The Christmas Party- by ISTP

[. ._]

A standard Sudbury winter descended with the telltale ignored signs. Trees were barren, the mercury was perilously low, then on cue, December brought snow. The long season was ahead of me, and I was feeling a bit bummed out. Being in this region of Ontario at this time of year always reminds me of the first winter I spent in Sault Ste. Marie attending Sault College for their Aviation program. That was 5 years ago, and I still can’t get used to white stuff not melting the next day as it did in my Southern Ontario former home town.

I, like the snow, was drifting aimlessly. I worked in a little widget shop making widgets, paying bills, and hoping for spring to arrive soon so I could once again buy some float time to avoid slaving on a dock somewhere for less than minimum wage.

Recently I had heard of my alma mater’s Christmas party date from an anonymous abuser only known to me as “Spruce Moose”. December 14th. What better way to beat the blahs than to crash the party? Sure, no one would know me, save some instructors that were in my graduating class of 2005. Maybe some of the other instructors would remember me. Good enough though! I decided to blow off Friday from work and attend the Sault College Aviation Christmas party. Once the decision was made, I felt great!

That morning I loaded up my 1981 Cadillac DeVille with some extra clothes and a tooth brush, and like the great Willie Nelson sang, I was on the road again…

As I lost radio reception at the Sudbury City limits, I noticed a scraggly looking tattooed man standing by the edge of the highway. He was decked out in some funky fluorescent coveralls that were pretty filthy, and he was wearing ornate chrome bracelets. One on each wrist. He was waving at me at a feverish pace- probably to keep warm, so I pulled over the car. He ran up to the passenger window. I lowered the window, and asked if I could be of assistance- at which time, he pointed a semi-automatic handgun in the window and said, “You’re going to Sault Ste. Marie now! Open the fucking door. NOW!”

I was impressed. How did he know I was going to Sault Ste. Marie?

I unlocked the door and replied, “That’s right! Hop on in, my friend. Don’t worry, I’m not some kind of pervert.”

He didn’t say anything until we got to Massey where he spied the liquor store. “Pull in there, and buy me a forty of Jack Daniels,” he demanded.

He must have been thirsty, because when I got back to the car, he snatched the bottle out of my hand and chugged about half of it. His gun was no longer pointed at me, so he must have been less scared of me.

For some reason, about five minutes more down the road, he began to talk. “You’re gonna take me to my friends in the Soo. I gotta get more fuckin’ booze and a piece of ass. Being in the joint sucks. @#$! the joint.”

To be congenial, I repeated back to him, “Yeah, @#$! the joint.”

I don’t know what that meant, but his eyes widened. “You done time too?”

“Oh yeah, I done time.” More congeniality.

“Yeah? Where?”

Driving by King’s Towing and Salvage, I just said the first thing that came to mind. “Uh, King’s Tow...”

“Kingston? Shit, that’s hard time! What were you in for?”

“I dunno.” I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“HA! Yeah I don’t know why the hell I went to Penetang! I’m just a businessman like any other. ‘cept my shit’s illegal. Transporting and distributing a fucking plant. Fucking system blows. @#$! the Man, eh bro?”

“Yeah, @#$! the Man.” Whatever he meant by that. It was probably some homosexual reference, but alas, ISTP judges not.

“You’re all right bro. You got a bike?”

I do own a 1990 Schwinn Woodlands- 18 speed with aftermarket fenders and a front brake that rubs on the rim a bit.

“Yeah.”

“Heh, heh, heh… My lucky fuckin’ day! A biker fuckin’ picks me up in a fuckin’ Caddy no less. Son of a bitch! What’s your name, bro?”

“ISTP.”

“Nice to meet ya, brother.” He extended his hand. I shook it as he spoke, “I’m Stanky. Stanky Marcotte. You have any troubles in the Soo, and you’re fuckin’ covered, man. I got friends there.”

“Really? I have friends there too, sort of. They’re pilots, like me.”

“No shit? Hey, I’ll bet you must get a lot of pussy if you’re a pilot, eh?” Stanky slurped some bourbon.

“Pussy? Oh yeah. Pilots have pussy. Lots… bro.” Some guys in my aviation class had pet cats back in the day.

“Fuckin’ cool.”

“Yep. Fuckin’ cool.”

It really was amazing how by just repeating things back to this guy, he became very at ease. A nice technique for interpersonal relations! I remember thinking I definitely had to remember this.

“You got any music in this thing, bro?”

“Yeah, there are some tapes in the glove box that I bought at the Salvation Army for a quarter each.”

He fumbled through the pile, and with great elation he exclaimed. “OH @#$! YEAH! We GOTTA hear this one!”

He slammed the cassette into the player, maxed out the volume, and the Spice Girls serenaded us through factory Symphony speakers all the way to Spragge, where Stanky passed out.

He was barely awake when we got to the Soo, and I dropped him off at his buddy’s place- a strange abode with a high fence around it, bars on the windows and security cameras everywhere. A winged skull adorned the garage door.

I visited the College and no one was there, really, because exams were done. A bit of a let-down. And I still had some time to kill before the party. I remembered where one former classmate lived in the P-Patch- a subdivision of the Soo where all of the streets began with the letter “P”.

I knocked on his door, and to my surprise, he was home! His words were slurred and his eyes nearly crossed. “What the hell? ISTP? What are you doing here? I thought you were locked up by Transport Canada or something.”

“Naa. I would never associate with criminals.”

“Well, shit, you big wanker, get in here! HEY GUYS!” He yelled up the stairs. “You’ll never guess who’s here! ISTP! HAHAAAA!!!”

He showed me in, and a motley crew of now slightly older gelled hair folk sat around a living room filled with brown bottles. I found out they were ALL flight instructors at Sault College! I was with the big boys now.

“Hello gentlemen! Do you have any Sprite? I’ve had a long drive from Sudbury to attend tonight’s festivities.”

They were filled with surprise and gave me some fruity beverage that tasted all right, but was no Sprite. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Soon I felt strange, and my balance was off a bit. I almost wanted to punch someone- a feeling I’d never had before. I chalked it up to pre-Christmas party jitters.

Laughing and swearing erupted amongst the instructors. A vicious debate about duty-times almost came to blows. Cell phone ring-tones of “Highway to the Danger Zone” were going off. Approach minima discussion danced from person to person. Louie this, Earl that. New CFI and NOTAM nuance. IFR Multi-PIC with cumulo-icing propensity. How I reveled in the pilotspeak which caressed my ears like a waterfall’s hush.

One instructor wanted to drive my car, and planted it squarely on a snow bank. Not to be out-done, I freed it, then buried the rear quarter-panel causing a road-side avalanche. This might have been because of the fruity beverage they kept feeding me, I wasn’t sure, but I was alive! I was in the Soo amongst peers! What joy to be me!

White Zinfandel. That was the name of the fruity beverage.

Arriving at the Elk’s Lodge by crammed taxi, all the instructors and I piled out, and much to my dismay, they couldn’t find the door to the establishment. Odd how they could navigate just fine to Elliot Lake at night with full black hole effect, but couldn’t find the “IN” door. I just went to the front of the building, and they followed. I believe that’s what they call in the military- “Leadership Skills” Yeah, I’m TOP GUN. I’m bad, you know it. Bad, bad, bad.

Upon entering, an elk’s head stared menacingly at us. No problem though, it was dead and mounted.

To my delight, there were some of the full time MAJOR instructors at the party, and something I’d never seen before at an Aviation soiree- WOMEN! Turns out they were all nursing students. I thought there was an SOP about no women being allowed at aviation functions. I guess I was mistaken.

How times had changed. Before, aviation parties were mandated to be, as the guys used to say, “sausage-fests” which included only men and beer. Now there were boobs, ketamine and energy drinks added to the mix. Not a bad change. The girls were very pretty. I say “girls”, because they were all blonde with long hair, and it is a scientific fact that when girls become “women” at the age of twenty-five, their hair gets shorter and browner.

Everyone was so motivated towards flying. I was the same at one time. I was peppered with questions, “Do you remember there was this old balding idiot named ISTP before I came to Sault College. He reeked of dill pickle chips and ended up graduating even though the CFI wanted him expelled before he had his nervous breakdown?” “Did that ISTP guy a few years ago make the CFI have a heart attack? Is that true?” ”Where are you working?” “How much multi do you have?”

Pappy Smears was talking to the Tudor Giant and I approached. “Hi sirs, do you remember me? ISTP. Class of 2005!”

They looked at me and each other, then burst out laughing. Smears spoke up, “Jesus ISTP! You haven’t killed yourself by crashing yet?”

“No sir. I just remember what you told me during multi-training.”

“What was that?”

“I think you said something like, ‘ISTP, if you touch that fucking cowl flap again, I’m gonna punch you right in that fucking fat gut of yours, you moron!’ So now I just fly single engine float planes with no cowl flaps.”

He said nothing, and the Tudor Giant inquired, “So. ISTP. Where you are now, do you find that our expert tutelage facilitates the expedient exercise of your limited abilities? Are you employed in the aviatory arts, or do you engage in debauchery of the supine masses- bound by gravity’s constraints, and merely existing? Metaphysically speaking of course, given your nature. Ho, ho, ho. Droll I am, when exposed to such ineptitude as yours. Ho, ho, ho.”

I didn’t understand what he said, but he said it so smoothly, he seemed just as smart as ever. I exited that conversation as I spied my former Chief Flight Instructor. He was dancing on a table with his shirt off slurring Sault College management while waving his shirt in the air.

As I approached, he stopped dancing, crawled under the table and hid. Other instructors intercepted me, forced more fruity beverage down my throat, then said, “We’re going to the Dime! Get out! The cab’s here!”

The taxi zoomed through the cold Sault night to an establishment containing scantily clad women that smelled of cheap perfume and anal lube.

Some there even looked like Stanky- with the desheviled hair and sporting leather jackets with the same winged skull as the one on Stanky’s friend’s house. I thought I’d say hello and repeat everything back to them- it worked on Stanky, and I would consider him my friend now.

But something was amiss as I approached the gentlemen, I wanted to know if they knew Stanky the hitchhiker, but all that came out of my mouth was, “You guysss … stink…”

“You’re fucking dead!” One exclaimed as he stood up appearing perturbed. So I thought I’d get on his good side.

“You’re fffucking…dead.” Repeat ISTP. Repeat to make a friend.

They all looked REALLY mad now. One lunged at me, and because my balance was off, I fell over a bit causing the fellow to smack his face on the floor.

Just then I spied Stanky exiting the men’s restroom! He rushed over and slurred as he hugged me. “ISTP! You ffucker, I love you man! Heeey brothers, this guy gave me a ride here todaay. We should make him an honorary Angel, man!”

They sat down. The room began to spin. All went black.

I awoke on a floral print sofa in the P-Patch. Sun streamed through the glass patio door. I stood to see out a window. My Cadillac was cock-eyed in a snow bank. Brown bottles littered the floor. A semi-nude girl with blonde hair snored loudly on a recliner stained with vomit.

I had a headache like I’d never had before, and my bowels churned. I figured the best thing to do would be to dig out my car, and just go home to Sudbury. It was a painful dig through the ice and snow by the side of the road, yet after what seemed to be hours, I was finally on my way out of Sault Ste. Marie. I stopped for a two litre bottle of Sprite. Oh sweet, sweet Sprite.

Driving east on the Trans-Canada caused me to reflect on what I was doing with my flying, and my life.

The wind that stirred the sails of the students and instructors the previous night were different than mine. In theirs blew a gale force wind. In my sail, merely a breeze. I knew they would get to where they wanted faster than me, but my little breeze was constant, and as such, would also push where I wanted to go, albeit slower- allowing me, I hoped, to enjoy the voyage.

[hazatude]

Excellent work as usual

[Siddley Hawker]

Good to see you ain't lost your touch ISTP.

[Chickaddd]

That beats a Subury Saturday Night

[lilfssister]

Another great story istp!

[. ._]

Thanks guys!

Merry Christmas to you, and my appreciative lurking fans too!

-istp

[Dash-Ate]

Move over Doug Morris, I think we have a new aviation book on its way here...

[Justwannafly]

lol GREAT story