"Private Lessons In Love"
A Study In Seduction
This story is projected for adult recitation only.
"Hi, lady. Come in and take the authority off. Better yet, I'll get a lovely look at you. . ."
"Hey, maybe I'm an older goat but I still know how to compliment a lovely looking gal. . ?"
"Sure, this is Four Johns Johnson's debar. I am Four Johns Johnson -- content to meet you . . . ."
"No, it's nothing to do with the slab. It's my see to, has been for existence. Take a gaze at the photo on the roadblock, right there. See that, a 767 appearance into the rise at Gate Tango-2 at O'Hare, with the firecrew wetting the jet down? That was my last flight as a Higher Captain with West and Western. Twenty two days on a running away deck and that was the time it ended. Yeah, even if I roughly it myself I was a legend in the affair. Mind you, the set went apeshit over that photo, difficult to keep the media from pronouncement out what the transact business was with those toilet seats . ."
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"You famine to hear the hearsay? Sorry, but it's not one for assorted company, especially a nice lady like yourself . . ."
"You're a lawyer? OK, maybe you're not so fussy after all then. But even so, this might shock you. Do you assurance not to take legal action me if I confess my sins . .? . !"
"OK, Gloria, I'll discriminate you what happened, and it was a while since now. But it was an even longer time ago when I gone the Air Vigor and first became a commercial pilot. Not flight attendants or purchaser service consultants or whatever the hell they're called now. We had stewardesses, and they had a benefit life of about two living, by which schedule they were either pregnant, or engaged, or both. They were all in their ahead of schedule twenties, they were all decline dead gorgeous, they were all marriage ceremony hungry and we used to call them menu items. As in 'what's on your menu tonight? Mandy or the contemporary blonde?' . . "
"I can see you pulling a face at me, Gloria. You wish for to put me on the stand and make me confess to being a disgusting older maleist, right? Well, that was the line of attack the job was then. God, they were beautiful times. But I'll ascertain you this, never, never stride away with the thought that we pilots didn't acknowledge those gals back there in the lodge. We did then and we still do, even if a fate of them are guys now. That doesn't problem, what does carry some weight is that if the shit ever hits the fan it's the log cabin crew who have to take control of hundreds of panic wounded passengers and get them off the smooth safely. Even if they never have an tragedy come up in their careers, lad, do the FA's get heaps of hassles from the passengers, uniquely after deregulation let all the screwballs free on us. Rum and coke again . . "
"OK, so take it from one who knows, I was unquestionably terrified about twelve time flying commercial jets and ten of those times it because of passengers who should have been responsibility cell time with Hannibal Lector. I'd rather have been a trivia collector than deal with airline passengers every day, especially when it comes to being safe in the same cottage as the wild bastards. And, separately from the passengers, the stews had all kinds of other evils to deal with that you'd never weigh up of. Anyway, that was the manner things were when I was conservational myself, a conservational young co-pilot living wage way up there in pilot's heaven. And then Divinity blew his whistle and told each one to get out of the swimming pool. . . "
"God, is that lass on that stay wearing a costume or not? Sure as torture isn't my eyesight going away because I can see every pit where she isn't . . ."
"What went ill-treat? What happened? No disrespect, Gloria, but lawyers happened, that's what. Come the 1970's and out of the blue the airlines were being in use to court by girls who'd been put off because they were spare, or married or whatever. And the stews on track winning the suitcases. Only they weren't stewardesses any longer, now they were flight attendants. She's a beautiful looking woman in her thirties with a wedding appearance who brings the russet up to the air travel deck, lays on all the smiles and moves to the pilots, goes to the crew lodge with you, says "Goodnight, guys, fussy to fly with you," slams her exit shut and the next machine you hear is the flap lock clicking. That's a slam-clicker. I was forty two living old, I'd at home for duty at O'Hare on a January morning, and Chicago was as cold as the household witch's clit. So I'm dreaming of how I'm vacant to retire in a year or so and own a slab in the tropics and finish my time discussion to beautiful lawyers . . . Wait until you hear the story. . . I was obtainable places, none of them I if truth be told wanted to, last off for the daylight hours at Tucson. Well, that was something, anyway. The last hallway of the daylight hours is always the hardest toil but Tucson was an airport I always liked. Never any blizzard, rarely any drizzle: the wind can get tricky sometimes, but not often. Yeah, Tucson was a gift compared to some pit of an airport reminiscent of Washington National, LA Worldwide or La Garbage at New York.
"Then, as I was leaving the flight meeting point, I took a glance at the whiteboard on the barrier which had chances and ends of crowd information on it. One of the notations was that Mr Greenmont, the set chief security detective was going to be in Tucson on the same day of the week that I'm hasty down. Now that was variety of strange because anytime you have a major company guy on enter, it's noted in your running away details. I dual checked the page, but no bring up of Greenmont's name. So either this gentleman was on my voyage and I wasn't being told about it, which was unknown; or Greenmont had slipped off to Tucson well before the crock crowed. Which was even stranger. Airline executives, even petite times one, don't ordinarily travel on rocket flights.
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