Status: completed 5/5
747
Takeoff
Silence
Tunnel, exit road
When the meter has been turned on
Everything disappears in the rain
It sounds appalling, but in truth, or at least in factual basis, humans breed hate and jealousy at an astounding rate. There are certain buttons one shouldn’t push unless one’s willing and ready to contain the offended’s fury. One of those unspoken rules dictates that one should never take away what a man loves the most. Now, it’s true many people silently fall into a marasmus of sorrow, from which they can never recover, and this, while terrible, prevents further risk of vengeance. There are others, however, that know no path but fury. The bad thing is there’s no way of telling who is which until someone shows up at your doorstep with the shotgun ready and nothing to lose. Clip a man’s wings, and he might become a bird hunter.
Harlan West lost his wings a year ago. Once, when he was younger, he had been involved in a rather embarrassing incident that cost the airline money, and him his then current job. Authorities aren’t big on pilots binging on booze and women the night before a transatlantic flight, but this being a first offense from a promising, well-trained pilot; they let him keep the license, with the promise that this one would be his last one. They were different times. People weren’t as aware of every aspect of the business as they are now. Most of them couldn’t even explain why the plane didn’t fall out of the sky.
Since, Harlan was a model pilot, and some might even say a model man. At least during his shifts. He always remained an active appreciator of alcohol, although the excess in women stopped after he met Gloria. But Gloria was no more. She slipped away on a hospital bed, by the side of their daughter, while he was somewhere between Toronto and the great blue nothing. The stewardess had to inform him, even if she was afraid of the consequences. The man was driving a hundred people through the air at the time, after all. He withdrew to the backseat of the cabin and sank the head in the cushion for a long time. Fortunately, the plane had already reached cruising height, and the co-pilot offered himself to take everything from here. He was capable of doing so, even if his style was a little unmethodical, as younger men tend to be. He finished the flight smoothly. His name was Paul D. Brooks.
Months after that, Harlan asked Brooks to go over the behavior of the plane with the mechanics before they flew to LA next early morning. He would do so himself but he had a nephew getting married, and he couldn’t despise the company of family, not now that he was alone. Brooks understood, and appeased the old man, but he didn’t do it. It was Saturday. He wasn’t about to waste it in a hangar when the world was so wide, life so short, and the plane so reliable. This much was true; the 747 had always run like clockwork. Besides, any sign of exhaustion the engines might be suffering due to mature age, the mechanics would handle. It was their job, not his. To go there was just a formality the airline asks of pilots to ensure safety and all that. And he was neither a pilot nor a man of formalities, he concluded, before driving downtown to find some empty pleasure.
The next day began as it is supposed to begin. Greetings, cups of coffee, and turbines roaring in the background, behind the glass windowpanes of the terminal. The crew walked to the plane with the accustomed display of solemnity. Harlan felt no premonition. Everything looked well. The cabin shone with a spark of confidence, as if the dead metal panels said Trust me through their spinning lights. They sat on the leather stalls and went about the procedure. Brooks was a bit too quiet. Not like himself, Harlan thought, but soon forgot. The plane seemed healthy, judging by the steady rattle under their feet. Until, 34,000 ft. into the air, engine 3 shut off. The red bulbs flashed maniacally in front of the men’s eyes, screaming for everyone’s lives. They had to stop, and they had to do it quickly, but the haze of clouds that enveloped them made the idea of descending frightening, even with the radar working. They called the tower and informed them, asking for a way out. There was no one flying below them at the moment, they had to let themselves fall until they saw land and could find a free runway north of Topeka.
As the white bird plummeted towards the green fields, Harlan remembered his past. He remembered the warning from the mouth of a grave voiced old man. The blade that was to cut his wings felt cold, resting on his shoulders. He knew it was over, but at the time, he blamed it on simple fate. That’s what he called it, while his body pushed itself against the seat at a bruising speed, even though there is nothing quite as convoluted as fate. At that time, he was too busy to notice the drops of sweat on his partner’s forehead weren’t only fearful of crashing, but also of making it back home safe, and having a secret. Brooks wasn’t used to the burden of responsibility, and amongst red light bulbs and the horrifying yell of the sirens, responsibility was heightened, like a snow ball rolling downhill while he waited by the mountainside with his arms open. The wheels jumped against the concrete, sending 250 passengers in a moment of airborne despair, even with the seatbelts fastened. A sole scream exploded across the hallway. Harlan had never done this kind of landing before, outside of training, years ago. The metal sheets hissed and cracked in his eardrums. Kettles full of water stumbled and spilled over the carpet of the kitchen compartment. He heard this because the cabin door had unlocked with the shaking, and was now dancing back and forth with violence, punishing the copper hinges.
The runway wasn’t enough, and he had to swerve and drive into the corn fields surrounding the airport. The messy ground slowed them down, and they were done a few seconds later. The passengers breathed. It won’t be long until the emergency stairs are sent, and then it will all be over. It will all be over, the pilot thought.
Inquiries were made, mainly because two passengers sued over heart affectations, and blame was split. It was there, the final audience by the FAA, in the middle of a room that seemed too solemn to not be inside a courthouse, that Harlan West learned two things. His days were over, as he expected. And the mechanics stated that no one had visited them the day before. This was part of his job; no one would blame Brooks, as desperately as he pleaded. He would be scot-free, smiling. No, no one would blame Brooks. It was with his own hands that he would have to make him pay.
He left the building and walked home, beneath the wind and the misty sheet of eternal gray not-quite-rain that seems to cover the streets of the city perpetually. He thought briefly about living and forgetting, but his blood itched too much to let go. He had been wronged by life too much. He opened the Johnnie Walker and poured himself a double before bedtime. Bedtime, he realized. Get up for what? Sleep next to whom? Maybe Gloria would’ve straightened him out and made him lose the grip on memory. Maybe.
Harlan West lost his wings a year ago, yes. But he still keeps a key to the hangar.
Tunnel, exit road
When the meter has been turned on
Everything disappears in the rain
It sounds appalling, but in truth, or at least in factual basis, humans breed hate and jealousy at an astounding rate. There are certain buttons one shouldn’t push unless one’s willing and ready to contain the offended’s fury. One of those unspoken rules dictates that one should never take away what a man loves the most. Now, it’s true many people silently fall into a marasmus of sorrow, from which they can never recover, and this, while terrible, prevents further risk of vengeance. There are others, however, that know no path but fury. The bad thing is there’s no way of telling who is which until someone shows up at your doorstep with the shotgun ready and nothing to lose. Clip a man’s wings, and he might become a bird hunter.
Harlan West lost his wings a year ago. Once, when he was younger, he had been involved in a rather embarrassing incident that cost the airline money, and him his then current job. Authorities aren’t big on pilots binging on booze and women the night before a transatlantic flight, but this being a first offense from a promising, well-trained pilot; they let him keep the license, with the promise that this one would be his last one. They were different times. People weren’t as aware of every aspect of the business as they are now. Most of them couldn’t even explain why the plane didn’t fall out of the sky.
Since, Harlan was a model pilot, and some might even say a model man. At least during his shifts. He always remained an active appreciator of alcohol, although the excess in women stopped after he met Gloria. But Gloria was no more. She slipped away on a hospital bed, by the side of their daughter, while he was somewhere between Toronto and the great blue nothing. The stewardess had to inform him, even if she was afraid of the consequences. The man was driving a hundred people through the air at the time, after all. He withdrew to the backseat of the cabin and sank the head in the cushion for a long time. Fortunately, the plane had already reached cruising height, and the co-pilot offered himself to take everything from here. He was capable of doing so, even if his style was a little unmethodical, as younger men tend to be. He finished the flight smoothly. His name was Paul D. Brooks.
Months after that, Harlan asked Brooks to go over the behavior of the plane with the mechanics before they flew to LA next early morning. He would do so himself but he had a nephew getting married, and he couldn’t despise the company of family, not now that he was alone. Brooks understood, and appeased the old man, but he didn’t do it. It was Saturday. He wasn’t about to waste it in a hangar when the world was so wide, life so short, and the plane so reliable. This much was true; the 747 had always run like clockwork. Besides, any sign of exhaustion the engines might be suffering due to mature age, the mechanics would handle. It was their job, not his. To go there was just a formality the airline asks of pilots to ensure safety and all that. And he was neither a pilot nor a man of formalities, he concluded, before driving downtown to find some empty pleasure.
The next day began as it is supposed to begin. Greetings, cups of coffee, and turbines roaring in the background, behind the glass windowpanes of the terminal. The crew walked to the plane with the accustomed display of solemnity. Harlan felt no premonition. Everything looked well. The cabin shone with a spark of confidence, as if the dead metal panels said Trust me through their spinning lights. They sat on the leather stalls and went about the procedure. Brooks was a bit too quiet. Not like himself, Harlan thought, but soon forgot. The plane seemed healthy, judging by the steady rattle under their feet. Until, 34,000 ft. into the air, engine 3 shut off. The red bulbs flashed maniacally in front of the men’s eyes, screaming for everyone’s lives. They had to stop, and they had to do it quickly, but the haze of clouds that enveloped them made the idea of descending frightening, even with the radar working. They called the tower and informed them, asking for a way out. There was no one flying below them at the moment, they had to let themselves fall until they saw land and could find a free runway north of Topeka.
As the white bird plummeted towards the green fields, Harlan remembered his past. He remembered the warning from the mouth of a grave voiced old man. The blade that was to cut his wings felt cold, resting on his shoulders. He knew it was over, but at the time, he blamed it on simple fate. That’s what he called it, while his body pushed itself against the seat at a bruising speed, even though there is nothing quite as convoluted as fate. At that time, he was too busy to notice the drops of sweat on his partner’s forehead weren’t only fearful of crashing, but also of making it back home safe, and having a secret. Brooks wasn’t used to the burden of responsibility, and amongst red light bulbs and the horrifying yell of the sirens, responsibility was heightened, like a snow ball rolling downhill while he waited by the mountainside with his arms open. The wheels jumped against the concrete, sending 250 passengers in a moment of airborne despair, even with the seatbelts fastened. A sole scream exploded across the hallway. Harlan had never done this kind of landing before, outside of training, years ago. The metal sheets hissed and cracked in his eardrums. Kettles full of water stumbled and spilled over the carpet of the kitchen compartment. He heard this because the cabin door had unlocked with the shaking, and was now dancing back and forth with violence, punishing the copper hinges.
The runway wasn’t enough, and he had to swerve and drive into the corn fields surrounding the airport. The messy ground slowed them down, and they were done a few seconds later. The passengers breathed. It won’t be long until the emergency stairs are sent, and then it will all be over. It will all be over, the pilot thought.
Inquiries were made, mainly because two passengers sued over heart affectations, and blame was split. It was there, the final audience by the FAA, in the middle of a room that seemed too solemn to not be inside a courthouse, that Harlan West learned two things. His days were over, as he expected. And the mechanics stated that no one had visited them the day before. This was part of his job; no one would blame Brooks, as desperately as he pleaded. He would be scot-free, smiling. No, no one would blame Brooks. It was with his own hands that he would have to make him pay.
He left the building and walked home, beneath the wind and the misty sheet of eternal gray not-quite-rain that seems to cover the streets of the city perpetually. He thought briefly about living and forgetting, but his blood itched too much to let go. He had been wronged by life too much. He opened the Johnnie Walker and poured himself a double before bedtime. Bedtime, he realized. Get up for what? Sleep next to whom? Maybe Gloria would’ve straightened him out and made him lose the grip on memory. Maybe.
Harlan West lost his wings a year ago, yes. But he still keeps a key to the hangar.
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Comments greatly appreciated.This will be 5 chapters long : )