Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  “Howdy, Sharon, or should I say, Captain?” He bowed and grinned.

  I smiled. “Cut the crap, Bart. It’s good to see you.” I handed him my helmet and glanced around the empty room. “So where’s the student with the big emergency?”

  “Well, now, here’s the thing: He has a private pilot license, way too much money, and ...”

  “Let me guess, he bought an airplane that exceeds his pilot skills by a country mile, and he’s too rich and arrogant to accept his limitations. Sounds like a dangerous guy.”

  “Now don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch. I convinced him to take spin trainin’ with you so he doesn’t kill himself when he plays fighter pilot.” He hesitated and cleared his throat.

  “Uh, there’s one other thing: Sometimes he freezes on the controls in sticky situations. I had to punch him in the face once. Almost broke his jaw. He’s afraid to fly with me now.”

  “Geez, Bart. I thought we were friends. What the hell?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you to train him if I thought for one second you couldn’t handle him. Besides, I knew you’d get a major charge out of flyin’ his airplane. Truth be told, we’re all wanna-be fighter pilots at heart.” He grinned and winked.

  I crossed my arms. “What kind of airplane does he have?”

  “He just taxied in. It’s right out there.” Bart pointed at the airplane as the throaty rumble of its powerful engine rattled the window.

  A shiny black Italian-built SIAI Marchetti SF260, like the one in the Bond movie, Quantum of Solace, glistened on the tarmac in the bright sunshine. A middle-aged man with thinning hair stood next to the fighter/attack/trainer airplane. Important-looking patches adorned the upper front and sleeves of his gray flight suit. The one-piece jumpsuit was unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing three heavy gold chains on hairy bare skin.

  I focused on the airplane. “Do I see machine guns mounted on the hard points under the wings?”

  “Yep, he spent a fortune on that airplane,” Bart said. “A U.S. senator buddy helped him get the permits so he could keep the wing-mounted guns. It’s that plane from the 007 movie. He bought two thousand acres in southern Florida so he can play military pilot and blast away at ground targets. I figured you’d want in on that deal.”

  “You figured right. Sign me up.” I headed for the door. “Come out and introduce me.”

  A few minutes later, we stood by the sleek Italian fighter known as the Ferrari of reciprocating engine aircraft. Underneath the glass canopy, side-by-side seats featured dual controls with sticks. Unlike most airplanes, the instrument panel was designed for the pilot to fly from the right seat with the copilot or instructor on the left side.

  Bart turned to me. “Sharon, meet your student, Grant Garrison.” He looked at the man. “Grant, this here’s the lady instructor I told you about. She’ll get you squared away in the Marchetti. Give you trainin’ in aerodynamic stalls and spin recoveries so you don’t auger in when you’re up messin’ around with your new toy.”

  Grant ran his eyes over my curves and paused a bit too long on my breasts. “Whoa, Bart, how am I supposed to concentrate on flying with a gorgeous babe like her sitting next to me?” He flashed his million-dollar smile.

  “You’re not a playboy when you’re on my clock. I expect you to obey rule number one of Sharon’s flight instruction.” I locked on his eyes with a don’t-mess-with-me set jaw.

  He stopped grinning. “What’s rule number one?”

  “Never touch the flight instructor.”

  “Any other rules?”

  “If I tell you to do something in the airplane, do it immediately and ask questions later,” I said. “Handle the controls as if you’re playing a rare Stradivarius or making love to a sensitive, delicate lady. In other words, learn to have what is known in the pilot world as good hands. That pretty much covers it.”

  “So if I’m good in bed, I’ll be a good pilot?”

  “You can learn to apply the same skills to flying, but there’s a vast difference between thinking you’re good in bed and being good in bed. I’ll know the truth as soon as I see how you handle the airplane.” My smug smile warned him he couldn’t fool me.

  Grant frowned. “Damn, Bart, what are you trying to do to me?”

  “I’m tryin’ to keep you alive so you can enjoy your new toy. Swallow your pride and do what the lady says.” Bart nodded in my direction, turned, and strode to the building.

  “Bart said your wing-mounted weapons are operational. Is that true?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I have federal permits for them. My firing range is southwest of here.”

  “Great, but the weapons aren’t loaded now, are they?”

  “Yeah, always, but relax, the arming switch has a safety cover. I’ll show you where it is.” He pointed at it.

  We did the preflight inspection, climbed aboard, closed the canopy, and taxied out for the engine and control checks before takeoff. During the takeoff run and climb, it became obvious he was no Don Juan in the boudoir.

  He yanked back hard on the stick, and the Marchetti leaped into the sky too steeply. He over-corrected with forward stick, and I rose up against the five-point harness. The turn away from the traffic pattern felt jerky and abrupt. His firm grip on the stick had whitened his fingers.

  “I have the airplane.” I took the control stick and rudder pedals as Grant released the controls on his side.

  Flying the airplane gave him a break and made me smile.

  “Sit back and relax while I fly us to the practice area. If you’re tense on the controls, the airplane will respond stiffly. Close your eyes and pretend you’re a world champion Formula One driver. Every move you make in your race car is accomplished with a smooth, fluid motion as you finesse your way around the race course. The car becomes an extension of your body as you speed over the pavement and hug the corners.” I watched the tension melt away on his face.

  He smiled and opened his eyes. “I feel calmer. What would you like me to do now?”

  “We’re at 4,500 feet, so we have plenty of recovery room if you mess up. I’d like you to practice turning right and left so smoothly that I can’t feel the turns.”

  I reluctantly surrendered the controls and closed my eyes. “Don’t forget to check for traffic before you turn. Start with shallow-banked turns, then increase the bank angle after you get the feel of it. Remember to ease back the stick to maintain altitude in the turns.”

  I focused on the sensations from the airplane’s movements. It wasn’t long before I felt the familiar vibrations of an aerodynamic stall from loss of lift. I opened my eyes and watched the nose fall through the horizon. The monoplane entered a spin to the left.

  The ground spun beneath us as we corkscrewed downward at 1500 feet per minute. My student froze with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Every second brought us closer to death.

  I pulled the throttle back to idle. Unable to wrest the controls from him, my next move gave new meaning to the term “joystick” as I employed my virtual sex flight instruction method.

  I slid my right hand along the inside of his left thigh—better than dying or stabbing him with my great-great-grandmother’s giant hat pin—and yelled, “Grant, stop! You’re squeezing me (the control stick) too hard, and I’m falling off the bed. Quick, let go and stretch out your right foot (full right rudder) to catch me. Good. Place your feet on either side of me (neutral rudder). Much better. Relax your hands. Good. Slide your left hand up over my right breast (full throttle) and pull me close to you with your right hand (stick back). Ummm, much better.”

  We were out of the spin and regaining altitude. Disaster averted by the illusion of hot sex. Male flight students were so predictable, but most flight instructors were men. This method usually only worked with a male student/female instructor. I should patent my virtual sex flight instruction method. Male students would improve their skills not only in airplanes but also in bedrooms. A win-win.

  I glanced at Grant—hi
s mouth and eyes wide open.

  I squeezed his knee. “Level off here and throttle back to cruise power.”

  “What happened? I remember tensing up when the airplane stalled. Must’ve passed out. I dreamed we were having sex.” He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

  “It wasn’t a dream. You froze on the controls during a spin. I had to do something drastic, or we would’ve died.” I pulled out a long antique hat pin from my bag. “If my virtual sex method had failed, you’d have been screaming and pulling this out of your thigh.”

  He looked horrified.

  “Hey, it’s better than our airplane becoming a dirt dart.”

  “Damn, woman, I hope you never have to stab me with that thing. Sex talk is much better.” He leaned against the side rail.

  “Relax, I only stab students as a last resort.” I gave him a friendly jab with my right elbow and winked. “Besides, I’d hate to get blood on the Italian stallion.”

  He grinned and puffed out his chest. Then he looked confused and turned to me. “I’m not Italian.”

  “I’m talking about the airplane.”

  “Oh.” He slumped down.

  “I’ll try to squeeze in a few touch-and-goes when we return to the airport, but first we’ll practice aerodynamic stalls, spins, and recoveries until you overcome your fears and feel comfortable with the maneuvers.”

  I tucked the hat pin into the map compartment.

  He covered his left thigh with his hand. “First, I think we should deal with my fear of giant hat pins.”

  I figured Grant’s progress would be slow, so I used a stick-and-carrot approach.

  “Whenever you do something exceptional in the airplane, we’ll do a strafing run over your snake-infested swamplands.”

  His eyes lit up. “This’ll be fun. I hired an explosives expert to rig ground targets to explode when the Marchetti’s bullets hit them.”

  Surprisingly, Grant’s skills improved quickly. Soon we were making regular trips to the target area.

  I glanced at him as we turned in for another strafing run. “I must admit diving on targets and blowing stuff up is loads of fun, and it pisses off the tree huggers—another win-win.” I laughed.

  After demolishing a target, he pulled up and executed the victory roll I’d taught him. “Woo hoo!”

  “Good thing you’re rich. High-caliber machine-gun ammo and ground explosives must cost a fortune.” I grinned.

  His face filled with joy on every strafing run. So did mine.

  Fun times. Blowing stuff up was a great stress reliever.

  “Hey, Sharon, my wife said my performance in the bedroom has improved since I began flight training with you.”

  He looked pleased with himself.

  “Good hands are good hands, regardless of where they’re employed.” I turned and gave him a high five.

  Another win for my virtual sex flight instruction.

  Chili And Hugo

  D.M. Littlefield

  Chili, in the arms of her master, tilted her head and listened, wagging her tail.

  “Joe’s uncle died and left Hugo in our care,” Tina said to Chili. “We’re bringing Hugo home today. Be nice to him. He’s sad because he misses Uncle Tony. Now guard the house while we’re gone.”

  Joe sighed. “My love, I’ll admit Chili understands everything we say. She has the brains, but not the brawn. She’s a four-pound Chihuahua with a chili-pepper attitude and the bravado of a Doberman. Instead of telling her to guard the house, teach her to dial 9-1-1.”

  Tina nodded. “That’s a great idea.”

  Joe rolled his eyes.

  After they left, Chili thought, I’ll be nice to Hugo, but I’ll let him know right away I’m the boss.

  When her masters came home an hour later, she ran to welcome them. Tina picked her up and hugged her. “I want you to meet Hugo. He’s a Saint Bernard.” She sat Chili down in front of Hugo.

  Chili backed up and leaned her head back to get a full view of humongous Hugo, who must’ve weighed more than two hundred pounds. Hugo’s droopy face looked puzzled as he plopped his massive body down and stared at her. His big nose quivered as he sniffed her and drooled.

  Chili raised her hackles and circled his body, barking that he must obey her because this was her territory.

  Hugo didn’t care who was boss. He’d lost his beloved master. Nothing else mattered.

  Joe had hoped acquiring a dog bigger than his brother’s dog would stop Tim from hassling him about having an ineffective runt like Chili. Tim was a policeman and patrolled their neighborhood in a K-9 vehicle with his German shepherd partner, Rex. Joe was disappointed Hugo was such a wuss that it appeared even tiny Chili was going to boss him around.

  Chili followed Joe and Hugo into the kitchen and slipped in the puddle that had pooled from Hugo’s jowls as he lapped up a bowl of water. Chili thought, I’ll teach him not to be so sloppy, but I’ll wait until he feels more at home.

  Hugo lumbered to the back door, turned around three times before lying down, and heaved a sigh as he rested his head on his front paws and closed his eyes.

  A week later, Hugo was still mourning and not eating. Chili worried about him. She took mouthfuls of food out of his bowl and dropped it in front of him. When he ignored her, she barked at him. Hugo closed his eyes and covered his ears with his paws. Chili continued her shrill barking next to his ear until he ate all the food.

  Chili whined, “Good boy,” and licked his nose.

  Eventually Hugo perked up. Chili entertained him with tricks. She sat up, begged, danced on her hind feet, and rolled over to play dead.

  Hugo was impressed, so she taught him some of her tricks. Then they showed Tina and Joe as Chili barked commands to Hugo. Chili was proud of him, and Tina and Joe looked happy to see Hugo felt at home now.

  A month before Hugo arrived, Chili was attacked by Tiger, the mean tomcat who lived next door. Chili was afraid to walk under the tree in her fenced back yard because the big cat had jumped down from the tree to bite and claw Chili into a bloody mess. Tina had rescued her and rushed her to the vet.

  When Chili heard Tiger and his owners were home from vacation, she planned her revenge. After Tina and Joe left for work, Chili softly whined her tale of woe to Hugo and enlisted his help. Hugo shook his giant head, flinging drool, before plodding toward the enlarged dog door.

  Chili raced underneath him and pawed Hugo’s front leg. “Not yet. You stay here and watch. When I bark, rush out and grab Tiger by the scruff of his neck and shake the stuffing out of him.”

  Hugo nodded his head and panted, eager for action.

  Chili whined, “Good boy.” As she pushed through the dog door, she caught Tiger’s scent. Chili nonchalantly sniffed dandelions as she ambled toward the tree. The branches rustled as Tiger leaped down a few feet behind her. Chili jumped around to face him.

  Tiger pressed his ears flat on his head as he crouched and hissed. His tail slowly twitched back and forth as he prepared to pounce. Terrified, Chili yipped.

  Hugo bounded out with his tongue hanging out, splattering drool to the wind. He grabbed Tiger by his neck and shook him. Tiger yowled and clawed the air, trying to scratch Hugo.

  “This is a warning,” Chili snarled, trembling. “Next time it could be fatal. Stay out of my yard!” Chili looked up at Hugo and barked, “Send Tiger home.”

  Hugo swung his head side to side gathering momentum and flung Tiger over the fence into his backyard. Chili hopped onto Hugo’s back and posed like a queen surveying her domain. With my brain and Hugo’s brawn, we make a formidable pair.

  Hugo proudly trotted around the perimeter of their yard, his tail held high like a victory flag.

  That evening they heard Tina and Joe lamenting the daytime burglaries in their neighborhood. Tina worried Chili couldn’t defend herself, and Hugo was too gentle to hurt an intruder.

  The next day, Chili briefed Hugo on her plan in case of a burglary.

  Hugo panted and looked like he was smi
ling as he nodded. “Life is more exciting since I met you.”

  Chili tilted her tiny head and whined, “Are you the strong silent type? I’ve never heard you growl, snarl, or bark. Can you?”

  Hugo growled a deep rumble.

  “Good, but it’ll be scarier if you snarl, show your big bone-crushing teeth, and then bark. Snarl like this.” She curled back her lips, showing her small teeth. “Okay, big boy, show me all you’ve got.”

  Hugo looked ferocious as he got in her face, snarling and baring his teeth. He inhaled deeply and let out a powerful roar, like a mighty lion.

  She shook off his drool. “Perfect! We’ll take turns patrolling the house. I’ll go first while you rest. If you hear anything, don’t bark. Come and get me. I’ll do the same.”

  Hugo dozed as he waited his turn. Chili heard the glass window in the dining room shatter. She raced to Hugo, shoved her nose under his floppy right ear, and growled. Hugo jerked to attention and crept behind the dining room door where he waited for Chili’s attack signal.

  Chili hid under the coffee table and watched the masked burglar climb over the window sill with a large sack. She trembled with anger as he snatched Tina’s cherished silver wedding tray and started filling his sack with their DVD collection. He took her favorite, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, from the bottom shelf, where Chili could fetch it to Tina to play it for her.

  Enraged, Chili barked and scrambled to bite him. While the burglar tried to shake her off his leg, Hugo bolted from behind the door and snarled. He looked like Wonder Dog when he slammed the burglar facedown to the floor and smashed his nose. The burglar lost consciousness as Hugo pinned him under his weight. Chili pulled the eye mask off the burglar by breaking the elastic string as she sat on the back of his head.

  Five minutes later, Joe opened the back door.

  Tina called out, “Chili! Hugo!”

  A sharp yip, a deep woof, and a faint moan answered her.

  Joe and Tina raced into the living room and stared in disbelief.