Stephen Keshner - Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

Now, after one more fight in the car (from the Doctor to Geri’s job), after making fun of the simplistic drivel Geri’s picked up from Levine (have more sex, put more fun in your life as a substitute for overeating, drinking), I’ve got her in tears, with my “No shit, but what about ‘you don’t feel like having sex,’ or ‘you don’t feel like having sex with someone you don’t particularly care for as a person?” Just my sarcastic tone, even before my unfortunate logic, deflates Geri before my eyes. Shit, she’s crying and unhappy again.

“Look, we’ve got to try to communicate. We’ve got to spend more time with each other, not just sit in front of the TV every night,” Geri manages, drying out her nose, wiping her tears.

“First we have to come to like each other again as people and then as friends again,” I volunteer. “That requires thinking the best, not the worst, of the other person’s motivations. I’ve always thought only the best about your motivations, but when there’s a need to make assumptions, you only think the worst of me,” I point out accusingly.

“We have to work on it,” we both agree, as she gets out of the car to go to work.

Jesus. Driving home, it’s all washing through my mind, unbidden. I am happier away from her, and from Kiley, for that matter… what’s the deal?

Home now, folding the wash, revelation hits. I feel personally, solely responsible to pay the bills, to make it all work somehow. I’m facing a shortening deadline of pilot earnings sneaking quickly up on me, driving me crazy. I cannot relax, I cannot enjoy my wife and daughter, since they are a living reminder of my problem, the mirror always reflecting my nightmare back at me… I run from that mirror.

Finally it all comes clear. Geri is the only one who has been trying to improve this impossible situation. I’ve been trying to “save my family,” the big picture, but I’m destroying it in the process. I’ve allowed my encapsulated thoughts and feelings to isolate me from Geri. I’ve worsened the situation by not trying to improve it, avoiding, just trying to let it all go by… Rodney King’s wimpy “can’t we all just get along.”

Holy shit, I’ve really fucked up. Why should I pass the days trying to skip by, waiting to be called out to fly, passively hoping that my marriage and my family holds together? Why not actively participate in improvement? Am I uncaring? No. Lazy? Yes. “An object at rest tends to want to remain at rest.”

“I hope it’s not too late” I think, wishing Geri were here so that I could immediately share these thought with her.

Charlie Extra-Pickles is driving me nuts, trying to load the waypoints into the I.N.S.’s.

“Jesus, Charlie, you’re trying to help me, but you fuck up my flow. Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing…”

I sense Jerry Lovell starting to smile behind me, as I hear all the familiar clicking and buzzing of his engineer panel pre-flight check.

“Jerry, how many Captains you know fuck with the I.N.S.’s?”

“‘Extra-Pickles’ is the only one I know, wants to be one of the boys.” Jerry adds to the shit we’re heaping on Charlie Pickles.

We’re all grinning, this is a great crew; professional, but laid back, looking forward to each other’s company, as we anticipate our layover in Athens.

“Keshy,” (fake indignation now in Charlie’s high-pitched nasal voice), “…I’m not trying to help you, I’m trying to remember how to use these things.”

“Right, Charlie. Charlie, the registered pharmacist in three states, the military instructor pilot in 130’s, you’re trying to remember how to load the I.N.S.’s… give me a break.”

With the preflight done, the fuel on board and confirmed by Jerry’s computations and the gauges, we get the checklist out of the way and brief the Canarsie departure.

“Holy shit, no interruptions.” Charlie beams. It’s true, normally some galley slave, ramp guy or gate agent comes barging in during our challenge and responses, spewing bullshit, and we usually have to start all over again.

The amber cargo door lights tell us we still have time to kill. “How’re Geri, and my baby Kiley?”

“Holy shit, Charlie, you won’t believe this shit….your baby.”

I tell the guys about a party we had over the weekend, a houseful of our friends getting loose, with kids all over the place. Kiley is eleven, with budding young breasts, which she shyly hides behind towels, closed doors and bras.

Stuart and the other boys of the group are skim-boarders and surfer types, who love hanging at our house, so close to the ocean. The word “dude,” resurrected by the wannabe teens, is being used a lot, as “segue” and “closure” are by the wannabe Cronkites on TV.

While we adults are downstairs relaxed, buzzed and catching up after a two week rain-caused hiatus, Geri goes to see what the kids are up to. Geri’s back, beet red, holding back the laughter.

“I went into the bedroom, and they’re O.K., just playing a word game, but this cross we brought back from Jerusalem is on the floor, broken.”

So Geri asks, pointing at the crucifix, “What happened?” and Kiley says, “The Dude fell off.” The sand-stone Jesus is missing… Geri asks, stunned, “So…where’s the Dude?”

“We’re all rolling….”

“The Dude fell off! the Dude!” Geri concludes, saying “One of the kids accidentally stepped on Jesus, and he crumbled… so, I think they all stepped on Jesus, after he was already broken, to see if the house would fall down.”

Stoned and well overweight Yoko Pacetti, swollen ankles propped up on a hassock blurts, “Jesus was born in a pile of shit in a barn, I don’t think he’d mind being part of your carpet.”

“Charlie, I can’t believe it, I know that I’m emotionally bankrupt, but your ‘Baby Kiley’ is only eleven, and she’s saying shit like “the Dude fell off!”

Charlie and Jerry lose it.

Zoann, our purser, has been listening to this sordid story the whole time. “I’m going to church Sunday. Anybody want me to say a prayer for them?”

“I didn’t know you were religious, Zoann?” pipes Charlie, high-pitched, quizzical.

“I’m not. My mother wants me to go to church to meet men. I tell her, ‘Oh mom, so now Jesus is my personal pimp?’ “

That’s it, this is going to be a great trip.

“Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, clear to taxi Quebec, hold short of November, runway 3-1 left in use.”

“Roger, ground, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, entering Quebec at Quebec Golf, clear Quebec hold short November.”

“Disregard, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, transition to Bravo at November. Clear foxtrot, cross 4 left, clear to taxi to 3-1 left.”

We smile at the royal treatment. “Roger, Kennedy Ground, 800 clear Quebec; transition to Bravo at November, Foxtrot, cross 4 left and taxi to 3-1 left.

“Roger 800, change now to Tower frequency 119.1.”

“119.1 Tower, Rog, 800.”

“JFK Tower, 800 checking in, approaching 3-1 left…we’ll be ready at the end.”

“Roger, Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, position and hold 3-1 left.”

“Position and hold 3-1 left,” I respond. Charlie’s heard. He nods his acknowledgement to me.

“Taxi checks complete!” declares Jerry, “and I’ve sat them down,” moving his chair to face forward and up to the pedestal between Charlie and me.

“Before take off check,” declares Charlie as we taxi into position and hold. He throws on the lights as I turn on the radar, T-cas and transponder.

“Tango Oscar Whiskey 800, clear for take-off runway 3-1 left Canarsie climb departure.”

“Rog JFK tower, 800 clear to take-off 3-1 left, Canarsie climb, we’re on the roll.” I declare, as Charlie stands the thrust levers straight up.