Merlin of the Magnolias

by Gardner Landry

  The blimp was now bobbing so wildly it looked like some kind of animal trying to break free from a snare, or maybe a bucking bronco about to explode out of a rodeo gate. No one paid attention to Merlin when he rose and sidestepped behind the oyster tasters to the restaurant’s entry. He descended the stairs to the parking lot, never taking his eyes off the Airmadillo. As if in a trance, he began to shuffle across the crushed oystershell lot. About two-thirds of the way, he could see that most of the knots in the lines securing the blimp had become precariously loose and that the blimp was just on the verge of breaking free from its moorings. Deducing that it was a matter of mere seconds before the Airmadillo assumed unmanned, undirected flight, he broke into his own version of a dead sprint, heading straight for the passenger/pilot compartment.

  Just as he opened the door and stepped inside, the blimp lurched upward, belly-flopping him onto its floor. Merlin grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat and pulled himself to his feet as the Airmadillo continued to rise and head toward the colorfully painted houses of Crystal Beach and the Gulf of Mexico just beyond them. He squeezed into the pilot’s seat and tried to start the engine. The first try failed, and the blimp barely missed the rooftops of a couple of beachfront houses on stilts.

  As the Airmadillo crossed the beach and headed seaward, another buffeting sent its nose sharply downward toward the surf and the swells past the last sandbar. Merlin knew what he had to do. He spun the elevator wheel backward as fast as he could, then he glared at the ornery start switch and pressed it again.

  The engine cranked, and the propeller whirred to life, and just as a spray of sea foam hit the bow of the airship, it began to nose sharply upward past the sandy brown beach water toward the opaque military green of the nearshore ocean. Merlin had failed to notice his phone buzzing in his pocket. He stabilized the blimp as best he could in the capricious wind and reached for his phone.

  “Hello?”

  It was the captain.

  “What the hell happened? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Well … I … I just saw the blimp moving and instinctively headed toward the door. I don’t really know why, and by the time I reached the cabin, she had broken free of her moorings, and all I could do was jump in.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You were all engaged in conversation, and I didn’t know how to interrupt.”

  “From now on, interrupt when the blimp’s getting away!”

  “Oh, okay, I will. Even if it seems rude.”

  “Rude, shmood! The Airmadillo comes first!”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Now let me talk you in so Svetlana and I can board.”

  “Uh, okay. You mean to land?”

  “Yeah, to land. What do you think I mean?”

  “I’ve never landed the vehicle.”

  “Well, you’ve never soloed either, but you seem to be doing fine with that.”

  Too unsettled to recount the blimp’s brush with the nearshore whitecaps, all Merlin could manage was “Uh, okay, um, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, cowboy. Now let’s get you back to Stangaroo’s.”

  Dirk talked Merlin in with considerably more precision than one would expect from someone who had just downed copious amounts of rich food and ale. Merlin had steeled himself for a round tongue-lashing from Dirk, but instead he watched the captain hold the cabin door open for Svetlana, Tino, and his chuckling sidekicks whose names he had forgotten after initial introductions at the table but now registered as Dirk directed Dogboy and Virgil to their seats.

  A server stood beside Tino at the blimp’s door and handed him a cardboard cake box, which Tino in turn handed to Svetlana to stow under the seats. Then came a tall thermos-like container and an insulated box of crushed ice. As Tino entered the Airmadillo, he said in Merlin’s direction, “We decided to get airborne for the last course.”

  Merlin began to dislodge himself from the pilot’s seat, but, again to his surprise, Dirk stopped him, saying, “No, stay put! You’ve proven yourself. I’ll talk you through the standard takeoff.” Dirk angled himself in the passenger seat behind Merlin such that he could instruct Merlin if he turned left and cut up with the men and Svetlana if he turned right. Svetlana pulled the cabin door closed, and Dirk talked his attentive protégé through the takeoff procedure as an impromptu ground crew from the marina released the blimp from its moorings. Merlin experienced a stratospheric level of satisfaction as he piloted the oblong vehicle toward its cruising altitude.

  Someone in the back shouted, “Hey, can we turn over to the right a little?”

  Dirk turned to see Dogboy pointing and answered, “Sure! Whatcha got?”

  “Ole Murphy got him one a them mail-order brides from across the pond, and they say she lays out on the deck outside their bedroom European-style.”

  Virgil chimed in, “That Murphy always was a good ‘un for findin’ the fillies.”

  Dogboy sat up and said, “Then why’d he have to git him a mail order?”

  “She wadn’t no mail order, Dog; he met’er on a business trip over yonder. I think it was to Row Mania.”

  “Business trip? Monkey business prolly more like it.”

  Merlin maneuvered the blimp, and the passengers looked downward through the right windows.

  “Yep! Thar she blows!”

  “Well, I’ll be!” offered Virgil.

  The passengers saw a topless woman sunbathing on the third-floor deck of a house on Crystal Beach.

  Tino chimed in, “Just like the German and Swedish girls back in the old country!”

  Dirk turned in Merlin’s direction. “Take ‘er down a couple of hundred feet and circle.”

  Merlin complied silently and saw what was causing the ruckus—something he had never witnessed.

  “Yeah, ole Murphy got ’im a live one, that’s for sure!” Dogboy said.

  Virgil piped up with the arrival of a new player on the scene. “Hey! Who’s that?”

  A young man in swim trunks brought the woman a drink, and she accepted it moving only her right hand.

  Dogboy answered, “It shore ain’t Murphy.”

  Virgil responded with a terse “Nope.”

  Dogboy continued: “Naw, this feller’s got a headful of hair, no beer belly, and from what I can tell, Murphy’s got about twenty years on him.”

  Now it was Tino’s turn. “Looks like a little harmless rubbernecking just turned into a dirt-gathering session! I think it’s called espionage!”

  Dirk winked at Tino, and his mustache twitched as he responded, “More like airspionage!”

  Tino let out a few guffaws, and Dogboy jumped in. “Hey, I don’t want no kinda trouble.”

  “Me neither,” Virgil protested. “We’ll just keep it between us. Ain’t no sense in hurtin’ ole Murphy.”

  Svetlana remained completely blasé during this interchange and after the first silent pause, offered, “It reminds me of Crimea on Riviera of Black Sea.”

  Dogboy responded, “Cry me a river of black tea?”

  “No,” Svetlana responded firmly. “Is summer place for Russian people.”

  Now it was Virgil’s turn. “Yew never did any a that, did you, missy?”

  “Eez normal. Eez cahstum on lot of beaches.”

  “It costs ‘um a lot?” queried Dogboy.

  “And I’m sure most of them are nice young ladies,” said Virgil the diplomat.

  “No! Eez cahstum! Like cowboy wearing het!”

  “Easy costume?” Virgil wondered.

  “I reckon it is,” replied Dogboy. “Bikini bottoms and sunglasses must be about as easy as it gits!”

  Virgil tried to turn the conversation. “Dis-irregardless of all that, I still think we oughta keep quiet about the cabana boy!”

  Tino squelched the inane banter. “Hey, you guys cut it out! Our Russian friend is getting upset, and I think all she wants you to know is that Murphy’s wife’s sun-tanning mode is not out of the ordinary across the pond.�
��

  “Yes, it’s de rigueur,” offered Dirk with mock sophistication.

  “Dare a girl?!” questioned Dogboy. “Like dare a girl to take ‘er top off?”

  “Stop!” commanded the Greek-American restaurateur, and Dogboy and Virgil finally desisted.

  “Time for dessert!” Tino proclaimed. He picked up the cake box and opened it to reveal triangles of baklava and tiny key lime pie tartlets, complete with house-made whipped cream and freshly grated lime zest. Everyone took a couple of pieces, and Merlin craned his neck to see the contents of the box. Tino held the box toward him with a jaunty “Here you go, Captain!” Merlin sat up reflexively on hearing himself called “captain” for the first time and swiped a couple of tartlets from the box.

  Tino picked up the thermos and announced, “And now for my new specialty cocktail of the month!”

  As he unscrewed the top of the container, Svetlana took a small stack of plastic cups and filled each one about halfway with crushed ice.

  “What is it?” queried Dirk.

  “Rhum Agricole from Martinique, crushed mint, lemon, chopped ripe mango and a little mango juice, and a capful of Metaxa to honor my heritage. Oh, and topped off with cold Topo Chico to keep it light.”

  Virgil chimed in, “Wow! That sounds pretty fancy!”

  “Not meant to be, Virge. Just refreshing in the hot weather.”

  “What d’you call it?” asked Dirk.

  “The Smakaporpous Smash.”

  “Now that’s one I can remember!” enthused Dogboy.

  “Yeah, not like all them drinks with foreign names!” rejoined Virgil.

  “Yeah, like a ‘Booleemi’ or a ‘Queer Royale,’” declared Dogboy.

  “I love Bellini and Kir Royale!” protested Svetlana.

  “Enough!” Tino poured some of his concoction into each of the glasses as his cocktail testers held them forward. He then topped each one with the effervescent Mexican mineral water.

  “Tell me what you think of the Smakaporpous Smash!”

  The group complied.

  Virgil was the first to weigh in. “Dang! That’ll drink!”

  Dogboy followed, “It knows it’s good!”

  Dirk said, “Ah, reminds me of my days island-hopping in the Caribbean.” Svetlana rounded out the assessment. “I love! Makes me think of amazing trip to St. Barts with Missoni bikinis and all Louis Vuitton luggage.”

  Dogboy responded, “I don’t know who Miss Oni is or what part of Japan she’s from, but this here shore is a good drink!”

  Dirk lifted his Ray-Bans and said to Tino, “Looks like you’ve got a success on your hands.”

  “Great,” responded Tino. “The Smakaporpous Smash goes on the menu today!”

  The passengers enjoyed their libations as Merlin flew the Airmadillo in increasingly expanding circles over the Bolivar/Galveston area. Captain Dirk ordered the blimp back to Stangaroo’s, and Merlin did an even more masterful job of landing it as the wind had diminished. When the airship was securely moored with staff to watch it, everyone disembarked for a restroom break inside the restaurant. Dirk, Svetlana, and Merlin thanked Tino and bid him, Dogboy, and Virgil goodbye. As the three returned to the Airmadillo, Dirk informed Merlin he could continue to man the pilot’s seat. Although Merlin nodded in silent compliance, his spirits leapt at the prospect of piloting the Airmadillo cross-country on its homeward flight. Captain Kajerka specified a route different from the outbound course, sending the blimp southwestward alongside Galveston Island’s beachfront, passing the communities of Pirate’s Beach, Jamaica Beach, and Sea Isle.

  Merlin looked out on a ranch pasture in the center of the island to his right and noticed a solitary bull taking the meager shade a scrubby tree offered. He looked at the content animal and wondered if his name was Ferdinand. He then chided himself for speculating this way as he recalled that nowadays livestock were alphanumerically ear-tagged and microchipped, obviating their individual identities and reducing them to little more than fungible commodities. Still, he wished the solitary bull had a name and hoped he was enjoying the springtime afternoon.

  Although Merlin didn’t turn around to look, Svetlana and Dirk had fallen asleep. A zen-like calm descended over the passenger pod and cockpit, and Merlin observed the sparsely peopled weekday beach scene with the satisfied serenity of a Japanese monk regarding his freshly raked rock garden. He looked down on the treacherous currents roiling the water and snaking their way around the supports of the toll bridge at San Luis Pass.

  As the Airmadillo motored past Surfside Beach near Freeport with its huge Dow Chemical complex, Merlin looked one last time at the gulf and turned the blimp northward on a direct line for home base per the route Captain Kajerka had programmed into the GPS. A few minutes passed, and Merlin heard the curtain snap shut. He then noticed an errant empty plastic cocktail cup roll forward to the right of his seat, but this little intruder did not disturb the pro tempore blimp flyer’s reverie. Ten minutes before the blimp’s arrival at the base, a refreshed Dirk switched seats with Merlin. When the ground crew had secured the blimp, the three departed the passenger pod.

  Instead of escorting Svetlana as usual, Dirk called to Merlin: “Hey, junior birdman!”

  Merlin stopped in his tracks, wondering if he was in trouble. Dirk assuaged his concerns as he strode next to Merlin with a smile that extended the breadth of his mustache.

  “You did great work today.”

  “Oh! Thank you.”

  “Meet me in my office.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” (Merlin sometimes liked to think of the Airmadillo in nautical terms.)

  Dirk caught up with Svetlana, and they veered toward the little warren of offices attached to the hangar. Merlin followed suit several steps behind them. When Merlin entered the captain’s office, Kajerka was sitting with his zipped-up half-booted feet propped on his desk. He pretended to look at something important on his computer screen.

  “Have a seat!”

  Merlin found a faux leather rolling chair and complied.

  “What you did today was impressive, Merlin—not to mention heroic.” Merlin received this praise in wide-eyed silence, realizing this was the first time Kajerka had addressed him directly by name.

  “I made a deal with the guys back at lunch that if we could all go for a little dessert and cocktail tour in the blimp, they would promise not to say anything about the little mishap this afternoon.”

  “Just like the way they are not going to mention seeing Murphy’s wife and her assistant?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess. Something like that, but what you accomplished today also has a lot of importance for you, personally.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes, my friend, it does.” There was a slight twinkle in Kajerka’s eye and an equally constrained mustache twitch as he continued: “You soloed today. You may not have been counting on it when we left the base this morning, but you successfully solo flew a large airship—and in treacherous conditions at that.”

  “Oh!” Merlin responded.

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “Um, no sir, not really.”

  “It means that you joined a special club today. Even though you haven’t completed the formal classroom training, which I know would be no problem for you, you did the most important thing. In the eyes of pilots, you are now a pilot, too.”

  At this, Merlin sat back into his chair as if buffeted by one of the gusts that took the Airmadillo off its moorings earlier that very same day. Dirk continued, pointing to a framed, yellowed piece of material on the wall.

  “See that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Know what it is?”

  Merlin thought and responded with a bewildered no.

  “That’s a shirttail—mine to be exact—cut off and signed by my instructor after my first solo flight when I was sixteen years old.”

  “Ooohhh,” Merlin said with the wonder of the sudden realization of a great mystery.

  “It’s a
longtime tradition among pilots. They did the same thing with my dad after his first solo.”

  “Ooooohhh.”

  “So, stand up, untuck your shirt, and come over here.”

  Merlin obeyed immediately and rose as quickly as he could from the rolling chair to present himself to Dirk, who was now standing with military gravity.

  “Turn around.”

  Merlin waddled in place 180 degrees.

  Dirk took a pair of office scissors and made quick work of cutting the back tail from Merlin’s shirt. While Merlin was still facing away from him, Dirk took the shirttail and secured its edges with paperweights on his desk. On it, he wrote with a black felt-tipped indelible marker Merlin’s name and the date. He then signed his own name underneath, authenticating the solo flight.

  “Okay, you can turn around.”

  Merlin complied and saw Dirk holding up the corners of the cut-off shirttail so the new pilot could see the inscription. Merlin stood in stony silence and took in the import of the moment as he looked at the official commemoration of his new status.

  “Take it. It’s yours.”

  Merlin reached up with both hands and took the same corners that Dirk was holding as Kajerka released the shirttail. He held it closer at his own eye level as if mesmerized by its totemic power.

  “Okay, now,” Dirk said.

  Merlin lowered the shirttail to chest level so he could see the captain.

  “Becoming a pilot carries some responsibilities and burdens.” Merlin nodded.

  “Obviously, you’ve got to keep your passengers safe, but among themselves, pilots, from time to time, may have some information that needs to stay quiet, like in a secret society.”