Come Fly with Me: A Collection

by Whitney G.

  “I could, but I won’t.”

  “Mr. Weston—”

  “It’s a no.”

  “It’s not a yes or no question.” She raised her voice. “Every question today is mandatory, especially since you waited until the very last minute to deem us ‘worthy’ of your time. If you wish to continue flying after your final trips for Signature this weekend, you need to answer me. Otherwise, we can stop this session right now.”

  “It’s undefined.” I clenched my jaw. “In regards to my mother, it’s fucking undefined.”

  “Thank you.” She let out a breath. “Last question in that set. On a scale of one to ten, how close are you to your wife?”

  “Ex-wife.” I corrected her again. “She shouldn’t be included in any files related to me, but she’s ranked right between my father and brother for a negative seventy.”

  “Well, enlighten me, please.” She looked up and scratched her head. “In the event of something unfortunate happening to you, who would you like us to call first?”

  “A funeral home.”

  Silence.

  She looked away as if she was unsure of what to say next. Seconds later, she slid a standard employee agreement to me, along with a pen. “You’ve signed this before, but please sign it with me as your witness…And wait. I actually have one last question. Are you aware that you have an ‘FCE’ on your employment file with us?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to know what an ‘FCE’ means?”

  “I assume it means I’m capable of counting and you’re not. You said the previous question was the last question.”

  “It was.” She frowned. “Do you, by chance, have any questions for me?”

  “Never.”

  “Very well, then. This concludes the completion of Jake C. Weston’s profile with Elite Airways.” She hit stop on the recorder and tucked it into a white box labeled ‘active pilots.’ “You can leave now, Mr. Owens. Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, standing. “Best of luck to you with our airline, Mr. Weston.”

  “Thank you.” I started to stand as well, but Dr. Cox motioned for me to remain seated.

  “I thought this was the end.” I looked at her. “I’m not interested in speaking to you or anyone else any longer than I’m required to.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said, her tone far darker than it was at first. “I just have one final, off the record question, and then you can leave and return to whatever shell of a life you think you have.”

  She waited until Mr. Owens left the room, and then she slammed a massive red folder on top of the table and glared at me. “I need you to tell me how the hell you passed your psychiatric evaluation six weeks ago.”

  “I studied.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Weston.” Her face was red. “The average score for a competent and sane pilot on the PILA test is a five. You scored a nine. “

  “Maybe the test was measuring something else of mine.”

  She ignored my comment. “A nine means damn near deviant. It means you shouldn’t have passed any of the remaining psych tests at all. Yet somehow, the doctor passed you with flying colors.”

  “How very generous.”

  “A little too generous.” She plucked a business card from her pocket and tossed it to me. “I won’t deny that your career thus far has been nothing short of outstanding, but—Well…I’m just going to be frank here. You have the most fucked up psych results I have ever seen.”

  “It’s an honor, thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to receive my award via mail.”

  “I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” she said. “According to the real test results—not the ones you scammed somehow, you’re exceedingly below the average in three out of four emotional areas. You’re socially detached, yet somehow manage to function in social environments.” She clasped her hands together. “I haven’t personally tested you, but I think you use your career as a means to get away, to cope with some type of issue you’re internally suffering from. Not only that, but your sleep tests showed high levels of…”

  I tuned out her voice as she continued to talk, only catching a few words like “psychotherapy” and “threshold” but my attention to her sentences waned with every word that left her lips.

  Leaning forward, I flipped through the binders on the edge of her desk, thumbing through the thick pages. I lifted the file baskets and the notebooks, setting them down when I saw nothing underneath.

  Still ignoring the sound of her voice, I stood up and walked over to the wall of taped airline policies. I stood in front of the one that announced the ‘100% No Employee-Fraternization’ rule and grabbed the paper’s edges. I slowly peeled it from the wall, glancing at the drywall behind it.

  Nothing…

  I put it back and checked behind another policy, then another. I was checking the wall behind the fourth one when I heard the sound of her heels clacking closer to me.

  “Mr. Weston?” She waited for me to turn around, finally stopping her long-ass spiel. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m searching for the point of this conversation, since it’s clearly not going to fall out of your mouth anytime soon.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Is it attempting to come out now?” I asked. “How much longer do I need to stand here and wait for it?”

  She took a step back and narrowed her eyes at me. “The point is, since you have an ‘FCE’ on your profile, I can’t force you into the mandated therapy we offer our pilots here on the health plan. But based on the results of your tests, I think it would greatly help if you saw a professional at least two or three times a month. Hell, five to ten times, if you can manage it.”

  “See how brief and concise that was?” I walked toward the door. “You could’ve summed that shit up ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m going to find out how you passed that test, Weston.” She followed me. “I refuse to swallow the results as they are, and I promise you, when I figure out how you managed to get our best doctor to give you a clearance—”

  “How about just asking me what you really want to ask me?” I interrupted her as I twisted the doorknob. “Ask me.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms, hesitating. “Did you proposition our lead doctor and trade a sexual favor in exchange for passing clearance results?”

  “First of all,” I said as I opened the door. “I’ve never had to proposition anyone. Ever. Second of all, if by ‘sexual favor’ you mean, did I fuck her against her office window until she couldn’t breathe, or did I ask her to get on her knees so she could suck my cock until she swallowed my come, then yes. But not in exchange for clean test results. She’d already promised to pass me after the way I ate her pussy.”

  All color left her face. “I don’t—I don’t believe you. No one here on this airline’s staff, let alone someone that high up, would do that.”

  “If you’d like to re-test me in the same way,” I said, returning her business card and tucking it into her front pocket, “Let me know. However, contrary to what you so adamantly said seconds ago, you will swallow every result…”

  Gate A2

  Jake

  New York (JFK)

  “This is the final boarding call for Flight 1487 with service to San Francisco.” “Passenger Alice Tribue, please return to Gate A13 for your passport as soon as possible.” “American Airlines Flight 1781 with service to Toronto will now depart from Gate 7.”

  The familiar sounds of John F. Kennedy International welcomed me home as soon as I stepped off the jet bridge a week later. Despite two sixteen hour flights, I hadn’t slept well since my interview in Dallas, and I didn’t feel the slightest hint of exhaustion.

  I walked through the terminal, pulling my luggage close behind as the most cliché song in the history of aviation sifted through the speakers. A cover of Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly with Me,” complete with an orchestra, was inspiring th
e most tone deaf of passengers to sing along as they rushed past the gates.

  Pilots from other airlines walked on the other side of the hallway in their freshly-pressed uniforms, giving slight nods as they passed me by. The flight attendants at their sides blushed and smiled, offering me small waves and winks that went unanswered and ignored.

  All I could think about right now was how today officially marked the lowest of lows in my career. A fresh start of all the bullshit I thought I’d escaped.

  When I first started flying gliders at sixteen, everything in regards to aviation was an art. Every facet, from the engineering of a plane, to the actual flying itself, held intrigue, creating a perfect balance of craftsmanship and allure.

  Newly designed aircrafts were something to clamor over, new routes were planned and praised for pioneering the unthinkable, and each move an airline made received its rightful due in the press. Spectators stopped and stared at the new Boeings and Airbuses in complete admiration from below, passengers acted like they actually gave a fuck, and flight attendants were more than pretzel serving waitresses at thirty thousand feet. For pilots, there was even an art to effortlessly jetting from city to city, landing in hotel after hotel, and fucking a different woman every night.

  Yet, somewhere between new regulations, greed, and even with the advanced technology, all of that changed. Now, a pilot was nothing more than a bus driver who shuttled ungrateful-ass passengers across the sky. And that perfect balance of craftsmanship and allure was no longer seen; it wasn’t even remembered.

  “Excuse me, Captain?” A man wearing an ‘I Love NY’ shirt suddenly stepped in front of me. He held up his cell phone, extending it toward my face. “Would you mind taking our picture? We’ve tried to do it ourselves, but I keep cutting my head off in the frame.” He laughed and pointed to his family—two young boys and a woman in a yellow dress. They were laughing and posing in front of a blue “Welcome to New York” sign.

  I didn’t take the phone from him. I stared at his family, their laughter becoming more and more unbearable with each passing second. One of his sons waved at me, holding up a toy plane in his other hand, smiling and waiting for me to smile back.

  “Captain?” The husband looked at me. “Can you please take our picture?”

  “No.” I stepped back. “No, I can’t.” I noticed a flight attendant walking toward us and nodded in her direction. “But I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I walked away and headed straight for the parking garage.

  I needed to get the fuck home.

  Later that night…

  I parked my car in front of my condo, The Madison at Park Avenue, and waited for one of the valets to approach the window.

  “Good evening, sir.” An attendant dressed in a grey tuxedo opened my door. “How long do you expect to be in town this time?”

  “Four days.” I stepped out of the car and tossed him the keys. “Keep it close to the front, please.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  I walked up the stone steps that led into the building and glanced up at the night sky. For the first time in as long as I could remember, the stars weren’t shrouded by a film of grey clouds. They were bright and blinding against the darkness, probably giving false hope to some optimistic dreamer who was falling in love with this city.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Weston.” The doorman, the one constant in my life, opened the door for me. “How are the skies treating you these days?”

  “The same as always, Jeff. The same as always.”

  “Coming back from anywhere interesting this time?”

  “Singapore.” I pulled a small satin bag out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Currency. For your collection.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, smiling. “By the way, there were five business class tickets to Belgium in my mailbox here last week. I don’t recall ever mentioning my birthday wish to you, so would you know anything about this secret gift? Who I need to thank, perhaps?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, moving past him. “But those should have been first class tickets, not business, so whenever you figure out who gave them to you, tell him he needs to make the airline fix that mistake.”

  “I will.” He laughed. “Have a great night, Mr. Weston.”

  “Thank you.” I walked into the lobby and stopped, slowly letting my eyes adjust to the harsh light from the new chandeliers. The owners were always renovating or unnecessarily adjusting something different every month, and that was the main reason why I never felt like this place was truly home. The popular chain hotels I spent nights in during stopovers always seemed far more familiar and welcoming.

  I headed straight to an open elevator and swiped my key card at the panel. When I was sure no one else was coming onto the car, I held my card against the panel once more and pressed “80,” the penthouse suite.

  Every resident in this building was one of New York’s esteemed elite—judges, politicians, doctors, lawyers, but they were all paying exorbitant prices to simply rent one of the four massive units offered on each floor. My floor, however, was mine and mine alone. It had a long history and had always been owned. Although I hardly ever used it, I refused to sell it back to the building’s owners, no matter how large and lucrative their offers grew year after year.

  The second the elevator doors opened, I stepped off and disabled the security cameras that were hidden in the hallway vases. I double checked their wires to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with and returned them to their hiding spots.

  Unlocking the double doors that led inside my apartment, I took off my jacket and hit the lights. For the most part, everything was just as I left it—except for the usual shit the housekeepers insisted on rearranging.

  Annoyed, I realigned the collectible Coke cans on my counter, returned my chilled wine bottles to their original positions, and re-latched the windows that lined my living room and parlor room walls. I tossed a few misplaced “Welcome to The Madison” tour brochures into the trash, and turned the air on high to tone down the new strawberry scent they sprayed onto every single surface. Then I moved my parlor chair far away from the window where it belonged.

  I walked through room after room, already knowing what was out of place since I went through this routine every few weeks.

  When I was sure everything was alright, I walked into my private library and damn near lost it. All five hundred of my books were now rearranged by color instead of alphabetically. To make matters worse, my favorite three books were spread wide open on my desk, with several of their pages folded and creased. An unforgivable offense.

  I pulled out my phone and sent an email to the housekeeping manager.

  * * *

  Subject: My Goddamn Condo.

  To whomever this may fucking concern,

  For the umpteenth time, I don’t appreciate your incompetent and defiant staff rearranging my things while I’m away. I also don’t appreciate you continuing to use my unit as a tour site and “test suite” for potential renters—letting people pretend like they live here whenever they please.

  Stay the hell out of my space if you’re not cleaning it. (And stop using that strawberry spray shit. Go back to lemon.)

  J. Weston

  * * *

  The manager’s response was immediate.

  * * *

  Subject: Re: My Goddamn Condo.

  Mr. Weston,

  With all due respect, and for the umpteenth time, we have only used your suite for a tour once, with your permission. We do not use your unit as a “test suite” and we would never let any potential renter pretend as if they lived there.

  We’ve given in to every single demand you’ve requested for your privacy—extra cameras, ensuring that no one on the housekeeping staff outside of myself knows your name, and private parking. In fact, just for you, we’ve recently installed an additional set of cameras above your exterior entry door to ease your worries, and per our security team,
there has been no access to your space (outside of cleaners) while you’ve been away.

  However, we have noticed that over the past few weeks, YOU have come back more frequently than normal, and during odd hours of the night.

  I am not insinuating that you don’t remember these times, but perhaps you’ve moved things around your apartment during those hours and are simply forgetting how you left them?

  I apologize if anything I’ve said is offensive or out of line.

  We truly enjoy having you as a resident here at The Madison, and if you need anything more, or anything else, let me know. (I will be sure to remind the staff, once again, to stop using the “strawberry spray shit” in your place. We no longer have lemon, though...Would you like fresh linen instead?)

  Mr. Sullivan

  Head of Housekeeping

  The Madison at Park Avenue

  * * *

  I didn’t answer. I needed to think.

  The last few times I slept here, I hadn’t really “slept” at all. I’d woken up in a cold sweat and stumbled out of bed and downstairs. Damn near sleepwalking, I’d staggered around a near desolate Times Square, staring at the bright and blinking billboards, listening to the late night conversations of straggling tourists.

  Each time I found my way home, I did move things—but not in a rearranging type of way. In a shattering whatever I could get my hands on type of way. Whatever I broke, I quickly replaced the next day so no one on the staff could be blamed, but I couldn’t remember ever having the patience to mindlessly rearrange simple shit.

  The few other times I returned at odd hours of the night were the result of me coming back after meeting a woman in a hotel. Those nights always ended in sleep, not senseless redecorating.

  At least, I didn’t think so.