Undead L.A. 1: LAX, Page 2

747's and 777's from Los Angeles to Tokyo, Sydney, and even Shanghai. In the end he'd been cut down to only five jumps per month, no matter how hard he tried to find a way around it. A local carrier might do as many as forty runs a month, taking one of those tiny planes from John Wayne or Bob Hope to Vegas and back three or four times a day. He knew a guy named Lee who only flew from Seattle to San Francisco to Los Angeles. He'd been doing the West Coast boogie for nearly five years and didn't mind at all, but that wasn't exactly his cup of tea, if you'll forgive the expression. For Edgar, it wasn't an actual flight until he was up for at least four hours. That's when the real skill came in to play. That's when experience proved invaluable.

  Some pilots treat it like a big-ass school bus, he thought, but not me. Never. It was always a thrill to know I had over four hundred or more lives in my hands, way up in the air. It felt like playing God.

  He thought back to the way he usually got ready for a flight. It was a whole lot different than what he had pulled today, cutting across the runway and ignoring all safety protocol. The FAA would have his license if he tried that in the real world. He'd catch flack for sure from his least favorite tin pusher, an air traffic controller by the name of Oscar, who'd earned the nickname Oscar the Grouch. Once when LAX had been stacked up with a lot of commercial aircraft waiting for approach, he'd lost his cool. They were already over an hour late. Edgar knew the WX was good, but somehow there was still a traffic bottleneck keeping them in the air. He hadn't slept well the night before. He'd been trying to keep himself on Pacific Standard Time to cut the jet lag down when he was home. He wasn't the only one angry either. Other pilots and crew were on the box expressing different forms of frustration at the holdup as well. Finally one let out a string of expletives in a high-pitched voice that ended in a screeching FUCK!

  “Aircraft making last transmission,” Oscar snarled, “identify yourself immediately!”

  “Approach Delta 54, negative on the F – U – C – K word.”

  “Approach US Air 1107, also negative on fuck.”

  “Approach NW 313, negative on dropped F bomb.”

  Each denial only seemed to drive the Grouch more insane. When he finally responded to Edgar's millionth request to touch down, his voice was dripping with venom.

  “All aircraft holding. Expect additional fifteen minute delay.”

  “You do understand that it costs us two thousand dollars to make a one-eighty in this airplane?”

  “Roger,” Oscar quickly replied. “In that case mark me down for about four thousand dollars' worth of turns to start and we'll see where we go from there.”

  Edgar was used to landing big planes and dealing with attitude problems of the arrogant geniuses running the tower. Air traffic controllers were notorious assholes who liked to play God. They were Type A personalities on steroids. Still the high stress of the job and long hours spent under insane pressure meant most of them burned out in as little as ten years or less. Over the years though, the Grouch had hung on. It was strange not to hear his voice on the radio.

  “Poor old Grouch is probably one of those mindless things now,” Edgar said to himself. “Can't say I'm gonna miss him though. That fucker really was a pain in the ass.”

  Generally there were two extra pilots on board and he would fly relief. That meant on long flights he would come in tired and bunk it first, then when the other pilots were starting to fade Edgar would take control and bring them on in. He loved making the wide banks around Heathrow, dashing in and out of the clouds as they circled in a holding pattern while dozens of people in the control tower worked hard to land incoming travelers from all over the world. One minute he'd be climbing up into a soft whirl of puffy white cotton balls, effortlessly floating like a child's idea of the kingdom of Heaven; the next minute he'd be swooping over the vivid green pastures and English farmland country crisscrossed by stone walls and shrubbery, dotted with cracker box toy houses. It was one of the reasons he preferred being a relief pilot and landing planes as opposed to doing take off. He loved the feeling of coming out of the sky and touching down, the way the plane lurched when the wheels hit, and the sound of the chirp as the rubber connected with the landing strip. The other reason was that it meant he could sleep the first leg of the trip.

  Usually I'm out by the time the pilot comes on, he thought. Unless the turbulence is strong.

  Last night was no different than any other flight. He was the last pilot to fly the stretch between London and Los Angeles. He brought the bird in and touched down before getting the news that he would be flying first the next day, September 21st.

  It was unusual, he thought, because it meant that today, right now, would be my sixth flight.

  The airlines had received a tidal wave of last minute passengers desperate to get out of Los Angeles. It was a decision made by the board of the airlines to add a couple more flights. The OT would be more than covered by the last minute booking fees. It was in the interests of the stockholders, he was told. The Board always made the final call – that is unless the FAA had something to say about it. The Pilots Union, on the other hand, wasn't consulted on these decisions.

  “Pricks in the towers get more love than we do,” Edgar grumbled. “The last time anyone even listened to us was when Sully landed that bird in the Hudson.”

  Edgar hadn't minded so much. There was something depressing about coming out of the bright California sunshine and gentle cumulus clouds to descend into a veil of choking brown smog upon hitting the City of Angels. He was more than happy to head back out to wherever they sent him.

  Now I know why there were so many last minute flights out of town, he thought grimly. Even if I grew up here I'd want to get as far away from this place as possible.

  He started in on his routine immediately upon hearing the news that he was heading back to work the next day, which meant running down the old mental checklist. He'd set aside a fresh uniform. He had four in rotation but was down to his last clean one due to all the extra flying. He knew there wouldn't be time to hit the dry cleaner. He'd barely have time to eat and get to the hotel before he needed to hit the sheets. He nervously drank his second bottle of water. Hydration was always an issue. It had become a habit of his to polish off several bottles of water the moment he left the plane. He'd walk through the 'Crew Only' line and past customs drinking bottle two. By bottle three, he'd be moving quickly through the airlines hallways, safely shielded from the public. He'd be ready to piss some out by the time he reached the company bathrooms.

  Sticking to my routine keeps me out of trouble, he thought. Usually.

  He ate at the McDonalds out in the terminal, then fought his way down past the baggage claim and out to the curb, narrowly avoiding becoming entangled in a bait ball of paparazzi. They were swarming around a famous rapper, taunting him with petty jabs about his personal life in the hopes of getting a reaction out of him. One of the more sleazy looking guys began making lewd comments about the rapper's reality television girlfriend, alluding to rumors of a leaked sex tape that had been going viral on the Internet.

  “She definitely looked like she was enjoying it, man,” the opportunist bellowed, holding up his camera and capturing video of the stars reaction. “Only that ain't you in the clip, brother. That's her ex-boyfriend, Joshua Ramirez, with his hands around her neck while she's cumming her brains out. She ever ask you to get rough like that with her, Stud?”

  The rapper had been ignoring them while walking toward a shiny, white Rolls-Royce Phantom the color of uncut cocaine. His hand was on the handle of the suicide door that opened toward the back seat when he froze – he was a ghetto kid from the streets of Bed-Stuy, and had been in and out of prison his whole life because of his bad temper. The rest of the paparazzi pulled away from their loudmouthed colleague as he turned around to fix a glare at him. In seconds he was on the man, who squealed and begged for mercy while the temperamental musician delivered a series of blows to his face and neck.

  The last thing Edgar saw
as he boarded his hotel shuttle was the photographer on the ground with his arms raised in fear as the rap star raised the expensive camera over his head. Despite the pap’s heart wrenching pleas his attacker hurled the camera onto the asphalt, using both hands to maximize the damage, while the semi-circle of paparazzi surrounding him drowned them in an explosion of flash bulbs. He smiled as the doors closed and the driver began pulling into the constant stream of airport traffic.

  He'd gotten used to staying just off campus at the Airport Radisson. It was cheap and they treated him well enough. He wasn't looking for any kind of luxury, but for what he paid he thought he got a pretty good deal. They usually gave him a room with a view of Century Boulevard, but since it was late when he got in, the only room they had available was one that faced the parking lot in back.

  “I'll take it,” he said to the slightly overweight blonde girl with the perky attitude at the front counter. “I just need to lie down now.”

  “One key or two?” He wasn't sure what she meant. Was her eyebrow arching an invitation to something more intimate? The idea made him want to laugh. He'd already passed up the chance to have sex with a beautiful woman earlier and was starting to regret it. He held up his ring finger to