I didn’t think about the kids.
I ordered another round instead.
Because that’s just what dirtbag, tin kicking 🦊s do on a random 517 Tuesday. On an angry night. When the storms blow in hard from the Great Plains. Gathering their strength out over the expanse of the big lake. Building destructive momentum. And painting the pallets of handheld radars with angry colours.
The stuttering bite of backlit lightning silhouetted the curved outline of barely tolerated Eurotrash when her engines finally spooled up. Tolerated because at least it wasn’t a shitty downsized 757. That clunky beaked tin monster that’s a fucking chore to feed. Because its loose load bellies are a claustrophobic nightmare of knee punishing Boeing bullshit.
The unremarkable Airbus generally fills the scheduling gaps when the 767s aren’t around. And serves as a tolerable surrogate to our indefinitely grounded MDs.
We rolled 11 minutes early.
After roughly 34 tons of critical care cargo had been loaded. In 28 minutes. Somehow beating the mathematical certainties rigidly documented in ridiculous manuals never actually read. Except for all the vicious auditors looking to pick their nits.
It’s probably a good thing that airframes can’t fucking read. And that seasoned ramp veterans never trust the odds. Because otherwise, I’m not sure we could accomplish the things we do nearly every damn night.
Because sometimes, we make miracles happen on battered 517 tarmac.
And that takes a toll.
But we fucking beat the weather that night.
And that was an accomplishment worth celebrating with higher proofs.
So it was off to a familiar haunt to wash away the stink of jet blast. To seek out the baptismal of more numbing agents; to relax for a minute amongst the company of inebriated strangers. Because I knew they’d be more friendly than a bunch of propwashed ramp critters.
Two pints in and the tornado sirens screamed.
The wind was up. And the faces were all down, checking notifications. Watches and warnings flashed and blinked.
Some patrons panicked. The owners called to check in.
I ordered another round.
And laughed at private jokes about meeting at the Winchester. To order a cold pint—which I actually fucking did.
And then waiting for it all to blow over.
The one thing I didn’t do was worry about those kids.
Because I don’t even know them anymore.
Looking back, I’m not sure I ever really knew them. Because faces were constantly glued to screens. Those evil electronic babysitters filling the role of surrogate parenting. Because it was easier than whiney confrontation.
I wanted to build forts. Both blanket and meadow. Teach them to track the creatures in the woods. Show them, by actual example, the honour to be found in the virtue of hard work. And the satisfaction gained from actually getting hands dirty.
But, those things never happened.
Because there was too much conflict. And a little too much trust funded laziness. Attitude and manipulation, inaction and excuses.
But I loved those little fuckers, anyway.
Because they are a part of her. And I actually wanted that package deal.
It’s a shame that I wasn’t really wanted back.
So, when the storms hit, and the sirens all screamed, I didn’t break a sweat. Because 🦊s are survivors. And I’ve weathered far worse storms than what Michigan decided to throw at me that random April Tuesday night.
I didn’t think about those kids; I didn’t even think about her.
I just ordered another round.
And waited for it all to blow over…
