Sunday, October 01, 2006

This is an old post I made on AvCanada, about meeting a fellow poster for the first time. His name is Greg Haza, he's an aircraft refueller in Hamilton and he is a public figure on the Avcanada forums. He knows I wrote this post.

I was doing my best to channel Hunter S. Thompson.

Oh, just so my internet stalker knows: This is fiction. Made up. Not real.

I woke up and yelped. My eyelids felt like iron wool taking brain-shavings each time I blinked. A moose had crapped in my mouth. And that smell...sweet baby Jebus, what was that smell? I looked around. I was laying in the aisle of a business jet, wearing only my leopard thong and a grapefruit sack. I looked over and saw the Captain. He was laying against the potty seat with his face buried in it, singing softly to himself. Tequila is a harsh mistress. We had dutied out at 3am in the middle of nowhere, and had decided to sleep in the plane. I guess the commissary may have been opened at some point after that. My pockets were full of tiny little liquor bottles, exotic stuff like cranberry vodka and black label scotch. The empty half-gallon of Tequila slowly rolled down the aisle. I stumbled to the front, shut off the apu, then vomited into my grapfruit sack. Man, I hope I was drinking tomato juice last night. The captain snored once, mumbled something like "It puts the lotion in the basket", then continued snoring. Our Flight Attendant was nowhere in sight. I crawled down the aisle to the rear of the plane. Using my powerful arms (I am a drummer for a rock band on my days off, so I have huge pythons) I turned the handle clockwise and opened the door. The sun was behind gray clouds, and a smog that smelled like pennies entered the cabin. I fell down the steps. I think I heard my jaw shatter. Then the sweet embrace of blackness...

When I came to, I was laying on an orange pleather couch, huddled in the fetal position. My vision was swimming and all I could make out were green blobs. The blobs made sounds. "Hell!-oooo. Wel!-cum. Taoooo. Hembaltin." I closed my eyes tight and spat out a loose tooth. Who were these demons sent to torture me? I put my thumb in my mouth and again fell asleep.

When I woke again it was dark. I had to pee. I peed. Then I sat up. My golden locks were in my eyes so I brushed them back with a flick of my wrist, briefly flashing back to the days when I was a struggling actor and brushing back my hair was my trademark in the adult film business. I took a self-inventory. My grapefruit bag had been replaced by a fleece blanket. And I felt remarkably dry. I looked down. Sweet. Extra-absorbent Depends were fastened to the area usually reserved for “Spanky McPouch”, my beloved thong. Who had done this? I looked around. I was in the lobby of what appeared to be an airplane rental shop or school or something. But this was no ordinary lobby. Platinum flecks were in the floor tiles, and the walls were upholstered with ultrasuede, helping to showcase the many oil pantings adorning them. Was that a Picasso? A Renoir? It was, and it was. The ceiling was at least 20 feet high, and had been painted to look like the dusk sky during a meteor shower. Rubies and emeralds were embedded in it, simulating stars. A gold disc the size of a small car stood in for the sun. I stumbled over to the front window and rapped on it. Not plastic, and not glass, but crystal.

A row of gleaming Cherokees were lined up outside, their fresh wax sparkling in the moonlight. The shark’s teeth painted on the front of each one enhanced their muscular, yet low-key appearance. My jet was parked beside them and it truly paled in comparison. I looked around the lobby. Was I the only one here? What was going on? Had I been inserted into a zombie flick and was I about to be messily devoured by brain-eating freaks?

“No sir. I’m here, and you’re safe.”
I spun around, causing my head to nearly split in half. I’m.never.drinking.again. I chanted my mantra silently.

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”, said the masculine yet melodic voice.

He was wearing the whitest of white robes, secured by a golden cord. It seemed like they flowed around him, embracing him like a long-lost lover as he stood behind the marble counter. That voice. It was like I had known it all my life. I instantly felt better, and my hangover started to recede. He was about 6 feet tall, with a piercing blue gaze and a smile that reminded me why we have eyes. His head was shaved and he wore it like Bruce Willis, only better. Hey, I’m as straight as a board so don’t get the wrong idea. Plenty of ladies have screamed my name, I tells ya. Some of them even during sex. But if I had to, I mean absolutely had to…

“Sorry, I don’t swing that way brother Sulako, but thanks for the kind thought”

In any other situation I would have pulled the switchblade I keep in my left sock and shanked the man standing in front of me, but his ability to read my mind felt natural; it felt right.

“Where am I?” I asked, idly tugging at my full drawers.

“You are in Hamilton, sir. At the Peninsulair world headquarters, to be precise. I hope you have found everything satisfactory during your stay. Your captain is resting in one of the sleep rooms. We have 3 dedicated geishas who will attend to his every wish when he awakes, and help him clean his clothing. We found your flight attendant wandering down the main runway, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and the carcass of a small badger in the other. It could have gotten ugly, but we came to her assistance before ATC noticed. She is taking a shower in spa room, hopefully to sober her up. She should be ready to join us shortly.”

“Are you God?” I asked. I already knew the answer. This was better than God.

“No sir. I am Greg Haza. Will you be requiring any fuel this evening?”

As he spoke, he held out his left hand and a bird flew through the plaster archway leading from outside and alighted on his index finger. I could feel the love.

“Umm, sure. We have a ways to go to get back home, so I’ll take 20,000 litres of your finest Jet-A. And a half-litre in a plastic cup for me. Medicinal purposes. Do you have any mix?” I winked knowingly.

“At once, sir.” Within seconds, the nicest fuel truck I had ever seen was beside our jet. I didn’t know Ferrari even made fuel trucks. Six men, all dressed in similar robes exited the cab and started to fuel our plane. Even from 30 yards away, I could tell they knew what they were doing. Three more men walked around the plane and started hosing off the encrusted vomit streaks with bottles of Evian and linen napkins.

“The fuel truck you mention is a one-off, sir. A gift from an appreciative customer.”

He smiled again and it was as if the heavens had opened. I knew this was a special place.

“Hamilton eh? We were shooting for Calgary, which is almost half-way home. Is Hamilton near Calgary?” GPS has made map-reading redundant. I mean, it really has.

“We are all close by and connected, Sulako. But you must look into yourself to understand that fully.” I will study his words for the rest of my life; I know they hide truths within truths and reveal layers upon layers of knowledge.

Just then, the door to one of the sleep rooms burst open. It was the captain, all bloodshot eyes and Albert Einstein hair. “Ops just called, we have a pickup in Florida, then back home. We leave in 3 minutes. He was shirtless, which wasn’t unusual.

“I am so sorry we have to leave this paradise. Thank you for everything, Greg Haza. Thank you for everything" I opened my arms wide, as if encompassing the earth.

“You are always welcome. Your flight attendant passed out in the shower, so we took the liberty of drycleaning her clothes, dressing her, and loading her into the airplane. I laid hands upon her and that should cure the hangover, but you might want to keep her away from the wine cabinet and small mammals for a while.”

“We will be back as soon as we can, Greg Haza. We will spread the word so that others can bask in the golden light of your golden lightness.”

The Captain and I walked up the stairs and closed the door, pausing only once to look back. So that was hazatude.

Heh-heh. Sucker. Had he run the credit card through the machine before we left, I think things would have turned out differently. I had already blown the limit on lapdances the night before, and it was worthless.
“They seemed nice” said the captain. “Naiive, but nice”.

He produced a syringe, injected something into his navel and called for the taxi checks.

1 comment:

Aviatrix said...

Disclaimer issued just in case your stalker is REALLY STUPID?