The adventures of "182 Driver"

[Mitch Cronin]

....for your amusement....

Henri and his Jazz interview

Hello fellows! Long time, no talkie. I have been a very busy boy over the past few months, logging time on the mighty 182, hustling the ladies, breaking pool cues over heads--you know, the usual. I scored another Navajo gig too, and logged some major multi time. 2000 hours one year. Some say that's illegal; I scoff at them--they aren't living the dream!

All my hard work has paid off though, chaps. Got the big call recently--Air Canada Jazz! Hoo boy, I did a stompin' two-step once I hung up the phone, wiped the peanut butter on my fingers down the front of my wife-beater and grabbed my coat to go to the mall. It was suit-buyin' time!

The salesman in Jack Fraser was more than a little impressed with my bravado as I strutted around the store seeking the perfect rig for my little chat with the majors. I dazzled him with stories from the road; conquests, encounters, amazing achievements--I had quite an audience. Pulling on a skin-tight pair of size 32 slacks (aqua blue, with just a hint of morning shine glinting off the polyester) I explained the lure of the mullet, and how it had helped me bag tons of high quality babes over the years. The salesgirl behind the counter stared at my polyester package and swooned as I swung my hiney in her direction, my dreamy eyes locking with her. My fingers fluttered up to my nipples and pinched gently as I observed her reaction. She turned away quickly and retched--the poor girl didn't have the stomach for a man like this!

I finally decided on a snug pair of powder blue, pinstriped pants with matching belt, a black, shiny shirt (does double duty for the post-interview celeb in the club, chaps...take notes here) with the matching powder blue suit jacket. If you guys have a set of glutes like this kid, do as I do: get the vented jacket so you can have the goods on display when you lean up against the counters. (You're welcome!)

I clutched my purchase and walked around the mall in search of more loot. I was going to the big show--rumour on the street is these AC boys make some pretty heavy coin--upwards of 35 G's a year by last check. Livin' in mom's basement, making the heavy dough equaled a pretty swanky lifestyle for this gigilo. Nice. Sidling up to the Tim Horton's counter, I relayed this little timbit to the elderly lady manning the register. Maybe she had a daughter who was looking to be set for life! I left my digits, and flipped her a loonie as a tip. It's okay, Grandma...I can afford it, doll!

By the end of the day, I had a cart-load of cologne, hair products, tight fitting underpants and cowboy-boot polish. Sure, it cost a bit. No matter, I'd be in the big money soon enough!

That night I took all my beeyatches out to the Lone Star for some hardcore pre-interview Mexican feasting. All my brethern were there: I am Birdog, Beechball, Sulako, Cat Driver, Doc....the list goes on. They also brought some big, funny looking fella named Hazatude. He eyeballed me a bit, and for a second there I thought I was going to have to drop the fajitas and dance a bit, but he calmed down once Birdog whispered the deal into his ear.

"That's right, cupcake", I announced. "This is an hombre you don't want to tango with!" Just to make sure he got the message, I gave him something to think about. Call it a Lone Star Lesson.

First, I pointed at him, then me....slowly. Nodding. Smiling like a James Bond villain.

Then I took a tortilla chip and held it up....and snapped it in half. It was really intimidating. If you were there, you would have been scared.

He looked pretty nervous and mumbled something, (sounded like "sorry, sir") and crammed a quesadilla into his mouth before getting into any more trouble.

Oh fellows, this was my night! I was giddy in the spinning lights of the restaurant, and surrounded with the high pitched girlish squeals of Doc and the Cat Driver. The mullet flowed in the breeze from the ceiling fans--with it freshly feathered and hairsprayed I felt like a peacock! The meal was delicious, and I helped myself to seconds of mounds of refried beans and guzzled beer. Birdog at one point told me to go easy on the beans--and got a quick flurry of punches to the forehead as a response. Down he went face-first into his plate of nachos, and the crowd roared it's approval! I was on fire!

I excused myself hours later, as I had to show these young lads how to be responsible. I had a career-changing mountain to climb tomorrow at 9 o'clock sharp, and I wasn't about to blow it now! I stumbled out of the bar at the reasonable hour of 2am, jumped into my car and drove home as fast as I could, racing through red lights to get home as quick as possible to get some shuteye for the big day.

.....to be continued....

NARRATOR: join us next time, as Henri suits up for his big day, and runs a clinic on how to go through the challenging interview process at Air Canada Jazz!

[Mitch Cronin]

Henri runs a clinic on Interview ettiquette! -the Sequel

NARRATOR- Henri wakes on the big day a bit worse the wear for drink and excessiveness. Will he be able to pull off his dream shot?

The rhythmic thump was off in the distance, and coming closer. I could feel it in my bones. Fighting the pounding in my forehead, I pushed an eyelid north with one quivering finger, seeking the source of the merciless intrusion. Out of my peripheral, finely honed by hours in the skydiving environment, I saw my tongue, stretching away into the distance. It was firmly secured to my pillow, and dry as a bone. Slowly, I retracted my gear, and continued to focus on the incessant thumping. There! Mr. Stitches, my fearless tomcat! Gently licking his goods in the early morning light, and causing his hind leg to bounce on the counter of my desk! Curse you, Mr. S! A half-hearted lob of an empty beer bottle sent him scurrying on his way. The tinkling of glass brought me to my senses, and I sat bolt upright in bed. My brain squealed in protest, and a cry escaped from my lips. It reminded me of the way Sulako had shrieked last night as Beechball nipple-twisted him.

I looked at the clock. 7:43 am! Crripes....I jumped into the shower, but not before slapping in some ZZ Top, and winding the volume knob to 10. Before long, I was soaping to the percussion stylings of Dusty Rhodes and the boys as they filled me in on the finer points of dress. "Sharp Dressed Man" is more than a song to me, fellows. It is an anthem. I use it like a checklist!

Out of the shower, with a quick glance at the clock. 7:54. Onto my dressing quarters now, where I don my sharp dressed suit, white shoes, bolo tie and calculator watch. Quick run up on the hair dryer, then max power....fluff the mullet to max density. PSST...PSST....a sharp dressed blast of hairspray ensures zero movement.

I was excited. Mr. Stitches was pumped too, as I could see his licking increase in frequency and intensity. It was time for the secret weapon; the deal clincher. I crept quietly into my parent's bedroom, and made my way to the closet. Opening the doors slowly, I saw my target sitting there: a black fedora, approximately 2 feet in diameter. With my new walking stick, I would look like Zorro!

Clock check: 8:13. Time to roll.

Minutes later the El Camino was spooling to freeway power as I mashed the gas pedal into the floor mat and cranked the Motley Crue cassette to a deafening din. It was time for a walk on the "Wildside", chaps. Time to dance with the big boys. The Fedora clamped firmly on my head caused the mullet to splay mightily across my shoulders. Thank god for Lateral Raises, chaps! I checked myself out in the mirror as I swerved and deked my way into the morning traffic. Looking pretty diesel. I popped out a few quick poses as I shot past buses packed with commuting ladies.

Time check. 9:05. Pulling into the parking lot, I smiled broadly. Fashionably late is always the way to go, chaps. Always leave them wanting, waiting and wondering. Wheeling the mightly Camino into the spot closest the door, I drove the brake pedal down to the floor, and arrived with a screeching roar of rubber, music and mojo. I let the Camino idle, and fine tuned the volume as Nikki Sixx let go with a wicked guitar solo just at the time two hotties walked by into the building. They turned and looked at me in awe. Thanks Nikki, I owe you one!

9:10. Showtime. After getting the once-over from "the man", I was led into a pretty swanky boardroom. My walking stick made an impressive 'tock, tock' as I strutted, the feather in my Dad's hat bouncing to my internal groove. As I entered, my bottom jaw dropped: the HR chick was a total babe! I ignored the other dude and stared into those beautiful eyes. "This is your lucky day," I confirmed for her. She bit her lip, and whispered "okay, please sit down". Sit I shall, cherie.

"Henri, could we see your logbook, please?" 'The Man' was speaking to me. Love would have to wait, doll. It was go-time. I cuffed her gently on the chin and gave her two gentle hand pistol shots. Verrrrry slowly. It was pretty intimate.

Then it happened. As I leaned down to retrieve my logbook (or, as I call it, my legend-book), I had a catastrophic pant failure. An in-interview emergency situation!

My pants exploded. I felt the rush of air as my seat depressurized, and stale boardroom air rushed in. My gold Louis Vitton bikini briefs took the brunt of the flapping fabric, and protected me from full exposure, but the damage was horrendous. The popping seams sounded like firecrackers in my ears, and the tearing sounded like the time Mr. Stitches took down the living room curtains on Christmas Eve two years ago. At times like these, chaps, do as I do: stick to the primary mission. I scooped up my legend-book, and hurled it at the man, spinning in midair like a trained dolphin, and wrenching the fedora from my head in one smooth, fluid movement. Clamping it tightly to my exposed buttocks, I dropped momentarily into full attack-mongoose pose before bounding into my chair.

It all took only a second to accomplish, and I was seated comfortably in front of them. I doubt anyone noticed. There I sat, my mighty chest swelling with pride. Smiling. Nodding. HR chick fanned herself and forced herself to concentrate on the notes in front of her. Good luck!

The interview proceeded. Naturally they were all in awe of my achievements, and I batted down their questions like imbound shuttlecocks. Since it was an airline interview, I made sure to liberally sprinkle my responses with pilot talk--this helps a lot, rookies, so they can imagine what you are going to sound like on the radio. You're welcome!

"Are you willing to relocate?"

-Affirmative-

"Tell us about your career:"

-Roger that, say when ready to copy. ("uhh....ready") Roger that. Roger THAT! The tales spewed forth; the bar fights, the U-Haul moves, all my left seat warmers that didn't know ANYTHING until I showed up...the skydiving gags, the conquests...oh the conquests! I spared no detail, chaps. You have got to be honest.

About 10 minutes into the interview, I started to feel a bit...curious. Strange. Deep inside the core of Henri, all was not well. Maybe it was nerves, but...no. Curse the Lone Star! Curse the refried beans! Damn Birdog for not being able to sustain my onslaught and fight back, keeping me from the blessed fruit! I knew that smell. It was the smell of fear.

It started like a far away roar...like a 182 on final. Soon, it was upon me, and tore through my Vittons like that ghostly spirit at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Do as Indy does! I slammed my eyes shut as it broke free. Oh God, don't look at it! The Fedora wilted under it's fury, and could not contain it. The Fear flowed up, up, across the table and crouched on it like a living thing. Trying not to attract attention, I casually fanned the table. Oh geez, get back here!

The Fear looked at 'the man' and looked back at me. It cackled and nodded. Slowly. I stared in horror. It then jumped up and hugged his face, and I watched his expression change from somber to horrified. Like some kind of manical fart-goblin, Fear jumped down, and ran....right towards the HR lady! Giggling with glee, Fear grabbed her ears and started dry-humping her nose! No!! This was a nightmare. Time to act! Clutching the shattered Zorro hat, I catapulted myself across the table, scooping up my book of legends. Seven backflips later, I was at the door, and hung one-handed from the door frame, leaning into the room as I waved my goodbye. I will never forget the sound of the retching and coughing, and my eyes stung with tears as I surveyed the chaos I had created. Goodbye, mon cherie. I blew her a kiss through the foul air. She must have just seen this blue figure looming through the haze, and been reaching for the airborne love when, looking back...I was gone forever.

It was very impressive. Mr. Stitches and I can't wait for the sim ride.

[Mitch Cronin]

Henri gets the call....and gets into a tiff along the way

PART 3: Sim time

NARRATOR: The phone rings at Henri’s house, and guess who is on the other end?

Well boys, not sure if it was the acrobatic prowess I displayed in the boardroom as I tumbled, snap-rolled and catapulted myself around, or the fact that the hot HR chick had a thing for me, but the bottom line is this: I am in-like-Flynn! Got the call today to strut my stuff in the simulator.

I have to admit, I thought I had maybe gone too far at some points during the chat with the bigwigs; hell, even us seasoned pros have doubts, eh boys!

Hindsight is 50/50 chaps: maybe it was too much when I chose to flip the chair over and aggressively mount it when illustrating the conquest of that waitress in Pickle Lake; perhaps the profanity should have been toned down a tad when discussing the dubious competence of my former Left Seat Warmers, and I’ll admit that responses such as “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” ran the risk of being misinterpreted. Luckily, the seasoned pros at Jazz know a winner when they see one, and let it slide!

At any rate, preparation for such an opportunity starts immediately. Focus is absolutely key here, chaps. Prime example: Had to go for a spin in the 182 as there were some ‘divers that needed dropping and I gave them the full Jazz treatment to get warmed up. Questions like: “Did you pack that chute yourself?” “Are you aware of it’s contents?” and of course, “Have you ever left it unattended?” get some funny looks, but I think they appreciate the thoroughness. Showing up in full airline attire with my Dad’s blue blazer may be considered overkill by some rookies, but when you are in my position you never know who will be watching. Here’s a tip: pack your lunch in one of those rolly-bag suitcases and ask one of the ‘divers to pull it out to the plane for you!

Chuckle mightily as he hefts it into the plane. “Gee, where are you laying over tonight?” he must wonder. Glamourous? Absolutely.

If there is more than one lacky on board, I make a game of it. The game is called, “Who wants to roll my bag?” There are always tons of takers!

The other day we had a bunch of yoyo’s come out for a dive. One chucklehead in particular stood out, went by the name of 748HO. He started out okay, complemented me on my blazer, admired my hat (Pilot World Model 1122, $79.95 retail, chaps) and generally looked like a solid bag-roller to me. So, I gave him first dibs.

“Here you go, rook”, I said. I pulled up the ratcheting handle. (clackity-clackity-click) I spun the bag around and offered it to him. He looked at me.

“Pardon?” he said.

“You get to roll it out, son” I said. Beaming. Nodding. Spreading my arms wide to present my gift. My epaulettes caught the reflection of the morning sun and I took a second to admire the gleam. Far off, a bird broke into song.

“Roll your own bag, geek” he said. His buddies laughed nervously. They had been down this road before, and knew it was a dangerous one. Oh yes, this road was full of landmines, gents.

I sputtered and coughed. Then gagged. Insubordination! Disrespect for the Captain!

I let out a mighty roar that filled the small terminal. Outside the 182 bucked at her tie-downs, straining to join the fray. The shark’s teeth painted on her cowling seemed to snarl with rage. In slow motion, the Model 1122 spun off my head as I shook my tucked-up mullet loose. I caught my reflection in a nearby coffee pot as my mane exploded free and flowed behind me like a golden banner. My calves fired like twin rockets as I propelled myself skyward, ripping my tearaway dress pants off in mid-rotation and firing my Dad’s blazer into the corner. To say I looked impressive would be like saying the CN Tower was just a building. I think 748HO realized his mistake, as his eyes bulged when his buddies bolted for the exits. I landed in full attack-cheetah pose, and tore the sleeves off my pilot shirt, wiping some coffee grounds under my eyes for some quick camo. It was time to engage the enemy.

The HO lost me in the lights as I vanished in front of him, and by the time I had landed by the far wall, he lost me in the background clutter. In vain he searched for me, throwing punches blindly. I moved with stealth, and made a guttural clicking sound in my throat. I was going for the full “Predator” effect. Slowing my heartrate to around 6 bpm, I froze in front of a Schwarzanegger poster and remained perfectly still. Remember to blend into your surroundings in time of warfare, chaps. HO walked right past me, breathing heavily and punching at fantasies.

A whoosh of air. That is the only warning the enemy has when confronted with someone trained in cheetah-like maneuvers. I swooped down from the rafters, and landed in front of him. He screamed in terror as he saw my transformation. A thick halo of mullet framed my rugged face perfectly, and a savage warpaint pattern of coffee grounds adorned my chiseled features. A mouthguard protected my chiclets. My guns bristled through the ripped holes in my pilot shirt, and the epaulettes bobbed on top of my massive shoulders. Two words of explanation for my girth here, boys: Military Press.

I reached for his shirt, and pulled it up and over his head. Dance time, cupcake. We tangoed right there in the skydiving club. I fed him repeatedly, and at one point speed-bagged him so enthusiastically that I started to giggle. Crushing blows slammed into his body like waves on a lee-shore and he crumpled like a Swede in a hockey fight.

Too bad this little incident didn’t happen pre-interview, chaps. It would have been perfect for “have you ever had to be firm with a customer?”

(By the way boys, I kept the costume from this little incident, and just won first prize at the local watering hole Halloween costume contest. Took home some trollop dressed as a Pepto-Bismol bottle too. Nice.)

to be continued....Henri travels to the sim check!

[Mitch Cronin]

HENRI lights up the JAZZ sim in T.O.!

The Jazz gate agent looked at me and smiled. I think I detected….lust? Who could blame her? Before her stood 5 1/2 feet of French-Canadian manhood. A yellow rose stood at attention in my lapel, and my ruby red leather tie had been polished to a glowing hue. A freshly polished tie pin with a flashy “Camaro” logo smartly skewered the knot at my neck. North of that, my goatee was freshly trimmed, and a piece of cinnamon gum snapped tantalizingly in my mouth. A gold chain about two inches long swung from my left ear, an airplane charm dangling professionally at the end.

The hair was a work of art, flowing in glorious form. It was all business up front, slicked back tightly against my scalp and combed perfectly to one side. But as your eyes progress aft, you saw the raging party in the back: expertly frizzed to max. volume and cemented in place with salon-quality spray, it appeared to reflect the light as it gently swayed in the morning ambiance of the terminal. It was not unlike a Mini-Wheat with it's two diverse sides. Time to rock!

I was so excited I let out a little yelp and let go with a rockstar-like kick. I looked more than a little like Vince Neil himself.

Whoops—the Jazz girl was speaking. “Sir, you have been upgraded. Please just hand this to the flight attendant, and she’ll show you to your seat.”

Upgraded! The words hung in my ears, and I walked away from the counter with a massive grin lighting up my features. Down below, the polyester dress pants made an authoritative zip-zop, zip-zop as I walked.

My mind was racing! The elusive upgrade—all these years of begging, threatening, bribing and stalking chief pilots in pursuit of the mighty left seat, and finally—here it was! I must have done better in that interview than I thought—to hell with the sim, they were giving me my dream shot right off the bat! Maybe the jet-like sound effects I had made as I illustrated my takeoff technique with “The Man’s” pencil had paid off? I walked to the window and looked out at the RJ sitting at the gate. The rose in my lapel bobbed and turned to face the sun. The mullet glowed. From behind, I must have looked like a sunflower!

The RJ was certainly no 182, but I didn’t think it would be too much of a problem. A little trim here, a bit of power there….I practiced rotating and turning the massive control wheel a bit. Visualization has always worked wonders for me, chaps. Around me, some pax gaped in awe.

Well—time to meet the good people. I started introducing myself to the rabble seated in the waiting room. A good Captain should always strive to get to know his passengers, gents. Just think: only 5 minutes ago I was down at their level! Poor bastards!

Toronto, 3 hours later after some heated questions from the authorities...

Sulking, I disembarked the Jazzy Jet and sauntered downstairs. The whole upgrade thing had been a bit embarrassing, and I now regretted getting physical with the FO as I thought I had just been acting within my PIC authority. Oh well, the RCMP had thought it was pretty funny, so I was in the clear. How was I supposed to know ‘upgrade’ meant ‘business class?’ The big leagues sure had some funny expressions. Pretty out of touch with the working class pilot if you ask me.

The CAE facility was a pretty classy joint, and I told the sim eval guy how impressed I was. All the apples and cookies you can stuff in your pockets—for free, folks—and they keep the coffee coming. I was escorted to the briefing room, and sat down for a little chat. The sim eval guy was named Tim, and he didn’t look that impressive. I thought an airline pilot close up would be, I don’t know—bigger, or something. Anyway, Timbit (the nickname I gave him) filled me in on what we were going to do. “Just fly like you always do, Henri”, he said. I squinted at him and moved the toothpick from East to West as it danced on my lower lip. “Roger THAT!” I confirmed. He didn’t know it yet, but this was Timbit’s lucky day. He was going to learn a thing or two.

The Dash 8 sim was massive. Buttons, switches, lights and levers stretched out in every direction as I eased my polyester posterior into the left seat and ratcheted myself to the full forward position. (clickity-clickity). Timbit tried to point out some key features, but I waved him away. Point one, chaps: accepting help is a sign of weakness. Do it on your own, and reap the rewards.

I found the throttles, but couldn’t see the mixtures anywhere. Oh well, we weren’t going that high anyway. Power, yoke and rudder—what else do you need? I was ready. First of all though, it was time for a quick P.A. for the good people. Lesson 2: Keep the pax comfortable, chaps. They pay your salary, after all. In addition to Timmy the Right Seat Warmer, there were two chuckleheads in the back, so I welcomed them aboard and gave them the speech. The message here, folks? Sound like an airline pilot, become an airline pilot.

That little chore out of the way, I popped the park brake off, slammed the power home and told Timbit to hang on. We were on our way!

The Dash 8 leapt into the air easily around 145, and I cranked her skyward. Timmy clutched his chair and looked back at Chucklehead A as I rolled her into a 60 degree left turn to comply with the SID. The cinnamon gum snapped with authority as I rolled, climbed and dove to meet the demands of the clearances. I hung a hand casually over the yoke and roared mightily with laughter as I recalled the RJ incident—it made great cockpit conversation, and finally these boys were able to see me in my natural element. A good Captain must set the tone of the flight deck, boys. I could see the chuckleheads relax, as they looked at each other and laughed. Chucklehead B wrote something down on a clipboard—probably a good yarn for later—that’s the spirit, buddy!

All four of us were getting along like a house on fire as the virtual-Dash 8 snaprolled her way through the airwork…she was on rails as I coaxed her left and right. 45 degrees just isn’t enough to get the job done, boys—I chose to raise the bar a bit and put her on the ol’ knife-edge. Sure you drop a couple hundred feet, but the message is clear: this boy is not afraid of a little challenge.

Chucklehead A tried to trap me into taking a hold after the turns, but I knew better: this was a sim ride, boys…a test! Deny that hold. You don’t need it. Declare an emergency. Sure you gotta think fast; I came up with a story for ATC that Timbit was having a medical problem—and sure enough that hold went away! This type of major-league thinking is what separates the men from the girls. Chuckles told me to turn to a heading of 270. Vectors! Damn, these guys are full of little intimidation tactics! Stay on those headings, fellas, and hang on to that yoke with an iron grip. Transfer control to the SIC if it gets too tough—you might need your strength for later.

This ride was way too tame for someone with my experience and abilities, but I felt bad for the guys conducting it, and just decided to play along. My mind did wander though, and I found myself thinking back to that crazy show I saw last week at the local airport ripper club, the Purple Peeper. Man, that chick came out with that incredible light show, she was dressed as a cheerleader, the music was bumpin’ and those flashing lights…man……wait…what the hell is that flashing light doing here?

“Engine Fire!” Timmy was freaking out. Lights were going off everywhere, and the Dash 8 was swerving all over the sky. I slapped him hard across the face, and clenched the toothpick tightly between my teeth. He was no use to me now. Looking up, I saw the red handle. Man, these turbines were so user-friendly! Not like the 182, with its wordy checklists. Reaching up, I yanked the handle down screaming “it’s gonna be okay, Timmy!”. The light went out. Problem solved!

But all was not well in the front office of the Dash 8, chaps. Timbit had dropped the ball—the brown part of the AI was on top, and the last time I checked we weren’t in Russia. We were in grave artificial danger. I calmly flicked on the seatbelt sign, picked up the interphone and cancelled my coffee order with the virtual flight attendant.

It was a bit of a blur after that, chaps, but that's flying for you. Mr. Stitches and I are confident though: I've already started packing up his cat toys and litterbox for the big move.

Good thing %#@* U-Haul is on the speed dial!

Stay real, boys!

Henri

[boestar]

WOW...Unreal...Great read.

B