NARRATOR: The phone rings at Henri’s house, and guess who is on the other end?
Well boys, not sure if it was the acrobatic prowess I displayed in the boardroom as I tumbled, snap-rolled and catapulted myself around, or the fact that the hot HR chick had a thing for me, but the bottom line is this: I am in-like-Flynn! Got the call today to strut my stuff in the simulator.
I have to admit, I thought I had maybe gone too far at some points during the chat with the bigwigs; hell, even us seasoned pros have doubts, eh boys!
Hindsight is 50/50 chaps: maybe it was too much when I chose to flip the chair over and aggressively mount it when illustrating the conquest of that waitress in Pickle Lake; perhaps the profanity should have been toned down a tad when discussing the dubious competence of my former Left Seat Warmers, and I’ll admit that responses such as “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” ran the risk of being misinterpreted. Luckily, the seasoned pros at Jazz know a winner when they see one, and let it slide!
At any rate, preparation for such an opportunity starts immediately. Focus is absolutely key here, chaps. Prime example: Had to go for a spin in the 182 as there were some ‘divers that needed dropping and I gave them the full Jazz treatment to get warmed up. Questions like: “Did you pack that chute yourself?” “Are you aware of it’s contents?” and of course, “Have you ever left it unattended?” get some funny looks, but I think they appreciate the thoroughness. Showing up in full airline attire with my Dad’s blue blazer may be considered overkill by some rookies, but when you are in my position you never know who will be watching. Here’s a tip: pack your lunch in one of those rolly-bag suitcases and ask one of the ‘divers to pull it out to the plane for you!
Chuckle mightily as he hefts it into the plane. “Gee, where are you laying over tonight?” he must wonder. Glamourous? Absolutely.
If there is more than one lacky on board, I make a game of it. The game is called, “Who wants to roll my bag?” There are always tons of takers!
The other day we had a bunch of yoyo’s come out for a dive. One chucklehead in particular stood out, went by the name of 748HO. He started out okay, complemented me on my blazer, admired my hat (Pilot World Model 1122, $79.95 retail, chaps) and generally looked like a solid bag-roller to me. So, I gave him first dibs.
“Here you go, rook”, I said. I pulled up the ratcheting handle. (clackity-clackity-click) I spun the bag around and offered it to him. He looked at me.
“Pardon?” he said.
“You get to roll it out, son” I said. Beaming. Nodding. Spreading my arms wide to present my gift. My epaulettes caught the reflection of the morning sun and I took a second to admire the gleam. Far off, a bird broke into song.
“Roll your own bag, geek” he said. His buddies laughed nervously. They had been down this road before, and knew it was a dangerous one. Oh yes, this road was full of landmines, gents.
I sputtered and coughed. Then gagged. Insubordination! Disrespect for the Captain!
I let out a mighty roar that filled the small terminal. Outside the 182 bucked at her tie-downs, straining to join the fray. The shark’s teeth painted on her cowling seemed to snarl with rage. In slow motion, the Model 1122 spun off my head as I shook my tucked-up mullet loose. I caught my reflection in a nearby coffee pot as my mane exploded free and flowed behind me like a golden banner. My calves fired like twin rockets as I propelled myself skyward, ripping my tearaway dress pants off in mid-rotation and firing my Dad’s blazer into the corner. To say I looked impressive would be like saying the CN Tower was just a building. I think 748HO realized his mistake, as his eyes bulged when his buddies bolted for the exits. I landed in full attack-cheetah pose, and tore the sleeves off my pilot shirt, wiping some coffee grounds under my eyes for some quick camo. It was time to engage the enemy.
The HO lost me in the lights as I vanished in front of him, and by the time I had landed by the far wall, he lost me in the background clutter. In vain he searched for me, throwing punches blindly. I moved with stealth, and made a guttural clicking sound in my throat. I was going for the full “Predator” effect. Slowing my heartrate to around 6 bpm, I froze in front of a Schwarzanegger poster and remained perfectly still. Remember to blend into your surroundings in time of warfare, chaps. HO walked right past me, breathing heavily and punching at fantasies.
A whoosh of air. That is the only warning the enemy has when confronted with someone trained in cheetah-like maneuvers. I swooped down from the rafters, and landed in front of him. He screamed in terror as he saw my transformation. A thick halo of mullet framed my rugged face perfectly, and a savage warpaint pattern of coffee grounds adorned my chiseled features. A mouthguard protected my chiclets. My guns bristled through the ripped holes in my pilot shirt, and the epaulettes bobbed on top of my massive shoulders. Two words of explanation for my girth here, boys: Military Press.
I reached for his shirt, and pulled it up and over his head. Dance time, cupcake. We tangoed right there in the skydiving club. I fed him repeatedly, and at one point speed-bagged him so enthusiastically that I started to giggle. Crushing blows slammed into his body like waves on a lee-shore and he crumpled like a Swede in a hockey fight.
Too bad this little incident didn’t happen pre-interview, chaps. It would have been perfect for “have you ever had to be firm with a customer?”
(By the way boys, I kept the costume from this little incident, and just won first prize at the local watering hole Halloween costume contest. Took home some trollop dressed as a Pepto-Bismol bottle too. Nice.)
to be continued....Henri travels to the sim check!
Not to be confused with Springjob, Handjob, Blowjob or any other job......except a flyingjob!