Francis Meyrick

The Mind of a Midget

Part 2: Moggy, the Comforter

I have tried hard in my little life to understand things. People, Belief Systems, the Meaning of Life. You know, trivial stuff like that. I’ve discovered long ago that I’m not real good at it. At all. I am often and intensely non-plussed by what goes on in the world, and I am often left perplexed by events in my immediate surroundings. You may wonder what I’m doing as a life long flying addict. Airplanes, Helicopters, aerobatics, night, NVG, mountains, jungle, North Sea, Tuna Boats, multi, Instruction fixed and rotary, Tail-Draggers, Biplanes, Tours, EMS… even Con-Air Prisoner Transport and SWAT Team support. With barely a scratch. A couple of bruises. On my forehead. From walking dozily into horizontal stabilizers and the like. I can look back on a varied and fun career, rarely dull, occasionally hair raising, with a host of bar-worthy anecdotes, and some truly spectacular stumbles on the Clumsy Side. If you wonder, heck, I wonder too. What else could I have been? I have often been told I should have been a Missionary, or a Preacher. Are you kidding me? And miss out on all those beautiful women? Or a Politician. A what? Is that a dig at my tendency to enjoy chattering? You saying I preach-talk too much? Frequent Answer: Yes. (but we do kind of derive some amusement from it)

Oh. I guess that’s alright then. (suspicious look from me) Hmmm…

Of my many areas in which I confess utter -pitiful- lack of understanding, it is in the area of woman I have often struggled to comprehend even the basic ideology. The Ground Rules. Women baffle me. They are somehow very different. Well, they used to be. These days, it gets even more confusing. It’s like femininity is under assault. In the old days, it was easy to tell ’em apart. One lot wore skirts, and the other lot wore baggy trousers. One lot wore facial hair, and the other lot wore lip stick, eye shadow and ear rings. One lot had big bulging biceps, scars and tattoos, and did Man’s Work. The other lot was petite, slim and slender, and did Woman’s Work. Well, you know where I’m going with this. Those distinctions have fallen away. In some parts, faster than elsewhere…

Thus I was in San Francisco, spending a night, flying Law Enforcement fixed wing, picking up prisoners who had been arrested under fugitive warrants. Lots of long range, single pilot IFR flying, all over the great and somewhat awesome US of A. Lots of happy sliding down Airways, and flying Instrument Approaches. From twenty-two thousand feet on Oxygen over the Rockies, to touching down in San Diego beside the Pacific, I sure saw America.

I had two customers to pick up at the local clink the following morning. I decided I would go and have a beer and explore the local wildlife. So, having changed out of my uniform, I ambled down to the reception in Motel 6 (we flew on a tight budget) and approached the night clerk.
He was a sour faced fellow, thin and lanky, chewing tobacco, stubble on his chin, cowboy boots and a weathered face. Whatever he had been doing in prior career, it had been outside a lot in the fresh air. I asked him, in my usual polite, soft spoken voice, if he knew if there was a good bar nearby. He looked up from some intense Cowboy Novel he was reading, and studied me coldly. Chewing thoughtfully, he inspected the goods, and then gave me some directions. He closed with the parting comment:

“I think you’ll enjoy that one…”

…and went back to his literary engagement. With the Cowboys and Indians.

I followed his directions, and duly ended up in this noisy beer hall, full of whoopee and music and chattering and laughter. Seemed just fine to me. I quietly slid up to the bar, smiled politely at the bar tender, and ordered myself a beer. Pretty soon, I was chatting away, the way I do, with the guy next to me. I enjoy chattering. Hell, I was born that way. I really believe everybody has a story to tell, and I know if I shut up long enough, I’ll get to hear it too. So time passed by, and he was joined by two of his buddies, and they joined in the conversation, and they insisted in buying me some drinks. Cool, I’m easy. They sure were interesting. The one guy wore make up, eye shadow, and false eye lashes. I couldn’t quite get over that. False eye lashes? A guy? Oh, well. He was very pleasant. The other guy wore studs all over the place. And safety pins. Why in heck’s name would you dangle a safety pin from your top lip? Wouldn’t that get in the way of your spare rib? Imagine trying to stuff Spaghetti Bolognaise down your throat, and this pin keeps catching-dangling on every mouthful? Yoo-hoo! Here comes a meat-ball…! (Oops…)

Sounds unhygienic. Imagine him trying to play the Harmonica!? I’m just saying. Could be ugly. I was dying to ask him about how he coped with metal detectors, but it seemed perhaps too personal. And the third guy had his top five buttons casually undone, on a very loose fitting embroidered T-shirt type thing, and his left tit was accidentally showing. Also with a safety pin through it, with a chain dangling from it. Weird. Oh, well. I guessed that must be the way they did things in San Francisco? But where were all the women? Oh, there’s a few over in the corner. Huh!? Something strange about them…? But before I could really rove my eye around the bar talent, somebody had bought me another drink, and I was drawn back into a conversation about living in San Francisco. And some music festival. Uh-huh. Did they have music festivals in Ireland? Sure! There’s a great one in Lisdoonvarna, and all the rich lonely heart past-their-peak females (Mutton masquerading as Lamb) from all over the world fly in there, to enjoy the live music, and see if they can perchance snare a young, good looking, text book, loving Old Country Irishman, fresh from communing with Rainbows, Pots of Gold, Leprechauns and Fairies. And all the lazy, good-for-nothing Irish young males, who have developed a grave distaste for getting up in the morning and joining the Plebs going to work, turn out with their hair just-so, and their fingers manicured, and the right after-shave, wearing just the right expression of naivety and innocence. It’s all a Grand game, I told them, but the music was fabulous.

Around about this time, it was getting on, and with a long flight in the morning, and an early start, I made noises announcing my departure. They seemed quite upset. Two of them hurriedly passed me their names and phone numbers, with supplications to please call anytime I was back in San Fran. Sure, I said, absently, stuffing their numbers in my wallet. I turned to leave, and with that this big bruiser two bar stools down, walked up and casually wrapped his arms around the dude with the loose fitting embroidered T-shirt ( and the tit showing), and then proceeded to ram his tongue right down matey-boy’s throat! Un-be-liev-able. I’d never seen that up close. Far-OUT. I thought the object of the bruiser’s affections would smack him in the face, and scream Holy Blue Murder, but no, he seemed to actually quite like it. Strewth. Next thing, the two of them were going at it like the clappers. It didn’t know you could have that much sex with your cloths still (mostly) on. NO inhibitions about being in public. Hell, no. Holy Smokes. At least now I figured out what the chain on the end of the safety pin was for. Fancy that. It must have taken some coordination, but in between the passionate exchange of oral fluids, going on noisily, the big bruiser was also yanking on the chain. Wow. I was trying to so hard keep my face straight, like I was used to this, no big deal, just another night down at the watering hole, but of course, I wasn’t. I had never seen that before in my life. A long way from boarding school in Holy Catholic Ireland, I’ll say. It seemed an opportune moment to cast a closer look around the bar. Maybe it was that time of the night, or a pre-arranged signal I (the uninitiated one) had missed, but all of a sudden, EVERYBODY was at it. All MEN. Holy Jemimah Puddleduck! I was in a MALE GAY BAR!

Sum-bitch…

I beat a polite (and hasty) retreat, (Warp Speed), and strode quickly back to the Motel 6, determined to address the Motel Receptionist firmly. What do you mean, you think I’ll enjoy that one?? What kind of statement was that!? You could at least have frickin’ WARNED ME! Is that how I strike you? Is that how I come across??
But him of the Western Novel had been relieved, so I never did get to vent my feelings, and I retired grumpily to bed, worrying about my image. Maybe I would just have to change my soft spoken style. Get some tattoos on my face, and learn to swear. Give up on shaving. No, that wouldn’t work. They all did that. What else? Stumble around in cowboy boots and bang some stupid wide brimmed hat off every narrow doorway? Feel like an idiot wearing it on my bicycle? Chew tobacco and go bull riding? Nah, I’d probably bust my butt the first time I tried. Nope, that didn’t seem appealing either.

Little did I know that some film makers were working on a blockbuster movie, that would go into History as the first and only movie to be instantly released all over the People’s Republic of China. No delay. No year long censorship. Just get it out there. Show ’em what stuff these Americans are made of. I never saw it, but it was called… let me think… Um. Hump the… Hump the… No. Oh, yes, Humped Back Mountain? Something like that.
* * * * *

But getting back to women, I mean, REAL WOMEN, you know, despite the occasional apparition down in Southern Louisiana’s coastal ports (scary man; facial hair, tattoos, weight lifter biceps, full set of teeth -maybe- in their pocket) (if you meet ’em in a dark alley, and they smile at you, all funny, RUN LIKE HELL) I really, really enjoy the company of women. I admire and respect them, and I think it was one of the Creator’s better ideas. A lot better than the day he dreamed up blood sucking mosquitoes. (I think He was mad at Eve that day) I know, the bit about Adam’s rib ticks the feminists off, so I shall head off any charge of sexism which is bound to be made about the perfectly true story that follows below, by saying that I unequivocally regard women as equal to men. Except. Brains. Definitely. No contest. No, no, you can stifle that roar of protest. It’s true. No contest. Women ARE SMARTER THAN MEN. After all, Michelle Obama says so. And we all know how brilliant SHE is. Right? Case closed by power of her Executive Opinion.

Anyway, it was a hot summer’s day in Africa. Turning and burning on an Oil and Gas platform. Even the steel deck was roasting hot, radiating heat up in waves of energy. I was sweaty. My back ached. My butt itched. I was living the Life. I had landed to pick up ONE passenger. The black Angolan HLO had already passed me the load manifest, but I hadn’t looked at it yet. I was still totting up the total of the previous flights. Five hours and… twenty three minutes already. Sixteen take-offs. Sixteen… landings. (Always good when # of landings = # of take-offs). The HLO came up to the cockpit again, and pointed questioningly: Front seat or back seat? Absently, I motioned to the seat beside me. Dozy bastard. He should know by now. ONE passenger ALWAYS goes in the front of a Bell 206. Casually, I looked at the manifest. One passenger. Weight. 425 pounds.

Huh!? How much?!?

A shadow blotted out the sun. A big shadow. A very, very (large), very nice lady was climbing with difficulty into the front passenger seat. Trying to. The insertion movement ceased. Half way in, half way out. She was paused. I smiled, nervously. That kind of “Welcome on board, Ma’am” smile. Only she wasn’t. On board. She was slowly turning a distinct color of red.

“I’m STUCK…”

Now, gimme a break here. Fuxsake. Stuck pedals? Oh, yes, reams of information. Nothing, nothing in our company Training Manual ever mentions how to deal with a stuck lady in the front passenger door of a Bell 206. There are no published Emergency Procedures. We never practice it. There is no three axis Simulator for it. Just go figure it all out yourself. But here I was, with a real live customer, the bread-and-butter of our daily grind, WEDGED by the (…) In my front left door. I confess. I panicked. I had no CLUE what the hell I was going to do.
Out of her sight, the black Angolan HLO hove into my view. As embarrassed as I was, he was laughing his sneakers off. He could afford to. It wasn’t HIS problem. It was mine. I motioned him. It was a futile kind of hand gesture. A kind of “Please Do SOMETHING…!” kind of futile gesture. Unruffled, he walked up, and carried out a close personal inspection. The Africans are different in some regards. Kind of much more down-to-earth in many ways. They don’t suffer from all the hang ups we Westerners do. Beckoning over two of his buddies, soon there were three of them inspecting the problem close up, laughing. I had no clue what they were going to do. I had no clue what could even be done, in a respectful and ethical and sensitive manner. And delicate.
No problemo to the Africans. I guess they just each chose one ginormous (…) for themselves, and simply…

SHOVED.

Can you imagine a couple of Pale Faces doing that? Happily? No worries? You grab this one, Jack, and I’ll grab t’other? Well, can you?
Well, it worked… Sorta, kinda. Only it worked too well. When she finally unstuck, like a cork out of a bottle, she erupted across the cabin, and her head, firmly, no exaggeration,(I SWEAR), no blogger’s dubious and remarkably tasteless imagination, no kidding, honestly, went straight down -deep- between my legs and the cyclic stick. Talk about being blown away. I was flabbergasted. Again, there is nothing in our company Training Manual about that. Other than hold tighly onto the cyclic and collective, eyes bulging, heart pounding, I didn’t know what to do. No, I wasn’t enjoying it. You can’t exactly grab a handful of hair and tug her head out. You have to wait. Until the nice lady, with much effort and panting, recovered her dignity. It took her a while. She was down there for some time.

Poor thing…

She was SO upset. SO apologetic. Almost in tears. My little Moggy heart totally went out to her. All I wanted to do was to comfort her, and relax her. I tend to feel desperately sorry for people, and I mean well, and then I get into more trouble. Lots more. As a landlord, it has cost me a fortune, but I still have to go and exercise some well meaning, but intensely blundering, gormless, streak of compassionate humanity that insists in making me feel sorry for people. My janitor, a tough old, Confederate Flag flying, rusty nail chewing, formidable Texas Madam in her sixties’, tries hard to keep me straight. Invariably, she is right, and they DO take advantage…

She was so upset, I would have given her a cuddle if I could have. Hard to do strapped in. People might get the wrong idea. Anything, just to take away the tearful voice, and the sad, mortally humiliated expression. Thus there followed, honestly, one of Moggy’s perfectly well meant, pure as the driven snow, gentle, but exceedingly clumsy attempts at comfort. Attempt at soothing.

It’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t be sad. It’s all right.

Me (in a kindly tone of voice):
“Oh, don’t worry Ma’am. Happens to me all the time. I get it a lot. I kind of enjoy it.”

?????

The moment it was irrevocably OUT, I realized -Ohmigosh- that sounded ALL WRONG. And in fact, could be SERIOUSLY MISINTERPRETED. Talk about double-entendre. Oh, sh…

And in this manner, I spent a whole week losing sleep, worrying myself sick about my job. I was a relative new hire, and I wasn’t sure if she complained about me, that my (innocent, honestly) side of the story would be believed… What mental midget accidentally blurts out such STUPID? What if they decided I had just made a tasteless, smart Alec, deviant comment? I’d get FIRED. Why does this pudding-and-Yoghurt stuff always happen to ME? Now I’m in trouble. Again…

I never heard a thing more about it.

Phew… I guess she just blew it off.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 17, 2014, 10:46 am