American Aviary

By Peter Bashford

American Aviary is a story about a young man who sets off on a journey to the USA, to experience the American aviation dream. He discovers a country with a rich social tapestry and a wild entrepreneurial spirit. But as 'nine-eleven' passes, he finds himself in a world where fear and prejudice become the norm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493134731

Peter Bashford

Peter Bashford is a lifetime expatriate and commercial pilot. His flights have taken him to eighty-six countries on six continents, and he has been a resident of four of those countries. He studied politics and economics at the University of London, during which time he also worked for the BBC World Service, as a radio editor.

Book preview

FIFI

FIFI.jpg

"I t’s not about the money you know. I just like to meet nice people."

She turned to him and took the customary hundred dollar note with a smile that was anything but genuine. Eastman smiled back at her with a smile that was genuine. It was the first time he heard a hooker talk about job satisfaction.

Fifi, he knew that was not her real name, I’m a pilot. I fly an airplane. Tomorrow I might fly a spaceship. I could pretend to be a folk hero. But I’m not, and I’ll never be a saint either. And that’s OK.

She smiled back at him knowingly.

Eastman’s thoughts then drifted as he envisaged his long lost colleague Dan Getty, who was a dedicated charter pilot, a devote Christian, a preacher of sorts and had probably also known Fifi. Getty was a fighter, but eventually lost the battle to colon cancer. He kept a copy of the Bible in the cockpit with him, which he had stolen from the Howard Johnson Hotel in Bucharest. And to add to his unique interpretation of religion, which Eastman had enjoyed so much, he used a photo of his favorite hooker as a bookmark.

It’s not me, it’s Satan that does this to me, he told him.

Eastman smiled.

Dan, I wish I had that excuse every time my morality lapsed into disrepair.

But it did not matter to Eastman. He often wondered where he had missed the opportunity to make that leap of faith, and in his very unreligious way he also believed that Getty deserved some loose girls as a form of gratitude for all the hard work he had done flying for God in Africa. Getty had seven children. But he counted eight. For some reason he felt that his favorite twenty-eight year old hooker was his oldest daughter.

I only slept with her once, he claimed, which to him clearly qualified her as a family member. Getty also told his wife about it and discussed the matter with her, as if considering their kids’ education, or the daily chores. She sighed every time and would just say,

Dan, let God take care of it.

And that is exactly what he did. God took care of it, and took care of him also. God gave him all the trips that would take him to places like Bangkok, Bucharest, and Bishkek, where he could play out his role as a charitable man helping the needy while blaming Satan for his method. Eastman wondered if maybe it really was not his fault, and that maybe he had some agreement with God, since it seemed that Getty’s prayers were answered every time. He did not think of him as a hypocrite. Getty did not pretend that he lived a moral life. He was just good at rationalizing everything that drove him into these mysterious corners of the world.

Eastman was kicking an empty coke can when the two of them came around the corner from the Planters Bar in Bucharest. The hookers loitering on the street immediately surrounded them. Getty threw his arms into the air, as if about to go off on another one of his little sermons.

Jack, it just happens! Give in to it!

Eastman frowned.

Dan, they just stole your wallet, you fucking idiot!

It was not the first time this had happened. Eastman was also witness to Getty being mugged a few months earlier in Bangkok, as the two of them staggered back to their hotel from Patpong, turning a corner, just to find an elephant wandering down the road. As Getty ran over to give it a hug, the huge animal’s owner gave it a couple of taps with his cane. The elephant gently rubbed its trunk all over Getty, and just as gently removed his wallet from his back pocket.

Jack! Look, it’s an elephant!

Eastman was pretty drunk, but was still capable of recognizing the creature. For a while he wondered though if he had really seen it lift Getty’s wallet. Next day Getty had to make several frantic phone calls to organize payment for the jet fuel they bought. He simply could not find his wallet with the fuel cards in it.

Eastman thought about this at length, then began to ponder a project the mechanic, Roger Earl, had proposed on the way out of Bucharest to the Kyrgyz capital Bishkek. A homage to Getty, a guide for pilots, flight attendants and mechanics to locate all the world’s whore houses, wherever their travels might take them. Most people who had not traveled the world the way they did had no idea how many people survived by prostituting themselves, selling the only thing they had. Eastman thought about the cliché of it being the oldest profession, and wondered if it was also the most prevalent one. In which case an online guide, with maps you could zoom into for a quick peek, seemed like the best option. Websites like this already existed, but most of them were just hook-up sites for bored traveling business men and flight crew. His collaboration with Earl was going to be something of a socio-anthropological map, he thought, trying to give his idea some moral credibility. He knew it would attract the wrath of the occasional tourist that would be horrified by what little they saw of this phenomenon. And he also knew it would attract the attention of all the sick perverts that regularly visited these countries to buy there what their social ineptitude would not get them back in their cushy home countries. It was indeed a terrible idea in every sense.

He looked at Fifi, and then decided he was going to discuss this project with Earl first thing in the morning at the hanger in Miami. Earl was a stout character, a picture perfect definition of a seedy aircraft mechanic. But in fact he was an art graduate from the Boston Art Institute and had a number of ideas Eastman believed were worth pursuing.

Florida was a good place to start for this one. It had more strip clubs that were borderline brothels than any other place on Earth. It also had more lightning strikes than any other place on Earth.

Fifi, what is this place?

She looked at him with a forced frown.

What do you mean?

Eastman frowned back at her.

I mean, where is this place, and also, on a scale of one-to-ten, what rating would you give yourself?

Her eyes widened.

For what? she replied, pretending she did not know what he was talking about.

For what you do here! What do you think, for reading poetry? Eastman replied impatiently.

Well, which bits do I have to rate?

He sighed.

Yes, I see your point, this could get complicated.

Fifi’s voice hit a higher pitch.

What point, and what could get complicated?

COLEMAN

W hen Eastman stepped out onto the baking tarmac at Orlando’s Sanford airport, it was mid June and he was wondering how on earth he had came to the conclusion that moving to America would be a good idea. Luckily for him he had just spent eight hours on a bucket flight from Britain with an obnoxious group of people who spent the whole trip slagging off the USA, while making their way to Florida, their favorite holiday destination. He also had to endure the insult of the flight attendant who told him that they did not have the necessary forms for him to fill out.

Business travelers who carry a lot of cash, like yourself, sir, usually fly on Virgin.

Eastman looked at her with his best fake sad-look.

I’m not a business traveler ma’am. I’m bringing my cousin’s inheritance to him, from our grandfather, who just died.

That lie shut her up, and when he got to the heavily armed US Customs officer in Orlando he was pleased when the officer waved at him and his cash declaration form and told him to go right through.

Don’t worry about that! Carry on through! Welcome to America!

His move seemed like a good idea now. But he could not see anybody there who was supposed to collect him and his gigantic suitcase with all his worldly belongings in it. So he dragged his luggage to the payphone on the other side of the little road by the terminal. A Texan voice answered the phone. It was Meir Coleman, the owner of the flight school he had come to, to launch his flying career.

Ah Jack, God damn it, I can’t believe I forgot!

But before he could even ask if he should just get back onto the plane and head back where he came from, Coleman continued.

Jack, just take a taxi and go round to the FBO on the other side of the field. Wait there. I’m sending some guys to pick you up right now.

Eastman sat there for over three hours, which was enough time for him to figure out that FBO stood for fixed base operator, when finally the phone rang and the polite young lady at the front desk inquired if he was Mr. Eastman. It was Coleman calling him.

Ah, I made a mistake, God damn it! I accidentally told them you were at Orlando International. I mean, who the hell flies to Sanford anyway?

Eastman frowned.

But don’t worry Jack, they’re just taking off from International and they’ll be landing in Sanford any minute.

Which they did. Two young men in a beaten up twin engine Beech Duchess rolled onto the ramp just minutes after Coleman hung up on Eastman. They hopped off the wing, had a discussion while looking under the engine cowling then enthusiastically waved towards Eastman. The younger of the two lifted his suitcase with one hand.

Yes, I think it’s OK, should be within the envelope.

And with that they all strapped into the plane and taxied to the runway where just six hours earlier Eastman’s huge airliner had touched down. As they started their takeoff run Eastman wondered how on earth he was ever going to learn all these buttons and levers, even though he had already had some exposure to flying and had spent a lot of time reading about aviation. They flew east towards the coast, then flew south along an airway, past the NASA Shuttle launch area and finally as they flew further south they started their descent into the little airport of Stuart that was awash with training traffic. It was a perfectly clear day, but, for practice, the younger of the two pilots decided to first fly an instrument approach to the easterly runway at the Fort Pierce airport, which was just a few miles north of Stuart. Eastman was bowled over. He had never seen this much action, so many procedures, checklists, communications and decisions made in such a short time.

As they descended to just two hundred feet, perfectly lined up with the runway, the young man advanced the two throttles full forward, pitched the aircraft up a little and flew the missed approach before making a right turn to the south and continuing visually along the coast to Stuart. Eastman again wondered if he was ever going to get all of this.

It was a Saturday and the flight school was empty when they got there. Most of the planes were out flying and the office people were at home, including Coleman, who was relieved to hear that Eastman had made it there.

God damn it Jack, I am happy you’re here! I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning and take you for breakfast at IHOP.

With that he hung up, forgetting to tell Eastman where he was to sleep that night. But the two young men who flew him there knew what to do and drove him to a hotel where he was going to spend his first night in the USA. They cheerfully said their good-byes to Eastman before returning to the airport where they took off again to visit a strip club in Sarasota for the evening, then return to the plane to fly another few hours around Florida before calling it a day, just to start all over again the next afternoon to get as many flying hours as possible onto their resumes that would bring them the good fortunes Eastman imagined pilots got. He then fell onto his hotel bed, spent a few hours wondering what IHOP stood for, then fell asleep.

Next morning Coleman turned up in a silver 1992 Cadillac Seville. He was in his early eighties and had seen much of aviation history, but had no real desire to sit in a plane again.

Let’s go to IHOP then Jack.

He spoke loudly with a deep growling Texan accent. Eastman figured he must be a little deaf by now.

Meir, what’s IHOP?

Coleman grinned with delight that he could share this culinary moment with someone.

Ah, it’s the International House of Pancakes, ye know.

Eastman was not disappointed. Over the endless refills of coffee Coleman entertained him with his war stories. He had been a young man during World War II, but he never went to the front to see the ravaged Europe or the Pacific Theater. Coleman’s war effort was in Washington, in some cooked-up position with the predecessor of the CIA, the Office of Strategic Services, which was created to deal with wartime intelligence gathering, as Coleman explained. But he too had several war stories, which he chose to share with Eastman on this Sunday morning in IHOP where all the other customers had just arrived from church. They were mostly old ladies with blue hair wearing flowery dresses with their grandchildren in tow. Oblivious to his surroundings Coleman raised his voice even further for the finale of his story

But ye know Jack, the best thing was that I fucked her on the kitchen table!

Doing his secretary was indeed the highlight of his military career and, as his age tarnished his memory slightly, he chose to repeat the story to Eastman five minutes later.

Did I tell you Jack? I fucked her on the kitchen table!

Eastman looked around self-consciously, to see if anyone else had heard. They had. All the old ladies, who he hoped would be as deaf as Coleman, had heard and were now staring at him, commanding him with their looks to silence the old man.

But Eastman liked these war stories and couldn’t help but wonder if Coleman’s activities with his secretary might have lead to some intelligence lapses that led to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

After a couple of hours in IHOP the waitress came over with the bill and smiled

Hi Meir, I’ll see you later.

Coleman grunted.

Yes baby, I’ll catch ye later.

As they stepped out of the restaurant Coleman pointed back towards the waitress.

That’s my lady, she’s forty. Little old for me, but I’m telling you Jack, the best fucking pussy I’ve ever had!

Eastman smiled and looked back at the waitress who was very pretty and forty years Coleman’s junior and could have even been his granddaughter.

He then realized that throughout the breakfast not once did they talk about flying.

FOSTER

FOSTER.jpg

R onny Foster sat in the left seat of the Boeing 737 that day, and having successfully talked Eastman into making a late runway change, after an approach to runway twelve, Eastman rolled the