The Mayor's Boobs

I shouldn’t write about this, but I won’t mention any names, not even of the town we were in. So maybe nobody will know.

We were in this joint, see, a hangout that is a real, honest-to-God dive bar. Scuzzy. A place that even the Hell’s Angels would pass up because just peeing in the bathroom is so disgusting. Ugh. I mean, I’m not really too picky when it comes to where I pee, but seriously, I’d rather pee outside at this place. And I often do.

Anyway, it was crowded – so crowded that the bartender started running out of liquors you’d assume every bar would have plenty of, especially on a busy weekend. And you do not want to drink draft beer – God only knows what’s growing in those taps that haven't been cleaned since the Nixon administration. So bottled beer it is. Nevertheless, the crowd was in a raucous good mood and was having a grand ol’ time. Okay, let’s not sugarcoat it: We were all drunk. But hey, it was a bar not a friggin’ church.

It was getting late. Someone exhorted a nice-looking woman near me into lifting her shirt and displaying the goods…and she obliged!

Turns out it was the mayor.

That’s right, the mayor. Hey, now there’s a politician who knows how to give the constituents what they want. Finally! She happened to be facing right at me when this happened. It was impressive…err, they were impressive. Err, whatever. Oddly, nobody seemed all that shocked/appalled/disturbed/upset.

I’m certainly no prude, but at that point I figured that it was probably a good time for Bob to head for the house. Not that I don’t like a good party, but things were kind of getting out of hand, so to speak. We didn’t have to worry about the cops arriving; there isn’t even a local P.D. in this particular town. But you know…you gotta draw a line somewhere. I’d seen enough. Literally. And it was late. Or early, depending on what you call 3 a.m. I rounded up some others who’d also had enough. We had a long drive home. Luckily I wasn’t driving. Unluckily, the guy who was driving was only slightly less drunk than I was. Thankfully there’s nobody else on these roads at that hour of the night/morning. Seriously, I don’t think we saw one other car on the way home. This really is the Middle of Nowhereville.

Next day there was the requisite, ”Oh man, you should’ve stayed!” from my friends who did. Not only did the mayor flash her tits a second time (cementing her reelection, I’m certain), but she did it with another, similarly well-endowed woman who didn't want to feel left out and joined in the fun. Two pair. Dammit! I wondered if the other woman was running for political office too. I would've liked to have checked out her...umm...qualifications. There were reportedly even more tawdry shenanigans after we left involving two local boys in the strangely tolerant crowd, but since this is a family blog I’ll spare you the sordid rumors. Let’s just say I’m glad we left when we did.

Just when I think that nothing exciting or unusual ever happens to me… But the summer is still young! I can’t wait to see what other things are yet to be revealed.

Friends

As I’ve often reported in these pages, I am blessed with the best friends money can buy. No seriously, I have great friends…better friends than I deserve. I could list each of them, and the kind and generous things they’ve done for me over the years, but it would take a blogpost the size of a certain Tolstoy novel. So I’ll tell you about the most recent.

I’ve mentioned my friend Mike Nehring before. I met him in Pensacola nearly ten years ago when he was just starting out in this crazy field of helicopter flying. We hit it off right away and have been friends ever since. We’re a lot alike. We are both sons of pilots, and so we both have inherited some innate talent for this line of work. He is an extremely knowledgeable and gifted pilot whose skills are right up there with the best of us. It was Mike who turned me on to this cherry-drying stuff in Washington State, which was new to me even though I’ve been involved in aviation forever.

Mike has worked his way into a fine job with a company in Olympia, Washington which is just south of Seattle. He’s doing what we call “Utility” work: Hauling external-loads (stuff strung under the helicopter on a steel cable); fighting fires; and stringing powerlines. Yes, it’s riskier than most “normal” flying, and the pay is obviously better.

Instead of driving from Florida to Washington this year, I’d decided to fly up, leaving Pensacola on Thursday, May 8th, connecting through Dallas, TX and Seattle, WA and arriving into the town of Wenatchee, WA which is about an hour-and-a-half south of Brewster. One of my company guys would come and take me the rest of the way.

But without hesitation, Mikey said, “I’ll pick you up!” It was out of his way, but he was driving over to Spokane anyway where on Friday he’d be catching a flight back to Minnesota to visit family. If he picked me up on Thursday afternoon, he could overnight with me in Brewster and then head to Spokane the next morning. Perfect!

Then we saw that I’d have a four-hour layover in Seattle, close to where he lived. The logical thing was for him to pick me up there and for me to "miss" the little commuter flight to Wenatchee (hey, twist my arm!). At least, that was the plan. Then God got involved.

There were tornadic thunderstorms through the center of Texas all day long causing delayed flights and misconnections like you wouldn't believe. My inbound flight to DFW got diverted into Shreveport, LA for a while to wait it out and get fuel. Of course I missed my flight to SEA even though it left late. My new flight's departure time from DFW kept getting pushed back later and later. The bottom line was that I would not be arriving into Seattle until sometime around 9:30 pm. Which meant Mikey and I wouldn’t get into Brewster until around 2:00 am. I called and gave him the bad news. “You might as well take off and head for Spokane,” I said. “No need to wait around for me and ruin your trip.”

“I’ve already switched my flight to Saturday,” Mike said.

I was flabbergasted...shocked...touched. Why would he do something so unselfish without letting me know first...you know, without giving me the opportunity to tell him no. But he's like that. He likes doing things for other people, and I'm fortunate to be one of those other people.

As it turned out, Mike did pick me up in Seattle, and between one thing and another we finally got to Brewster around 3:00 am. On the way over he talked; I slept most of the way.

I pity people who angrily claim to not need any friends. Because it’s not true. We all need friends, and of equal importance we all need to be friends to others. In my life I’ve known some terrific people whose friendships have been invaluable to me...people who’ve done things for me which I’ll never be able to repay, if you could even put a monetary value on their actions, which most often you can't.

I say that I have the best friends in the world. I should probably tell them that more often.

Switching Hats Again

And just like that, the Great Cab-driving Adventure of 2014 is over. I turned in the cab today. On Thursday morning I leave for Washington State. Flying up this time, and yes I know I've previously promised that I will NEVER fly again on the airlines. But to be honest, I just wasn't keenly looking forward to another 3,000-mile drive. A younger me would not have hesitated; this me just wasn't feeling it.

This will be my fourth season as a cherry-drying pilot. I'm excited about returning to the Pacific Northwest...seeing all my friends again who are now becoming "old friends." Mikey, the son I never had, is already up there, living and working full-time for an operator in Olympia. He's already eagerly planning escapades and shenanigans, most of which are sure to involve alcohol abuse (hopefully mild). Weather forecasters are predicting a dryer-than-usual summer, so who knows how much flying we'll do.

Our company sort of committed to a local club of glider pilots that we'd use our plane to tow their planes aloft this summer, and I sort of got nominated to be the tow-pilot, although I'm not sure how or why I agreed to such a thing...perhaps it was in the heat of some of the aforementioned alcohol abuse. Glider-towing is hardly exciting work. But it is different from helicopter flying and I do like exploring other aviation avenues.

I know I promised you some cab-driving stories, which have been woefully lacking. I really do enjoy driving a taxi here in Pensacola, where the majority of my business comes from the military. It makes me so happy that I don't drive a cab in a city full of...well, ordinary civilians.

Nobody has gotten sick in the cab so far, although other drivers have not been so fortunate. I try to not stay out too late on weekends. Just after midnight, people are still happy-drunk but not yet plastered. However when it gets past two a.m. you see the real drunks come out...the ones who've been drinking since eight p.m. and are now hammered. I try to take my last trip around two and then head to the house.

The other night while cruising downtown I picked up a couple of foreign military helicopter pilots (Jordanian, I think) who were stationed at Ft. Rucker, Alabama undergoing some training. They'd come down to Pensacola for a fun weekend. I'd driven one of them before, and he recognized me. They were drunk and horny, two qualities of passengers that make me very uneasy. Again, like last time the one who'd ridden with me before asked that I take him and his buddy to a strip club. It was a little after two a.m. and it had been a relatively slow night. Over the radio I heard driver after driver going "10-7" (out of service). I was fixing to knock off as well.

The strip club I took them to was kind of remote - not walking distance from anywhere. They worried about getting a taxi back to their motel and wondered if I would be working for another couple of hours? "Fat chance," I thought to myself, but assured them...promised them that someone would be available to pick them up. But I wasn't sure of that at all. As I drove home, even more drivers called it quits, leaving only one or two still in service. I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, so I didn't hear whether they got picked up or not by our company. If they didn't...well, fortunately I'll be gone for the next few months and won't have to see them again if they come down for another fun weekend of scamming babes in Pensacola, Florida.

Mikey's going to pick me up on Thursday afternoon when my flight lands in Wenatchee, WA. He'll probably already have a bottle of rum, a bottle of Coke, a bag of ice and some red Solo cups. If not, the liquor store is right on the way out of town.

I have a feeling it's going to be another crazy summer. And I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it!

Jumping To Conclusions

Misconceptions: We’re all guilty of them, especially when it comes to other people.

I carry a lot of passengers in my taxi, and as a student of human nature I've learned to "read" them. However, I do jump to some conclusions about people. I don’t like it when I’m wrong. And sometimes I don’t like it when I’m right.

I carry a lot of military kids in my cab. The Naval Aviation Technical Training Center (NATTC), based at Naval Air Station Pensacola (NASP) has over 4,000 young U.S. Navy and Marine Corps students in attendance at any given time. Many of them are under 21, and very few of them are allowed to have cars, and so they depend on taxis to get around. Over 90% of my business comes from the navy base.

Getting a tattoo is a time-honored tradition in the military. Lately, the government is putting more and more restrictions on tattoos, but nevertheless the desire for “ink” is strong and I transport a lot of young sailors and Marines to the various (and numerous) tattoo parlors in the Pensacola area.

Recently, three young ladies got in the cab at the navy base. …Three Marine women, all in their smart-looking Class C uniforms which the Marines are required to wear when they go off base here. …Three clean-cut, wholesome, conservative-looking, nice young women hopped in the cab at Foxtrot barracks.

“So…which tattoo shop can I take you ladies to today?” I said in my jokingly sarcastic way.

“Monster Ink!” was the excited reply. All three of them had appointments to get tattoos.

Well shut my mouth.

I hate it when I’m wrong.

Then a couple of days later I got a call from a woman whom I’d carried before and who lived way out west of town. Her daughter was at home and needed to go to the Cordova Mall. The woman could not drive her. A pickup time was arranged.

When I got there, the daughter (who is white) and a boy (who is black) got in the van. They were very young…sixteen...maybe. I couldn’t tell whether they were boyfriend and girlfriend. You never know. It might be racist of me for even mentioning it, but there is a trend today for white girls to go out with black guys. You almost never see the reverse: a black girl with a white boy. It just doesn’t happen. For obvious reasons, I suppose. (And if you have to ask…don’t.)

The ride to the mall took over a half-hour, so I had time to assess the young couple in the back. These kids were a puzzle. For one thing, the girl spent almost the entire time on her cellphone. Secondly, they weren’t holding hands, nor did they seem at all affectionate. They didn’t even seem very friendly to one another. In fact, there was a palpable air of tension between them. I got the distinct impression that the boy didn't even want to be there. Then it dawned on me. “Ahh, she’s pregnant!” I smugly thought to myself. That’s what sixteen year-old white trash girls do down here – they get pregnant by the first boy who pretends to be in love with them just so he can get laid.

Halfway to the mall the boy’s cellphone rings. He has a short conversation with someone I take to be a male friend and who I gather wants to get together and do something. A question is posed, but I cannot hear it. “I can’t," the boy replies in a disappointed tone. "I have a doctor’s appointment,” he says. Then he hangs up. Hmm. “I” have a doctor’s appointment? Not “we” have a doctor’s appointment? Could I have read this whole situation wrong? Perhaps. And so being nosy, I ask if they want to be dropped off anywhere specific “at the mall,” which coincidentally is right next to Sacred Heart Hospital and a bunch of medical clinics in the surrounding area. But they say no, the main entrance is fine.

We finally get to the mall and the kids get out. As she does, the girl drops a folder on the floor right behind and between the two front seats. I reach down to pick it up and hand it to her. On the front is a label with her name on it and…wait for it…the logo for the obstetrics clinic at the hospital. Aha! Okay, then. A fifteen or sixteen year-old girl, pregnant by a guy she's probably not all that fond of to begin with.

I hate it when I’m right.

MH370: Gone Pecan (and yes, those words do rhyme)

I often get asked, "Bob, as an aviation expert slash cab driver, do you think they'll ever find the missing Malaysian airliner?" And I always reply, "Nope! Not a chance.” People do seem astonished that a big plane like that could just...you know...vanish into thin air (or thick water, if you believe the Malaysian government). We wonder, "Aren't there devices onboard the plane (like the passengers' personal cell phones) that could be tracked by...something...or someone…GPS, hello? Hmm. Good question. I don't know.

Here's what I think: Globally, the number of aircraft in the air at any given time is staggering. Nevertheless, I think the U.S. government does indeed have a way of tracking everything that is in the sky. Maybe there aren't people watching computer screens of global aviation activity 24/7 and monitoring every flight...but then again, who knows, maybe there are. In any event, I believe we *do* have the capability of tracking everything that's in the air. Don’t ask me the specifics of how, but come on…let’s not be naïve about what our government is or isn’t capable of doing. Edward Snowden, anyone? It’s 2014: The technology is obviously there.

But just as obviously the U.S. would want to keep the knowledge of this capability quiet. Why should ol’ Vladdy Putin know that we can in real time track every Aeroflot flight that takes off and crashes?

Furthermore, when MH370 disappeared I believe that the U.S. government reviewed its data of that area at that time. We probably knew there was no hope of survivors. Eventually, after waiting to see whether the Malaysians or Australians would figure it out on their own (which they obviously did not), the U.S government did...discreetly...tell the Malaysians where the plane went down. (Don’t you think it was strange that the Malaysian government suddenly had a very specific area they were focusing on and they never said why?)

We told them. We probably didn’t tell them how we knew; we probably just sent our ambassador to meet with the King of Malaysia, showed him a map and said, “Hey look, Yer Highness, it went down right here. We know this. I can’t tell you how we know this or I’d have to kill you. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out how you’re going to explain to the world how a 500 mph jet with no transponder overflew your country and didn’t send your defense forces into a tizzy.”

So the plane is a gone pecan. The extended, frantic, desperate search was in vain after a day or two of, “You know…umm…err…we’re not exactly sure *where* it went after the transponder got shut off.” I doubt they’ll ever find it…or more importantly find out why it crashed, which is what we really want to know, right?

My Real Life

Already it is nearly time to take off the cab driver hat and put on the helicopter pilot baseball cap. I can't believe the time has gone by so fast; it seems like I just got "home." Which calls into question where "home" really is. I spent six months up in Washington State last year - half the year. I don't intend to stay up there that long this summer, but then I didn't intend to stay up there that long last summer. I like it up there. And it's starting to feel like home. A fella could get used to living in that part of the country...if it just didn't get so dad-blamed cold in the winter.

I greatly look forward to getting back up to Brewster. We always have a really great crowd of people that I get to hang around with...pilots and what we sneeringly call "non-aviators" alike. Yeah, sometimes we pilots get to feeling full of ourselves - especially when we get full of alcoholic beverages. Then the rest of the world becomes not us. It's bad, I know.

Of course I'm bringing my guitar. Last year, I brought mine and my friend Brandon brought his. Turned out that one of our other pilots, Lauren could also play! (Plus she sings terrifically too!) And so did copilot Chris. Danny (one of the owners - who also plays) brought out his two guitars, a gorgeous vintage Fender Stratocaster and an acoustic. All of us had a fine time jamming in the hangar (which has great sound as you can imagine). And let me tell you, there is nothing...NOTHING more fun than making music with your friends.

Since then I've gotten marginally better at playing and I've learned a whole bunch of new songs (although I do not have a good singing voice). Maybe I'll even put up a YouTube video like the awesome one my friend Hal Johnson did. Oh you didn't see it? It's incredible - gives me chills. Watch! Sings and plays pretty good for a dang ol' helicopter pilot, doesn't he? I doubt I could top this.



I quite like my dual life. But it is getting hard to know at this point which is my "real" life and which one is the one I go to just to play. Maybe some day I'll figure it out.

Cab Driver - Therapist

Whenever a bartender flags you down you know things are going to be bad. Either a too-drunk patron had them call for a cab, or they’re throwing somebody out because they’re too drunk.

Like bartenders, hairdressers, priests and legitimate therapists, we cabbies are often called upon to dispense advice. Why on earth people would presume that I would have any words of wisdom for them is beyond my meager powers of comprehension. I’m a goddam cab driver fer cryin’ out loud.

With that in mind, I’m cruising up Palafox Street in downtown Pensacola last night when a guy hails me outside of the Helen Back bar. He gives me the, “Wait one,” hand gesture and goes back inside. That’s when I spot his t-shirt with the “Helen Back” logo. I think to myself, “Just drive away, Bob, just drive away.” But no.

Subsequently he comes back, and he’s just about carrying this little blond woman. Skinny thing, tiny…late 20’s or early 30’s. He plops her unceremoniously in my front seat and wordlessly shuts the door. Uh-oh. She immediately turns to me and says, “I am NOT going to get sick in your car.” Then she gives me an address that’s not too far away. Hardly reassured, I drive off. I keep a blue plastic pail (the kind kids play with on the beach) within quick reach in the event the drunks I carry have any accidents.

Before we get far, she’s sobbing. Against my better judgment, I ask her what’s wrong? She doesn’t answer, just alternates between sobbing and mumbling incoherently. And she seems vaguely pissed at me for some reason, saying that I don’t really care about her. Which I don’t, to be honest. Ten minutes from now she’ll be out of my cab and out of my life.

As we motor toward her house she suddenly sits straight up and angrily informs me I’m going the wrong way. “I guess that’s your plan, huh…to charge me as much as you can?” One has to be careful when insulting a cab driver. We’re likely to pull over and kick your drunken ass out. There is no law that says I must get people to their destination. Anyway, she quickly realizes her mistake, but does not apologize.

Finally she starts making sense. Between her sobs I learn that she’s all alone in the world. Her husband left her, she’s estranged from her son, they don’t talk to her…she has no family, and all of her “best friends” have turned out to be not friends at all but merely coworkers. All alone. And…of course…she misses her dead father terribly; he died thirteen years ago, she says.

We get to her house. The fare is eight dollars. “Can you please just show me some compassion?” she verily demands. “Can you please just say SOMETHING to me…give me SOME advice?”

Hey toots, I'm just some fuckin' guy, you know? But okay, you axed for it. I start off as gently as I can, kind of knowing how this conversation is going to go. “Ma’am, it’s been my experience that if you have a relationship with God, you’ll never be alone in life…you’ll never be lonely. No matter what happens, God is always with you.”

Before the words are even out of my mouth, I hear the tongue-cluck and the sigh. I knew they were coming. “Oh, I don’t have a relationship with God,” she spits. “I have a relationship with pantheism.” I don’t have time to ask her to explain because she quickly adds, “I tried the God-thing.”

The God-thing. I’m tempted to ask, “How’s that working out for ya?” but I don’t. She starts fumbling around, pretending to look for her purse. I decide that it’s time to help her out of the car, whether she actually gives me any money or not. But she finds the purse, pulls ten crumpled dollars out and makes a big show of dumping them on the floor between the seats.

“Thanks for nothing," she hisses as she walks away.

I feel sorry for people like her…people so wrapped up in themselves and their own misery and self-pity that they drive others away. From the very brief glimpse I got of this young woman’s life, I completely understand why she’s all alone and bitter. I get back in my cab, shake my head and I drive away too.