Up In The Air – One Last Time

"Two-Two Heavy, have you lost an engine?"

"Ah, Two-Two, negative, we're just a tad, uh, heavy this afternoon."

"Ah, roger, Two-Two. Climb at your discretion to five hundred AGL then turn right to one eight zero."

"Roger, five hundred then one eight zero," Overton replied, then to Evans: "We're gonna rattle some dishes down there today." Looking down at the scene below, he could make out upturned faces on the streets and in a couple of backyards, and almost everyone was pointing at their 747. "Looks like two hundred indicated, now reading three-two-five FPM."

"Damn, Paul, I've never felt anything like this in my life! How about flaps seven?"

"Flaps seven, roger. Okay. Now three seven five FPM and nine degrees nose-up. Two fifteen indicated airspeed. Three fifty AGL. Okay, now four hundred FPM, passing three nine five AGL. Okay, coming up on five hundred AGL."

"Okay, flaps five please."

"Flaps five. Now five hundred FPM, five hundred AGL, two-two five indicated airspeed. I'd keep your turn pretty easy."

"Roger. How're the temps? Can I come back a little?" She started a slow right turn to 180 degrees.

"Maybe try ninety eight percent; temps look okay. Wouldn't go any lower yet. Probably have to write this up, though, if we go much longer."

"Clean the wing, would you?"

"Roger, flaps up, slats coming in. Coming up on eight hundred AGL, two three zero indicated, now ten degrees nose up."

"Paul, have you ever had a 744 this heavy before?"

"Yeah, once. Quito - on a hot day, too. Ass puckered-up so tight they were plucking vinyl from my asshole for a week. Okay, now one thousand AGL and two three five indicated, heading one-four five."

"Man, I hate to say it, but I've really gotta take a dump!"

"Really? I did about two minutes ago."

___________________________________

They reached a decent cruising altitude about halfway to Iceland and powered back a bit, let the autopilot settle in, and they both heaved a sigh. Evans pushed her seat back and stood, then walked to the head. Overton could see the back and arms of her blouse; they were soaked through with sweat, and he shook his head knowingly.

Out ahead the sky was tracked with dozens of contrails headed west; off to the south dozens more pointed eastward. The sun hung high overhead and the cockpit grew uncomfortably warm. He adjusted the temperature, checked in with Oceanic Control and received clearance to climb another two thousand feet, then set the altitude bug on the flight director and watched the altitude display slowly climb again. The head door closed and Evans returned to her seat.

"Want to try lunch?" she asked.

"You know it. Those jokers at Heathrow know how to cook!"

She opened the lunch box and took out a couple of trays, one marked salmon, the other some bizarre form of curry. Without asking she passed the curry to Overton and they both laughed.

"I don't know if I can eat this crap without a beer."

"Well," she said, "first time for everything. Want a Dr Pepper or . . . oops, no DP. Ginger ale or Coke?"

"Fucking limeys. You choose."

She handed him the ginger ale. "Coke and salmon," she added, "breakfast of champions."

"You say so. I wonder what the hell you call shrimp masala and ginger ale?"

"Diarrhea?"

"Oh, thanks ever so much," he said. She smiled. "What's the fuel flow look like?"

She coughed, laughed a little, then reached up and checked a dial, flipped a rotary switch and checked another dial. "About one eight. Looking good."

"Go ahead and run a weight for approach when you finish that smelly thing."

"Smelly? You calling my fish smelly. I can't wait 'til you start blowing farts after another load of curry. Your seat's gonna catch fire."

He shook his head. "Wouldn't be the first time."

She laughed, then reached behind her and flipped the breaker for the cockpit voice recorder. "So. Want a blowjob?"

Overton coughed, blew ginger ale out his nose before turning crimson, then looked up and saw the recorder was off. He looked at her for a moment, at the hungry look in her eyes. "You really liked doing that? I mean, have we created a monster here?"

"I can't help it, Paul. I loved it, the way it tastes, the way you feel just before. But I love it, you know?"

"Really?"

"I got you last night, you know. Just after you fell asleep."

"What?"

"Very gently, if I may say so myself. You popped a big one, too."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"Yeah, well. I've never even heard of anyone trying something like that up here."

"Just push your seat back and leave the driving to us!"

"You serious?"

"Paul, I'm horny as hell. Now push your seat back, goddamn it!"

He shook his head again, then double-checked the autopilot settings. She was out of her seat and getting on her knees behind the center console, licking her lips all the while; he hit the button and his seat rolled back, then dialed in a little recline and undid his belt and the button on his trousers.

Evans pulled the zipper down and pushed his briefs around until she freed him, then she engulfed him, worked him over with her mouth for a while, then pounded him with her fist. She kept at it for what felt like an eternity to Overton, then he felt his groin tightening, his back arching, and she pushed his cock so deeply down her throat he thought she would choke. She grasped him around the base with her fingernails as her head bobbed furiously; soon he heard her gulping ravenously as his seed flooded into her mouth.

Again she bobbed and swirled and he felt himself stiffening again, then he felt her standing, heard her zipper opening, and he felt her contorting around the controls, mounting him, and he gasped when her liquid warmth engulfed him. With her hands on his seat back she ground into him, her hips swayed and rocked, her head drifted back and snapped forward in complete abandon and within moments he felt her shuddering into her first orgasm. He held her hips down, tried to thrust against her weight without jamming his feet forward against the rudder pedals, then felt his own orgasm building. He moved his hands to her shoulders, held her down while he did his best to impale her, then gasped as his second orgasm took over."

As he came back to earth he felt her dismount, then encircle him with her mouth again and clean-up the remains. She licked her lips as she stood, then made her way to the head again.

Overton looked at the instruments; perhaps ten minutes had gone by and everything was as it should be, but he knew now that nothing was. He looked down at the wreckage, tried to wipe up the mess in his lap before he zipped up and fastened his seatbelt again. She came back a minute later and leaned over, kissed him on the mouth, then took her seat. He tasted toothpaste on her breath and smiled, then without saying a word reached over and took her hand.

"Never again, darling. Alright? Now flip on the recorder."

"Sorry, Paul. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, you know?" She reached up and hit the breaker, then called out some fuel flow numbers and started working up landing weights. She went to work on the pre-landing checklist while he made his way back to the head, and she smiled when he came back and stopped, leaned over and kissed her forehead. He bent closer still and whispered in her ear, and she looked at him while he climbed back into his seat. He sat and buckled himself in again, brought his seat forward and scanned the instrument panel. He felt her looking at him and tried as hard as he could not to look her way, but after a few minutes he gave in and looked at her.

There were tears running from her eyes, a smile parted her face, and he winked at her.

Silently the words formed on her mouth. He watched them form, watched them cross the air between them, felt her words wash over his parched soul . . .

'I love you too. I love you too.'

For how long had his life been up in the air, waiting, wanting to be reborn. How very odd to find love thirty some-odd years after he'd promised another woman his love 'til death do us part.

But they had parted, and with his wife's death his life too had seemed over.

But now this. This, what? Miracle?

It was all so very sweet, and so very impossible. He knew it had to be a dream.

He looked ahead, looked at the New England coast approaching beneath a carpet of puffy white clouds.

Maybe he was a fool to dare love another woman again. Their relationship would be complicated, he knew, but their's would be a relationship of equals.

He looked at her again, then began calling out the pre-landing checklist. He did so with a gentle smile on his face.

___________________________________

Overton looked at the instruments and shook his head. The engine temperature looked high again, and he leaned forward and tapped the gauge with his finger. The little needle crept upward, hovered just short of the red.

"Shit! Goddamned piece of shit!" He slowed and stopped at the red light, looked at an old woman trundling by in the crosswalk, and wondered aloud how many times he'd have to take this old monster to the mechanic before he'd finally have to break down and buy a new car.

The car, an old maroon BMW 2002 Tii now almost thirty years old, had been his wife's pride and joy for what had seemed like forever, but since her death he couldn't bear the thought of parting with it. He'd managed to hold on to most of their past, but now some things he just couldn't justify any longer. The transmission had gone out last summer and he'd struggled to find a mechanic with enough time and talent to rebuild the thing. Replacements simply weren't available anymore.

How long could he hold on to this car? How long did he have to hold on to the past?

And there had been so many days since her passing when he'd felt much the same way about his life: he was wearing out and the parts were getting harder and harder to come by. Things simply didn't work the way they once had, and those were on the good days. The bad days had hardly been worth waking up for.

But that was yesterday, he said.

Today the sun was out, the sky full of hope and promise. Today -- Denise Evans had told him she loved him. Him! -- and suddenly everything was different. Now this old car felt like an anchor holding him to an unstable, unusable past, and he resented the thing because of it's hold on his soul.

The light changed and he surged ahead, looked down the street for a service station. He watched the gauge climb slowly into the red and saw the first hints of steam seep up from under the hood. He saw a Mercedes dealership ahead, saw a "SmartCar" banner fluttering on the breeze and on an impulse flipped on his turn signal and crossed the street, turned into the lot. The old BMW rolled to a wheezing stop and shuddered, and Overton turned off the engine and sighed.

A couple of salesmen inside looked at the steam pouring out and pointed at the old hulk, laughed while one took out a nickel and tossed it in the air. Overton saw they were flipping a coin, probably to decide which one of them would have to deal with him. One apparently called it wrong and shook his head, this one walked out to greet his next hapless victim while the one who stayed behind laughed.

Overton, still in uniform, stepped from the car and the approaching salesman hesitated when he saw the four stripes on his shoulders. 'A pilot!' he said to himself, now hopeful that he'd get to sell a Mercedes today, and probably an E class at that.

"Afternoon, sir. Looks like you got here just in time. Is that an old 2002?"

Overton took in the salesman: he looked like a slick Ivy League wannabe and was almost drooling at the thought of selling a new MB today. "Yeah, but it's a Tii." The salesman looked clueless. "Well, it's a 2002 alright, but it's the Tii model. Pretty rare, and quite a bit more valuable. Quicker than greased eel shit, too. At least when it wants to."

"Seen better days, has it?" The salesman wasn't going to be snookered by this approach. He'd drive a hard bargain. "So, what can I show you today? Maybe an SLK?"

"No, I'm interested in a SmartCar."

The salesman looked crestfallen. Puny commission, no room to dicker around on the price. "Oh. Well, yeah, we have a couple inside."

Overton followed the salesman into the showroom and his eye immediately fell on a silver one with a white top and a red interior. "That's nice," he said. "How much?"

"About thirteen-five."

"Not about. How much? Exactly. Driveaway."

The salesman didn't flinch: "Thirteen eight out the door."

Overton pulled out his wallet and fished out his American Express card and tossed it to the salesman. "Okay, wrap it up. I'll take it."

The salesman chuckled and looked at Overton. "Sir?"

"Put it on the card, would you?"

"Sir? Do you want to trade in the BMW? You want me to get a number for you? Work up a deal?"

Overton turned and looked at his wife's old car. "No. not really. You want it?"

The salesman looked at Overton like he'd just sprouted horns to go along with his pitchfork. "Uh, yeah, sure, I'll take it." The other salesman -- the 'winner' of the coin toss - looked utterly devastated as he watched Overton take the keys from his pocket and toss them to the 'loser'.

"Fine. Write it up and I'll go grab the title."

The salesman shook his head again and walked off to the business office, but he couldn't resist smiling at his colleague and flipping him the bird.

____________________________________________

Evans walked into her little house, a bungalow in Inwood not far from JFK, and tossed her overnight bag onto the sofa. She looked around the living room -- not one print or painting adorned a wall, her furniture looked like it had been collected at yard sales -- and she wanted to walk out of this place, this cave, yet she was tired and wanted a shower in the worst way. She walked into her bedroom, found glass on the floor under the single window in the room, and groaned.

"Not again," she said. "No, not again."

This would make the third time in the past six months her place had been broken into, and the last time it had happened it appeared the only thing 'the burglar' did was come in and look through her underwear drawer. The police thought it was probably some kid, a teenager probably, a sick kid with a hard-on for her, and as there wasn't any property 'missing' -- save perhaps a pair of pantyhose -- she'd been left with the impression that the cops really didn't care. She looked around her bedroom, in the tiny closet, in her drawers -- and once again, nothing was gone -- but she went ahead and called the police again, then the glass company.

A patrol car arrived thirty minutes later, after she'd showered and changed, and the patrolman, actually, a patrolwoman, came in and introduced herself.

"I'm Officer Christy D'Angelo," the girl said, and there was something instantly likable about the girl, kind of wholesome, kind of tough, like she had grown up in a family of boisterous, bullying brothers.

D'Angelo looked the scene over, thought she saw a latent fingerprint on the glass and went back out to her car, then came back a few minutes later with a little red tackle box full of investigative tools. She dusted the window for prints, came up with a couple of good ones, then went outside and walked around the house, probably checking for footprints, Evans guessed.

"Do you know who lives behind you?" the D'Angelo asked when she came back in.

"No, never seen anyone out there."

"Never? No summer BarBQs, no nothing?"

"I'm away a lot, but no, never."

The woman looked at her closely. "Away a lot? What do you do?"

"I'm a, I work for United."

"Oh, yeah? What do you do?

"I'm an F/O, a first officer."

"Really? Cool. I'm gonna start taking flying lessons, kinda thought it would be cool."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, got these benefits, ya know, GI Bill, thought I'd see if I like it, maybe try to go to one of those flight schools. Go from nothing to working for an airline in like six months. Where'd you learn?"

"The Air Force."

"No shit? I was in the Air Force. Helicopter maintenance, in Iraq. What did you fly?"

"KC-135s, mainly out of Tinker, but I spend a year in Guam, too."

"Tankers, huh. Intense. Guess it was real easy to get a job once you got out?"

"Not too bad. I had about three thousand hours, so that made it easy."

"What do you think about the flight school thing?"

"You know, I'm not sure, never looked into it. I guess like anything else, the quality of the school is the big thing, but I'd talk to graduates, get the real scoop."

"Uh-huh."

"And I guess you know that you'd probably get an F/O position with a commuter airline, fly a turbo-prop or an RJ. The pay's not very good, from what I hear. What do you make now?"

"Oh, with a lot of overtime I clear sixty. Base is mid-40s."

"Well, from a 'making money' standpoint you'd probably be better off where you are. Those commuter carriers are sweat shops. You really got to want to fly to justify working for some of them."

"No shit? Are you, like, an instructor?"

"Oh, sure, part of getting your Airline Transport rating involves doing that, but I haven't taught in years."

"Hey! I'm volunteering if you want to do it sometime!"

Evans grinned. "Yeah? Well, I'll keep that in mind!"

"So, anyways, I'm gonna head out now, try and find somethin' out about the people behind you. There are footprints out there, by the way, around the hedge under your window. I'm gonna check 'em out, and if I find anything out I'll let you know."

"Thanks, appreciate it."

"Got it, and here's my card, with the service number for the report, in case you need it for like insurance or somethin'."

"Right. Thanks."

"Later."

Evans watched her go, sure this girl was the best cop she'd ever run into, certainly the most thorough, but now, as she looked around her bedroom the sense of violation was acute, and intense. She went over to the broken window and looked over at the house just behind hers, and for an instant thought she could just make out someone standing in the window, looking at her. That rattled her, so she stepped back, then went to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice.

She thought about calling Overton, wanted to talk to him but knew he wouldn't be home yet, but looked for her iPhone anyway, grabbed it and went back to the bedroom. She looked at the house again, saw D'Angelo's squad car parked over on the next street, then saw her walking around the back of the house, and she saw the figure inside again, looking at her, then at D'Angelo as she came into view.

A shot rang out, the window where the figure inside had been standing exploded, and Evans saw D'Angelo go down. Evans dialed 911, told the dispatcher what was going down, then ran to her closet and grabbed the Beretta she had purchased when in the Air Force. She ran through her yard and climbed the fence, ran over to D'Angelo.

The officer was injured and dazed, but was talkative.

"Fuck that sonuvabitch!" she yelled.

"Can you stand?" Evans asked.

"Can I fuckin' stand? Can I fuckin' stand...you bet your sweet ass I can stand, and I'm gonna go in there and fuck that fuckin' piece of shit with my fuckin' nightstick! Right up his fuckin' ass!"

"I called 911, there should be back-up getting here any minute..."

And they could hear sirens in the distance, lots of them, and D'Angelo took out her radio and called in the situation.

"Let's get you out of here," D'Angelo said, looking at Evans' Beretta. "If that peashooter of yours ain't registered you'll be going to fuckin' jail instead of that mutherfucker..."

The two of them got back over the fence and back into Evans' house, and it started raining police cars a few minutes later. D'Angelo joined the other cops when they stormed the house, and a few minutes later Evans saw a pale, overweight kid, maybe fifteen years old, being led from the house in handcuffs.