What have we here? Mustache. Long sleeved pilot shirt. ‘Remove before flight’ tags on the crew luggage. This was going to be a long one, chaps. What we had here was a taxi specialist that was going to test the patience of yours truly.
His crew briefing was lengthy, eventually causing the mullet to peek curiously around to see what was taking so long, looking up at me like a loyal retriever to measure my reaction. Believe me, I was not impressed with the distraction from my primary mission of desperately trying to pop out a glute shot for the admiring female onlookers in the boarding lounge. Despite my best efforts—honed by years of experience— I was foiled over and over as the mustache bobbed incessantly in front of me. Suddenly, after finishing a sentence that apparently was humorous, the taxi specialist smiled wide. I was stunned at the sight before me, and the mullet snarled and recoiled as the ‘stache rose up to reveal some nasty wooden-looking yellowy Chiclets. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s bad dental work, chaps.
Overcome with revulsion, I put one hand on the counter and retched loudly, causing the long-sleeved wonder to pause briefly and raise a bushy eyebrow of inquisition before relaunching his dissertation on matters concerning the flight to come. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up, staring firmly at the ceiling to avoid eye contact with the gnashing fangs. Mon dieu! Like Ferris Bueller’s teacher, the droning continued. We had one flight attendant listening to this drivel. An old Galley Dragon of sizable proportions, she was sweating profusely and had the annoying habit of nodding constantly and saying “you know?” after each statement. Oui, madame. I know.
I was feigning interest. Making it work. Keeping it together for the sake of the Long-Sleever and the Dragon.
But then the seed of a yawn began to develop.
I tried to fight it, as I knew le-mustache was staring right at me, but I couldn’t help it. It's own agenda firmly in place, the yawn grew, mutating quickly from embryo to adolescence, racing through childhood and maturing quickly into a massive, obnoxious adult. It began deep in my loins, a crushing wave of fatigue and boredom that was hell bent on escaping my body with a rushing force of indifference. Non! I clenched my teeth and tried to control the vibration of my lips as they fought to reveal the tempest. Body and spirit clashed for a brief battle, and then my willpower suffered a mortal blow, retreating with a whimper like a scolded puppy. The conditioned tips of the mullet lunged for the floor as my head rolled back in slow motion like a torpedoed destroyer. My mouth swung open, allowing the expulsion to rise up and out, filling the small boarding lounge with a roar of a bored lion. Tears squirted from my eyes with the exertion. My hands and arms joined the betrayal, stretching up and out as I arched my back like a jungle cat, my fingers jutting in different directions like claws on a scratching post. Evidence of my relaxation was announced to all present by an embarrassingly audible squeak emanating from my posterior as every toned muscle conceded to its fate.
Overcome with relief, my mouth slammed shut like nothing happened. Composure flowed back into me like a river as I straightened up to my full imposing height, enjoying a long pull on the Tim Horton’s triple triple I had been enjoying earlier. I drained it in one chug before back-handing it into the nearest garbage can. Cést bien! I returned to the present moment and the icy disapproval of the mustache.
“Are we keeping you up, Henri?”, he inquired.
The dragon snickered and nodded. I opened my mouth for a response that never came, because he suddenly made the mistake of moving about 2 feet to his left. I now had a clear view across the lounge, and was staring into the adoring eyes of yet another female fan teetering on stilettos in the far corner! Carpe diem! I seized the moment, chaps: the hips rotated like they were on autopilot, turning the toned posterior in her direction. The standard issue pilot pants snapped tight like a spinnaker in a brisk wind as my left glute bulged into her life. She swooned in response--mission accomplished! Yawn forgotten! Even the dragon approved, you know?
The most glorious time of the flight arrived about 45 minutes in. It is a special time when your partner takes a break to use the loo, chaps. It is a time to reflect in private. My ritual is pretty typical. As soon as the door closes, it’s PIC time.
I start the clock running and the logbook documents it all. I’ve earned over 2.3 hours of mighty Dash command time over the years in this fashion, blokes. A couple of minutes at a time. Smart. Then, depending on my energy level, it’s workout time. I’ve got my resistance bands ready, and pump out a few quick sets of one armed chest presses and some other upper body moves to the crashing beats of Van Halen hissing from the iPod. Keep moving, no time to waste—next it’s out of the belts and over into the skippers seat for a new perspective on a familiar route, plus some iPhone arms-length self portraits to email to Gran-Gran. Look at me now Gran—told you I’d make it! Facebook is going to love these! With the skeptical eye of experience, I frown at the instruments and make a small correction with the heading bug to veer the Dash back on course. 20 degrees is plenty. It’s good to be King! A few practice PA’s and enthusiastic laughter fills the flight deck for the next minute as the mullet and I are bathed in glorious sunlight and happiness! 
And then, like all good things, it has to end.
The call from the cabin comes, like I suspected it would. The Dragon informs me the left seat warmer is coming back. I hang my head, the mullet slumping sympathetically across my massive shoulders, still pumped from the lateral raises. Eddie’s scorching guitar solo fades as the iPod is shut down. Sighing, I trudge back to my seat with a slumped posture and reluctantly let him in. I’m just coiling the last of the resistance bands back into my flight bag as he sits down heavily, rubbing his hands together. “Well, what did I miss?” he asks. I shrug. Guys with long sleeves just don’t understand. A nostalgic tear rolls down my cheek and falls; a sphere of good memories that drops through space and then disappears into the Pantene curls of the mullet forever.I hate line checks.
Henri
