Back to flying the friendly skies. Anyone else ever listen to Channel 9?
Wrapped sideways into a seat, I had the same falling dream, and woke up. Not drooling, luckily. Blonde next to me from Nebraska. Big thighs, naturally. She says something to the bearded guy across the row about hockey and says it HAW-kee.
I flew into Omaha once in late spring. As we descended out of low clouds, the brown plains and slow sludge of a river appeared. We landed and I overheard no fewer than five people say, “I’m so glad we’re back in NEBRASKA.”
There was not a shred of irony in their voices.
I turn up the volume on my headphones. I’m listening to air traffic control. We’re skirting a storm somewhere over western Pennsylvania and the pilot checks in with New York Center. He has one of those voices that sound like someone had gotten to his trachea with a cheese grater. A pilot’s voice.
“UUUUUHHHHHHH United 5-6-3 climbing through 17 for 24. Requesting 34. Heard from eastbound company that we’ve got some weather ahead. Advise?”
The traffic guy comes on and sounds like he must be headquartered in a subway tunnel somewhere near Shea Stadium. I picture him sitting down there eating ziti out of one of those aluminum to-go boxes, popping antacids. There’s a fern on his desk. Why not?
“How YOU doin United 5-6-3. Got some chop ahead, yeah, but we had a guy headed straight true it, so I don’t know what these other guys are tawkin about. What about you tell me what you want to do. You wanna divert, I’ll get you the right-a-way.”
This mix of standard aviation chatter and tough guy street negotiations perplexes our fearless captain.
“United 5-6-3….hold on a sec?”
Silence still. The plane rocks a bit, but nothing to write home about.
“YOU WANNA GO TRUE IT OR AWROUND?” says our man in Queens.
I look out the window. The sun has speared the clouds in the distance to the north. What do they see ahead from the cockpit? Do the lumbering towers of Memorial Day weekend thunderheads to the West intimidate our captain? The clouds breaking out over the Great Lakes as we fly West, tracing arcs of exhaust over barbecues below, where soaking heads of households grill Hebrew Nationals under umbrellas?
“United 5-6-3. Let’s try it.”
Our traffic man must have a mouthful. There’s a pause. Then:
“Okay then 5-6-3. Take it up to 3-4. Tawk to eastbound as you’re coming true it, and say hi to Cleveland on 1-2-4-dot-niner.”
“Copy that 2-4 dot niner. United 5-6-3.”
The Nebraskan girl says something about the score of the game and I lean the seat back a little. There’s a jolt and then the captain turns on the fasten seatbelt sign and now moving about the cabin is, suddenly, not permitted. I look out the window at the sheared sky and think of grilling meat and about something having to do with inflatable pools. The sky narrows and closes in as we fly into the storm, heading West into the heartland.
