Smoking my way through another black pack Michigan Monday night. Just because there is fuck all else to do, here in the frozen wasteland of an empty December 517 holiday season.
Downing dirty pints. Like it’s my actual job. And not the pretend one. The one I play at every night. Dressed up like a ramp running G.I. Joe; the one where I am kitted out in a uniform of cobbled-together high-viz ridiculousness. With an endless variety of electronic paraphernalia strapped to an aging, uncooperative body balking at the inhospitable weather.
It’s always the same damn battle. The one fought six nights a week. Or sometimes, even seven. Especially when it’s our peak season of commercial craziness. And there are glaring staffing gaps to fill. So all the scheduled projections go right out the damn window. Leaving those dependable few to meekly add in “PEAK” to the comment section of our timecards as a pre-approved excuse for all the overtime.
In a masochist sort of way, it is a refreshing change of pace. Because it’s at least a problem I can actually fucking fix. And the extra hours are nice. So the weekly paycheck finally comes close to paying what proves to be an actual livable wage for once.
But despite the seasonal comfort of temporary financial considerations, it still hurts inside. Under all the armour. And all the gear. Behind all the clever words. And the tired, grey eyes. Probably because I am still not quite busy enough to truly ever forget.
Because I fucking loved her.
Loved her in a way that was stupid; loved her in a way that was actually real. Loved her to such an extent, it would take an entire lifetime to find the proper words of explanation.
But I’m rapidly running out of lifetime. And even if I tried, I would still probably fall short of the mark.
Like I did when she dropped my hand that terrible Sunday morning walking in her Michigan meadow. A catastrophic wounding from which recovery once seemed impossible.
Which is probably why I haven’t written spoken her name since that day. And probably, never will ever again.
I just…switched it all off.
Because who really has time for that shit?
Not when the clocks are all ticking down. And the days, quickly evaporating. Both for the potential of any sort of a genuine coupling. Or for the rigidly scheduled departures of all those damn airplanes.
Because the tin monsters, they just keep fucking coming.
And someone has to fight them all away.
Every night, they keep landing. And crabbing their way onto our frozen Clinton County tarmac. With engines screaming. And tires smoking. Their bellies loaded as full as their topsides; their fragile wings constantly in need of inconvenient deicing. Usually the call is for Type I and IV; wings and tail. A necessary annoyance that is a constant pain in our ass.
But it keeps the crew safe, making sure the tin is clean. And dependably airworthy. So in the end, it is worth all the effort. Even if we take the inevitable delay.
And somehow, that responsibility remarkably falls on the irresponsible shoulders of a silly little ramp fox. The one with an addiction to downing those dirty DeWitt pours; the one who possesses an unnatural attraction to every hint of possible stupidity danger.
Because that is often where the real life exists. In those pressure cooker moments of split-second decisions. The ones determining what is right, and what is going to go so horribly wrong. That window of time where things move so damn fast, they actually seem to slow down.
And that’s when I can best see the patterns inside all the chaos.
There is no room for mistakes. Or second guessing. There is only trusting a gut rotting away from all the booze stress. And the embracing of raw instinct over rigorously documented methods.
Because I’ve been doing this shit long enough to understand that we sometimes have to break the rules in order to make things fly. A simple truth that more casual desk-dwellers will never understand.
It is a unique purgatory to which I have been condemned. A F.O.D. filled existence burdened with breaking bundled bodies against cold-soaked metal. Swearing repetitively in coloured paragraphs at the brutality of the weather, just to keep warm. Or at the temperamentally uncooperative equipment, just to keep it running. But eventually, moving the mass of that big airplane off the ramp. Sometimes, with nothing but the sheer force of raw will.
Only then am I allowed the victory cry of “Rolling!” crackling over a sea of handheld radios.
Our only real reward? The knowledge that the monster is eventually going to just turn right the fuck back around. And we’ll have to do it all over again.
It is fair to say that criteria meets the metaphorical definition of insanity. But, it’s our insanity. A unique burden carried on the shoulders of all my exhausted “Gateway Gangstas.”
Because it feels like we’re forever standing out beside the frozen runway. Watching the twinkle of landing lights as they turn left onto that final approach. Waiting patiently for our turn to dance against some very dangerous odds the second those nose gear wheels block in. And the chocks go down.
Because you order the things. We make sure you get the things.
That’s the deal we made with our respective devils.
But on some nights, I find myself sometimes stepping away.
I turn my back on that familiar streak of 28 Left.
Catch myself glancing over at the observation area. That little circular drive, just past the fence from where all the small feeder aircraft park.
I feel the wind through my unshaven grey; I watch exhalations hang suspended.
I catch myself wondering if any of those parked headlights are hers.
Then behind me, the screech of tires smoking on asphalt.
Thrust reversers kick in with their distinctive scream.
A gloved hand reaches up for that radio mic.
*click*
“On the ground!”
