keshner - Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

I find that I’m talking to the cat more often, enjoying the conversation, but wondering if there’s something wrong with me. I dismiss it, I’m content at being home.

“There was this Princess, who was a prisoner of a wicked Sultan…” Kiley’s rapt, I’ve got her attention. “…to save her life this princess, Sheherezad, comes up with a plan. She starts telling these very interesting stories, one each night, to her evil captor. All morning long this Sultan keeps thinking of last night’s story, and by afternoon, he can’t wait for tonight’s new tale. So Sheherezad comes up with 1,001 tales.” I’m driving Kiley to school, a morning ritual which we both love. If you want, I’ll get the book out of the library, and well read it together at night.” Another of our rituals…. I usually fall asleep faster than she does, but not before she elbows me awake a few times…"Dad!…DAAAAAD!”

Kiley says that “yes,” she’d like to read those stories with me.

On one condition,” I put to her, that you let me play one of my ‘uckie’ CD’s for you afterwards, called “Sheherezad,” by Rimsky-Korsakov.” Kiley laughs, knowing that she’s being taken. “After we read some of those stories, I want you to close your eyes while you listen to some of the music.”

Its a deal,” she says, high-fiving me as she gets out of the car.

“Parent pick-up,” I call after her. She smiles, and waves, she knows its parent pick-up when Fm home.

Kiley loves ‘Bare-Naked Ladies’ and ‘Mambo #5,’ and tolerates my Italian opera as I make pancakes and bacon for her and her sleep-over buddies on the weekends.

“I need to hear Italian opera when I cook,” I explain. “I can’t cook without Italian Opera.”

Kiley comes up to me, looks me in the eyes lovingly, and says, “Dad, I’ll never understand you.” Then she wraps her arms around me, hugs me and kisses my shoulder.

“I love my wife!” …Pilot humor…

“Geri is a wonderful, beautiful person. We’re very lucky, because we were loving friends for a few years first, having been partners with other people in a group for about five couples. We all partied with each other all the time. Then we discovered that we loved each other.”

I was the only passenger in first class, and the flight attendant on this short flight to Atlanta seems genuinely interested. She had initially commented on my wedding ring, telling me how beautiful the three colors of gold looked. Then she got me talking about my wife.

“After a few years, my marriage to Ilsa had broken down” I continue. “Geri’s relationship with Larry ended, and we realized that we were in love with each other. It sounds messy, but it wasn’t,” I explain, “There was never any hanky-panky beforehand.”

The flight attendant, an attractive thirty-something with real class, seems mesmerized, fascinated to meet a pilot who loves his wife and is actually monogamous.

As we begin our descent into Atlanta the lady straps herself in, asking if I’d like to join her for a drink at her hotel this evening. Not at all suspicious of her motives, I explain that I start reserve at midnight, and have to get back to my crashpad, but thanks.

“There’s a phone in my room,” she chides. The elevator in my brain finally reaches the top floor…her remark means (a) I’m invited to her room, not just the hotel cocktail lounge, and (b) the offer of the phone suggests I’m invited to spend the night.

I am flustered, I just spent forty-minutes enjoying the telling of my personal love story to this woman. A tale of fate, good fortune and faithfulness, and I am now being asked to spend the night cheating on my wife.

“Thanks anyway, some other time,” I say, graciously allowing that she just wanted to continue the conversation.

“Okay, well nice meeting you,” she concludes.

A few weeks later, I’m in San Francisco, returning from dinner to my room. In the corridor, a girl is carrying an ice bucket.

“I know you,” she smiles, “the pilot who’s faithful to his wife.”

“Right,” I respond, trying to remember her name.

“Joan,” she says sticking out her hand and rescuing me, “and you’re Steve.”

“That’s right,” shaking hands now, “You have a good memory. You look so different out of uniform.”

“Well, now you have no excuse. I was just going to fix myself a drink, and you have to join me, I want to hear the rest of your story.”

There’s no harm in it, so I tell her I’ll be by in a few minutes, I need to go to my room first. Joan tells me her room number, and I agree to be over in five.

Letting myself into my room, I pee, wash my hands and face, and dampen my hair with the excess water still on my hands. I regard myself in the mirror, as I run a comb through my hair.

This is all very innocent, I think to my reflected face in the mirror. She just wants to chat, I just want to kill some time, and besides, I instruct myself, I can always just leave if it becomes something else. My reflection agrees with me, as I turn to leave the room.

“This is very nice,” I say, admiring the two club chairs facing each other in the corner of her room. A bottle of Absolute, two ice filled glasses, and an ice bucket wait for us on the little table in between.

She fixes two drinks, as I plunk myself down in the comfortable club chair, my back to the corner.

“Cheers” she says, lifting a glass. “Salud,” I respond.

Joan starts telling me about herself. She has had a failed marriage early on, “No kids, thank God,” she adds. She’s dating a cop in New York, a police detective.

Great, I think, this is going to be fine. We spend about an hour swapping personal stories, some airline jokes, and start a second drink.

Joan grows quiet, as we lapse into a comfortable silence.

She leans slightly forward as she says, “Why don’t you just get into that bed and let me fuck your brains out all night?”

“You don’t understand, I’ve done all that shit. The coke, the ‘Plato’s Retreat,’ the threesomes and moresomes.”

“So have I,” she challenges. “Last week, on a flight from Denver to Honolulu, we passed right over my ex-husbands house, it was my fucking house, that creep was banging my girlfriends in my bed. Well, fuck him! I took my panties off, pulled out the flight engineer’s dick, had the Captain and co-pilot take turns fucking my cunt and ass, while I sucked off the engineer. Right over the top of my old man’s house, felt great getting even with him, that bastard.”

“Shit Joan, I was a prick, just like your ex-husband. I used to fuck women in my ex-wife’s bed… crazy shit. One woman, Teri Herrin, we finish and I’m driving her home. She says her gold wristwatch is missing. We drive all the way back to my place. I leave her in the car, and run back upstairs into my bedroom. I had remade the bed before we left, everything nice and neat. We had this white goatskin shag carpet in the bedroom. I’m down on my hands and knees, my fingers going through this rug, all the way around the bed. No watch. Not in the bathroom, not on any dressers or tables, no watch. I try under the bed, and all the way around on the carpet again, no watch.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I lift up my wife’s pillow, and there it is. Dead center under that pillow, perfectly positioned to be found.

I hand Teri back her watch, tell her where I found it, and ask her what the deal is? She says that she wants me, she wanted Ilsa to find the watch, Jesus Christ!” I take a drink.

Joan giggles now, she liked that story, as I continue:

“I’m different now, older, done that shit, and I love Geri. She took a real chance marrying me, knowing what a slut I had always been. But when I fell in love with her, I never wanted anyone else again. I feel guilty just thinking of the shit I’ve done, before we were married. I don’t even think about sex or anything with any other woman. I’m just glad I don’t have to hide anything, lie or cover up anything, I couldn’t handle that kind of crap anymore. Thank God, I got all that out of my system before marrying Geri. Our relationship’s never been about sex, anyway, more like we’re brother and sister.”