Anything but Minor (2 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I rushed out, barely able to take in my lush surroundings as I met a casually dressed woman at the door, my overstuffed suitcase and carry-on in tow.

“No worries. I had to walk my Skeeter, anyway, so I swung by when you texted.” I was sure “Skeeter” was a pet name but got no further explanation. She turned the key and gave me an animated face with big eyes. “Well, take a look around.”

I braced myself. Renting from afar was scary business, but so far the drive into the complex had been absolutely beautiful. I’d even spotted a free roaming alligator on the pond bank on the drive in. I was tempted to stop and take a picture. I held my breath and then let it out in a huge and happy gust as I took in my new digs.

“Oh wow,” I chimed as I walked into the spacious kitchen with marble floors and new appliances. Adjacent and across the bar top was an even larger living room complete with dark wood floors and a stone fireplace. I was convinced it wasn’t just a home but a haven.

“The pictures really didn’t do it justice,” she said as she watched me closely. “I had the maintenance man put your boxes in the living room. They arrived today. I didn’t want you to have to drag all that stuff up yourself.”

I barely heard her as I looked at the beautiful furnishings. Things I’d never dreamt of in a place of my own, things without doilies under them. My mother loved doilies, crosses, and lace. I shivered at the memory of my old bedroom.

“It’s”—I damned near teared up—“perfect.”

“Ahhh, hon, you’re going to love it here! It’s a lot quieter than the other complexes in the area. What is it that you said you do?”

“I’m a flight instructor.”

“Wow,” she said, clearly impressed as I took a look at the leather couch and big screen TV. “Well, here you are.” She walked over and dropped the keys into my waiting hand. “Your copy of the rental agreement is on the counter. You said you’ve never been to Charleston?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve done a bit of research on the web.” I turned to her, my chest bursting with excitement. “Thank you.”

“I think I’ll call you in a week. Just to see how you’re doing.”

I looked at her with a curious glance.

She gave me a knowing smile. “Oh, honey, you don’t know where you are...yet.”

When she shut the door, I clamped my hands over my mouth to cover my squeal, but I knew she’d heard it. Ten minutes later, I was dressed in an oversized white tee, pink panties, black Ray-Bans, and knee-high socks, sliding across my new hardwoods to Bob Seger. And it
was
the best day of my life.

You know that part in the movie
Top Gun
when Kelly McGillis walks around, sex clad in aviators and an oversized bomber jacket while the gorgeous buffet of pilots sit a little straighter in their chairs and do their best to intimidate their new instructor? In that movie, Kelly took zero crap as she fired at will, demonstrating her expertise and rightfully gaining the upper hand. I’d imagined something similar for my first day as an instructor.

This
was
not
that.

First, the white-walled classroom was freezing, and I was positive my nipples were perked up in an embarrassing display through my tight, thin, pink sweater. My pilots were all in their late thirties to early fifties and looked nothing like a young Tom Cruise or Val Kilmer, aside from
one
man who seemed completely uninterested in a damn word I was about to say. I was disappointed not to see one woman in the class of around fifteen pilots, but it was expected. It saddened me to no end that the majority of those in the air were still men. The percentage still 97% men in the industry.

Well, I was in the other 3%, and I was sure that these men felt that same contempt for me as they did sexy McGillis because they all looked bored or pissed to be there. I studied them for several moments as they rudely kept busy on their cell phones.

“It’s not the same plane as you are used to, gentlemen,” I said with certainty and in lieu of a greeting. “More advanced, glass flight deck, larger wingspan, and it’s faster than anything you have
ever
flown. And you
don’t
know how to operate it.”

That got the attention of the only good looking pilot in the room. At least I knew I had read
his
thoughts.

“I’ve been in the air, gentlemen, and often. If you want to compare swords with me, simply open up your packet and take a look at my flight log. I don’t need your respect, but I do need your attention.”

One by one, cell phones were set down, and all eyes landed on my nipples.

Well, it was progress.

I looked over the cell phone pics I’d taken over the last few weeks. Cotton candy sunsets, a dead jellyfish, the infamous and ancient Angel Oak Tree, Market Street traffic, a horse with an eye patch. Charleston, in a word, was...
amazing
! The realtor had been right. The city itself was a best-kept secret. A secret that was apparently spreading due to the significant amount of wandering tourists, myself included. I’d spent hours roaming the city on a self-tour.

I’d never really been the type to get lonely. I’ll just go ahead and put it out there.

I’m an alien.

Well, that’s not
exactly
true, but when I was young, my obsession with aircraft kept me out of any form of a circle of friends. It was easy to play pilot when you were six with the Sunday school kids. When you’re eleven, and you prefer to put together airplane models instead of shopping at the mall, that you weren’t even allowed to frequent, it can start to become an issue. I had a handful of friends in high school, and even
they
gave me some odd looks from time to time.

Okay, maybe I was a bit
too
informational, less conversational.

In the last week, and in my new city, I felt more at home than ever in my own company. The pace was far slower than what I was used to. I’d spent five unnecessary minutes in the checkout at the store because of the person in front of me chatting with a cashier. It seemed no one
outside
of a car was in a hurry.

After rush hour, the city settled into a contented purr of crickets, wind, and calming water. Yesterday, and after endless meetings my first week, I drove straight to the beach a few miles from my new palace. I sat in the light beige sand and watched people pass by as I inhaled the sea air and watched the sky turn pink.

Pink.

The clouds were lit so beautifully, I felt myself tear up. I had a new addiction, and it was the city itself. Half of my addiction to flying was due to the fact I was a sucker for scenery and my new city fed my addiction in spades.

Armed with my new Prius, I drove around the peninsula of downtown Charleston and familiarized myself with the layout. It was an ocular orgasm, something on every single corner: cobblestone streets, expansive southern mansions, postcard harbor views. I couldn’t get enough. I took three tours, one walking, one by bike, and one by horse-drawn carriage. It had only been a week, and I was in love. I stopped for lunch at a local spot called Barbara Jean’s and ate the largest chicken fried steak in the history of the world. It was steak fried like chicken, topped with a creamy gravy that “tastes so damn good,” according to the waitress, “would make you smack your mama.” I finished my late lunch and walked for hours, completely in a daze, instantly in love with my southern piece of paradise. Trees covered in flowing Spanish moss swayed as I worked my tired feet down the streets, admiring the consistently lit lanterns that dated as far back as the 1600s.

I wanted to be a part of it all.

Running out of ideas but with endless possibilities, I decided my next move was now up to my new planet, and just as the thought crossed my mind, I ran right smack into a vendor passing out flyers.

I quickly scanned the pictures on the pamphlet and dead center was my planet’s answer.

Go to Anchor Park!

Nervous was a feeling I was no longer used to. I’d pitched too many games, faced too many opponents to feel the old yet familiar shitty feeling that had started to eat at me this morning. I needed something to take the edge off and pounding into Melo-dee last night hadn’t done a damn thing to help the slight shake in my hand or the new sheen of sweat that covered me as the words kept circling my head like the fucking vultures they were.

Last chance.

“We’ve got this,” Andy said with confidence as my uncertain eyes met his. “Fuckin’ A,” he said emphatically as he clapped my back with his glove before he made his way out of the locker room. I gripped my cap sitting on my locker shelf and put it on then kicked my locker closed.

Only one thing would get me picked up this year:
performance
. I had the best stats of any pitcher in the minors. I’d solidly pitched my way into earning the invite to the big show. An invite I’d worked for my whole life.

Do or die at this point.

“Get ’em, Rafe,” Waters, the right fielder, barked out as he passed me. I took a deep breath. If I didn’t get tapped on the shoulder this year to play in the majors, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t play with every fucking bit of talent I had.

That would never be the reason. And just before tunnel vision kicked in and I took the field, I whispered in ritual, “You love this.”

I’ve never been much of a fan of baseball. In fact, I’d never been a fan of any sport. So, sans foam finger, I headed to Anchor Park with every intention of knowing everything about it by the time I left. Surveying the stadium, I noticed a majority of the people around me sported team shirts, so I purchased a bright red baseball cap with a green team logo as a souvenir. I felt the sense of community as the players took the field. I took my seat directly behind home plate. Scanning the bright green field and immaculate stadium, I was impressed, and then I looked down to Google the Swampgators on my iPhone.

I prayed to two Gods in my life. The one I believed kept my soul safe but frustrated me with answered prayers in cryptic life lessons and another who fed me a world of information at the palm of my hand.

As I researched, I realized I was at the very first home game, and the Swampgators had an incredible season last year. Even more impressive was all minor leaguers were an affiliate of a major league team, meaning they were all signed with them. I spent a few minutes brushing up on the basic rules of the game while the Swampgators warmed up on the field. I really had missed
everything
athletic in life and was working overtime to make up for it. The announcers asked us to rise for the anthem, and I quickly put my phone away as I held my hand over my heart and finally looked up.