Barnstorm (2 page)

“Des Moines, 1940,” said Hooker.

Bomber corrected, “Birmingham, 1939.”

“Name was Lucille, red hair,” said Hooker.

“Priscilla, a brunette,” opined Crash.

Bomber tried to settle the argument with, “Blonde. Birmingham. Yep. Birmingham. Blonde.” No argument was ever settled. This could have gone on forever, left unchecked.

Knowing that it was useless to ignore the inevitable, Buzz commented over his shoulder to Deb, “Might as well get this over with,” as he strolled to the corner table to join the fray. He turned his chair backwards, sat, arms over chair back and asked, “Ole Gus, fly with the best of ‘em?”

Hooker shook a crooked finger at Buzz, “Listen here, Mr. Wisenheimer Fly-boy. Ole Gus was the best ever.”

“Better than you, Hooker?”

Spine stiffened, Hooker lectured, “I may be the best you’ve ever seen. Ladies seemed okay with my performance. Just like the Navy pilot landin’ on an aircraft carrier–I got a cute way of gettin’ on and off. But nobody, nowhere could hold a candle to Gus.”

Bomber entered the debate, challenging Buzz, “Gonna walk a wing today, young feller?”

Buzz knew better than to respond directly as the usual patter would be taken up by one of the other old geezers.

Crash proved the point, “Nah. Air Force flight school don’t teach that. Gotta have a ‘parie-shoot’.”

To which Bomber added, “Strap a feather piller to his bee-hind.”

Deb should have known better, but she yelled across the cafe, “Spare us. You old Liar Flyers got more gas than a hot air balloon.”

Success. The Liar Flyers had Deb at their mercy.

Hooker continued, “Teach you a trick or two honey, ’member that gal in Des Moines?”

Bomber remembered, “Whew. Doris could really make yer propell’r spin.”

“Must’a been fun times. Barnstormin’ all over the countryside. Doin’ all those shows,” Buzz added.

Crash sighed, “Doin’ all those ladies,” as if exhausted by the recollection.

Hooker stood on his chair, extended arms as wings. “Comin’ in for a landin’ gals. Yep, a three-pointer. A cute way of gettin’ on and off.”

This is where the journey to the Sky Gypsy Café was worth the effort for little boys. Any one of the Liar Flyers could hold court for hours about the good-ole days. Hooker could wind a stem. Unchecked, he could convince the unsuspecting that he flew reconnaissance flights over the Gettysburg battlefield and was instrumental in deflecting Pickett’s Charge.

For the umpteenth time, Hooker lectured about barnstorming starting after World War I, long before any of the Liar Flyers were yet glints in their fathers’ eyes. Some buddies would fly around rural America, hop-scotching town-to-town, dropping leaflets. This littering served the purpose of drawing a crowd at Farmer Bob’s cow pasture out on Route 4, south of town. Or any other farmer’s pasture flat enough to land an old biplane. Ad hoc air shows would delight the gathering crowds with their daredevil exploits. Passing the hat, collecting coins, dollar bills, and negotiating for personal rides in the open cockpits, word-of-mouth would spread the news. When the crowd dwindled and the last available coin collected, the barnstormers would zip off to the next village and repeat the littering and buzzing of town squares all over again.

While Barnum & Bailey or Ringling Brothers might descend on a town with a railhead big enough to handle the herd of elephants and clown troupe, the barnstormers could swoop into the smallest of Midwestern villages. Years later, a few entrepreneurial showmen organized some barnstormers into traveling flying circuses. A multitude of crashes and regulations in the late-thirties and the onset of World War II precipitated barnstorming’s demise in the early-forties.

When the victorious fly-boys returned from the World War II European and Pacific Theatres, flying was still in their blood. After VE and VJ Days in 1945, old trainer biplanes were a dime-a-dozen. Hooker and his fly-boy buddies did their best to resurrect the old glory days of barnstorming, but small-town hopping was replaced with more organized air shows at established airports and military bases. After a few years, the Liar Flyers were relegated to hobbyist status. No more wing walking, target flour-bombing contests, and streaming red, white, and blue smoke finales.

At eighty-plus years old, even Hooker had a limit on how long he could hold court on a rickety cafe chair. Buzz caught him from falling, as he laughed, “Careful Hooker. Stunt flyin’ is dangerous. You’re not Ole Gus ya know.”

Clenching his jaw, Hooker lamented, “Darn that Gus. He could swoop down on a squirrel, steal the nuts right out from under his tail.”

Bomber agreed, “’Nough to make yer eyes water. Wonder what happened to Gus? Nobody flew like Gus. Didn’t leave too many women for the rest of us. Scoundrel.”

Wiping hands on her apron, Deb felt the need to chime in, “Old coots. Livin’ in the past.”

Proud of their success in once again pulling Deb’s chain, Hooker offered his continuing commentary, “The past? I can show any young fly-boy a thing or two. Start up one of those Stearmans out back. You’ll see some flyin’ action that’ll make yer toes curl.”

Deb, motioning to the graveyard in the hangar, retorted,

“Buzz oughta sell off that junk clutterin’-”

“--Junk?” Bomber interrupted. “That’s some of the finest flyin’ hardware since the Wright brothers kissed Kitty Hawk.”

Crash’s memory bank retrieved a piece of unprovable data as he contributed, “I kissed Kitty Hawk once back in 1957. Yep, nuthin’ better than a Stearman biplane.”

Still questioning Buzz’s investment in the 1940-era biplanes gathering dust in her life, Deb added, “Stearman biplanes. Nothin’ but bailin’ wire and cobwebs.”

Bomber grabbed Crash to prevent him from assaulting Deb. “Let ‘er be, she don’t know no better. Never been ‘round a real man.”

Deb coughed as Buzz sprayed coffee, nearly choking. Unable to rebound effectively, Trip’s arrival with cafe supplies was a welcomed diversion for Deb.

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip kicked the door open as he balanced a box of groceries. The door smacked Trip in the butt, sending him tumbling toward the lunch counter. Deb was able to save a carton of eggs from a premature scramble, but the balance of the box contents was strewn across the counter, ricocheting off a spinning stool and onto the floor. Trip pirouetted to the last stool and dizzied to a stop. Without a word, he exited the cafe to return to the pickup truck.

The cafe was silent as Crash looked at his pocket watch and counted off seconds with his fingers. From the parking lot, a loud crash echoed through the cafe. Crash provided the over/ under result saying, “Seventeen seconds.”

Without a word, Hooker and Bomber reached in their pockets and each handed Crash a dollar bill. “Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” said Crash as he pocketed his winnings.

Trip miraculously completed the balance of his grocery delivery without incident. As Deb sorted through the boxes, she put cups in the dispenser behind the counter. Trip unloaded potatoes, canned goods, flour, sugar, soda straws; all of the stuff Deb needed to prepare meat loaf and traditional diner fare.

In addition to his grocery run, Trip had retrieved the cleaning and laundry. In the back hallway, three steps from the lunch counter leading to the food storeroom, Trip hung up work shirts with each employee name scrolled above the pocket. He particularly liked wandering around town with his shirt screaming his name. He frequently pondered why the shirts only had names. No airplane logo or powder-spewing, crop-dusting plane. That would have clearly cemented his wanna-be future pilot status. Buzz always ignored the lament and suggested that if Trip wanted a tacky shirt, he should have joined a bowling league.

Deb was behind the counter struggling to store boxes of soda straws high above the flattop. Always clumsy, yet forever helpful, Trip came to her rescue. The three Liar Flyers knew the routine and ambled to their designated lunch counter stools. Wouldn’t have wanted to miss the promised action.

Bomber started the jabber by acknowledging Trip’s quick ascent to the top step of the two-step footstool, “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Wanna-be Pilot.”

Crash didn’t miss his turn, “Flyin’ high today, Trip?”

Hooker noted the adhesive tape and Band-Aids adorning each finger and reported his concern, “Need any more Band-Aids?”

Trip looked at his fingers and did his best to ignore the wise guy supervision. Trip was now on the top step with the box of soda straws fully extended above his head.

Knowing that diverting Trip’s attention from any physical task increased the likelihood of a more entertaining result, Crash asked, “You still gonna take flyin’ lessons?”

“Yep, got pilot blood runnin’ in these veins.”

Diversion accomplished, Bomber questioned, “Thought you were ‘fraid of heights?”

On cue Hooker added, “’Fraid of heights, huh? Better not tell ‘em how high that footstool is. Hey, Socrates, waddle over here and help!”

“Stupid duck. Who has a pet duck anyway?” asked Crash. “Get the duck to fly up, stock the top shelves. Quack.”

Trip was used to the abuse feathered his way about his pet duck. He had learned to ignore that. It was more difficult for him to ignore the disrespect heaped on his dream of becoming a pilot.

Trip tried to shake off the source of his fear of heights. Reflecting back to grade school, he was eight years old. Recess was supposed to be playtime. Fun
. He was stranded atop the jungle gym. He closed his eyes so hard, it made his scalp hurt. His classmates could see he was visibly shaken. The taunting escalated. Never ended. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. Rhythmic. Haunting. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. And he did. In slow motion. Arms flailing.

Even when he relives it, it was always in slow motion. Like now. Trip looked down–soda straws scattered–as he tumbled behind the counter. Arms flailing.
Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall.
The Liar Flyers leaned over the counter. Trip was sprawled on the floor, covered with soda straws.

The chuckles and guffaws were accentuated by Bomber’s observation, “And you wanna be a pilot?”

Ouch. Brutus didn’t slice a cut any more unkind.

“Shove it, Bomber,” as Deb came to Trip’s rescue. “Ya okay, Trip?”

“Yeah,” Trip muttered unconvincingly.

Deb helped Trip up and gathered some soda straws. Trip grabbed a sack of flour. Deb reached to assist and loaded Trip with another sack of flour. As Trip exited through the back hallway toward the stockroom, Crash looked at his watch and started the finger count again.

As Crash signaled the count of eight, the sound of the collapsing shelving and falling supplies echoed from the stockroom. Crash and Hooker each pulled out a dollar bill and slid them down the counter to Bomber.

Deb knew the stockroom would be a mess, but she wasn’t prepared for what she found. Shelves were toppled. The floor was covered with everything that should have been neatly stacked on the walls. Strangest find, or non-find, was Trip. He was nowhere to be found. As she waded into the destruction, it was near impossible to place a foot solidly on the floor. She called out his name–once, twice–no response.

Then, from the far corner of the stockroom came a rustling sound. Trip was buried under a mountain of chicken noodle soup cans, tomato sauce, pasta, and worst of all, the flour that he had tried to stack on the top shelf. Deb had to control her laughter. A white cloud sifted over everything–a real whiteout. The only way to find Trip was to wait for him to blink his eyes. He was covered from head-to-toe.

Trip rose to his feet and started to dust himself off. This made it difficult to breathe. The stockroom looked like a mysterious fog had rolled in from a Hollywood B horror movie. Trip was about to make his most serious error of the day when Deb stopped him from exiting the stockroom.

“You can’t let these old Liar Flyers see you like this,” she chided. “You will never live this one down.”

Trip knew she was right. He slumped his shoulders and said, “I look like the Michelin Man ran over the Pillsbury Doughboy. Now what?”

Dusting flour off herself, Deb tried to make light of the situation, hoping to ease some pressure from Trip. “Hey, everyone likes you. We all tease each other ‘round here. Stay. After a few minutes, go change yer clothes. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” came Trip’s feeble response.

“And get out there and fix the sticky door on the jump plane before Buzz chops yer head off. How ya ever gonna be a pilot if ya can’t handle the simple stuff?”

Pausing long enough to gather her composure and swallow the laugh that would give her away, Deb returned to the lunch counter as though nothing had happened. She unpacked an apple pie and walked to the table furthest away from the counter. She cut the pie and yelled, “Make yourselves useful. I’m tryin’ out a new baker. Is this apple pie any good?”

The ensuing stampede erased any further interest in Trip’s whiteout situation.

Crash was the first to exclaim, “Hope the apples are Granny Smith.”

Hooker chimed in that he had peeled Ms. Smith once in Kansas City. Deb backed off as the trio fought each other over getting their fair share. Deb motioned to Trip to make his move. Trip escaped to the hangar and the safety of his bunkroom.

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip opened the door to his bunkroom in the rear of the hangar. He flicked on the light, waking Socrates in the process. It’s hard to tell when a duck flashes an expression of surprise.

If Socrates had a brow, he would have furled it as he gave Trip the once-over. He flapped his wings, quacked, and bobbed his head. White feathers, orange bill, webbed feet. Classic duck. Socrates could quack on command. Socrates flapped his wings and hopped onto the table.

As Trip slowly weaved his head from side-to-side, he snake-charmed Socrates. Socrates got woozy. “How ya doin’ Socrates? Who needs friends when I’ve got you? You understand me.”

Trip continued swaying his head back and forth, moving his lips, not making a sound. Socrates was about to lose his balance. Trip stared at Socrates; the duck stumbled and sat. Trip picked it up, placed it gently in its corner nest. “I should try this on one of those old Liar Flyers. That would teach ‘em.”

Socrates now comfortable in his bed, Trip dusted some last remnants of flour from his clothes. His bunkroom looked like a grade-school kid’s bedroom. Airplanes were everywhere. A Navy Blue Angel poster on the wall. Model planes suspended from the ceiling. Lonely, but neat. A twin bed grounded in the corner covered with a blanket that chronicled aviation history from the Wright brothers to F-18s. One chest of drawers, a nightstand under the lone window to the outside world. Even crammed with all of Trip’s worldly possessions, the small room had room for more.

Trip stripped down to his airplane boxers and laid on his back. He thumbed through the latest edition of
Plane and Pilot
magazine. It had been a tough day. And it was only midday. He would be forgiven a break to recover from his ordeal as the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Trip’s break was short-lived. His tumble in the storeroom was a recent reminder that his fear of heights still haunted him.

Putting the magazine down, he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. His Blue Angel poster beckoned his attention.
How would he ever become a pilot? Ridiculous. Afraid of heights.
He understood the jungle gym genesis of that fear.
But why his low self-esteem? Where did that come from?

Running his fingers over his Blue Angel poster, it all came back to him. The torn corner of the poster. The missing piece. Picking up a model airplane off his dresser top, he returned to his bed. Seated on the edge, a loose wing fell to the floor. He remembered.

It seemed like only yesterday. Clear as a bell. He was nine years old, maybe ten. His grade-school bedroom looked exactly like his adult, airstrip bunkroom. He had just pinned a new Blue Angel poster on his wall. Model planes dangled from his ceiling. It was dark, almost bedtime. He sat on the edge of his bed, airplane boxer shorts, airplane blanket, airplane sheets. He held a model airplane aloft, swooshing it up, down, around as though he were a Navy pilot.

“
Zoom, whish, zoom,” the young Trip whispered.

He remembered. His father entered. Trip jerked; hid his model plane behind his back.

“
Chores done?” his father asked.

“
Y-Y-Yes, sir,” the shaken child stammered.

“
Been daydreamin’ again,” came the accusation.

“
N-N-No, sir,” Trip responded feebly.

His father grabbed the model plane from behind Trip’s back and tore a corner off the Blue Angel poster on the wall. “Liar. Loser. Never ‘mount to a hill-a beans. Stupid dreamer.”

His father never hit him. The verbal abuse and destruction of Trip’s childhood dreams left scars no less hurtful. Trip lowered his eyes to the floor and slumped his shoulders. He felt cold, defeated.

As his father left the room, he threw the model plane at the young boy’s feet. The wing broke off. He crumpled the torn poster corner in a tightened fist and took it with him.

The young Trip picked up the broken model plane and the damaged wing. He tried to put the wing back into position, but it fell at his feet. “S-S-Someday,” he stammered.

His brief flashback over, Trip held the broken model plane. He picked up the broken wing at his feet and looked at the Blue Angel poster, the torn corner never recovered. With a deep sigh, he stammered, “S-S-Someday.”

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip shook it off in time to wash the Piper Cub windows before Buzz’s flight lesson. Crop dusting was the most adventurous flying in Buzz’s busy schedule. Dropping skydivers was the most boring. Take off, climb to ten thousand feet, drop crazy people over a target, land. Blah, blah, blah. The money was good, but, blah, blah, blah. Being a flight instructor was the most rewarding. The sparkle in a student’s eye. The quickened pulse. Sharing a student’s joy in accomplishing something special.

Trip tried to hang around flight lessons whenever he could. The windows on the Piper Cub were about worn thin from his incessant cleaning. Trip was sure that Buzz was onto his scheme, but clean windows were a good thing. Trip was usually able to pick up a new piece of information from each lesson.
Someday.
Yep, someday he would make his own solo flight.

Buzz, clipboard in hand, was conducting a pre-flight check with a female student. Trip washed the plane windows, for the third time, intently eavesdropping on the pre-flight check.

The student kicked the tires. Buzz nodded agreement. The routine continued with wing surfaces, ailerons, propeller. Check, check, check. Trip mouthed
check
in unison with the student.
Check, check, check.

Buzz congratulated the student, “Great. Good job. Is that everything out here?”

Trip nodded in the affirmative.

“Yes, sir, that’s it,” she responded.

“Agreed. Let’s load up.”

Trip backed away, gave a thumbs-up as the student climbed into the plane. As Buzz turned to board the plane, he patted Trip on the shoulder. “Thanks, Trip,” he said.

With hope in his heart, Trip sought assurance, “Maybe I’ll be your next student pilot.”

“Sure, Trip.” Then under his breath, Buzz revealed his true feelings with, “When pigs fly.”

The door was closed in Trip’s face. Trip’s shoulders slumped as the
sure, Trip
comment was understood and the
when pigs fly
wasn’t quite as under his breath as Buzz had intended. Dejected, Trip stepped back from the plane and imagined the instrument panel checkout.

Buzz didn’t mean to hurt Trip’s feelings. As an experienced pilot and flight instructor, he was a realist when it came to the chops needed to handle the complexities in becoming a qualified pilot.

The student fastened her safety harness; Buzz shook it. Buzz knew this future pilot was ready and said, “Let’s pretend this is your first solo flight next week. Let’s do it.”

Soon to lose the title of ‘student,’ she eyed the instrument panel, touched toggles, tapped gauges. Confidence soaring, she verbalized the pre-flight routine:

“Fuel – check.”

“Ailerons, rudder, elevator – check.”

“Seat harness – check.”

“Okay, ready to go. Clear.”

Buzz gave a quick fist pump and confirmed, “Roger that. Crank ‘er up.”

Standing in the hangar large double doors, Trip watched as the Piper Cub engine started. He imagined his hand on the throttle, gently pushing forward as the engine revved. The plane taxied to the runway. Trip shaded his eyes to see the student pilot take off and slowly bank. “Much too cautious,” he observed. “Come on, show some spunk. Yep, I’ll show how it’s done. Someday.”

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip had survived another day–barely. The Sky Gypsy Café was in close-down mode. The flattop had been cleaned. Deb gave the lunch counter a final swipe of her dish towel. Trip swept the floor. The Liar Flyers were long gone.

Deb reassured Trip, “Looks like yer day improved. No more crap.”

“Not today,” Trip admitted. “Goodnight, thanks for your help.”

“No problem. You did check on that jump plane sticky door, right?”

Sheepishly, Trip deflected, “First thing, I promise.”

“Tomorrow. No excuses. Win Buzz over. Pilots are organized. Make a list.” Deb grabbed his hand and held up a few bandaged fingers. “Do you think someone with this many accidents exudes confidence? Why would anyone turn over a seventy-five thousand dollar Piper to Mr. Band-Aid for a solo flight?”

Trip lowered his eyes as Deb dropped his hand. He tried to say something, but shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

Deb untied her apron, laid it on the lunch counter. As she opened the door to exit to the parking lot, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder with one last word of encouragement, “Fresh start tomorrow. See you in the morning.”

Trip brightened a little at this glimmer of hope, “Goodnight.” Now alone, Trip wandered around the cafe, surveying the pictures of skydivers, crop-dusting posters, and paused at the ‘You Can Learn to Fly’ poster. Nodding agreement, he reached out and touched the letters. “Yep, someday that will be me.”

One last check that the doors were locked, he turned out the cafe lights and entered the hangar. On his way to his bunkroom, a short detour to the parachute packing table provided another daydream diversion. Confirming that he was alone, he grabbed a packed parachute from the rack on the hangar wall. He swiftly put the chute on his back, fastened the straps. No glitches or stumbles here. He had done this so many times, he could do it blindfolded. He backed up and scooted onto the packing table.

Trip stood up, inched to the edge of the table and peered at the ground, only three-feet below. He eyed Socrates looking up at him. The three feet was enough to trigger Trip’s fear of heights. He shuddered; backed a step away from the edge. He closed his eyes. Extended his arms into ‘airplane wing’ position.

He was now standing on a parachute packing table in an airplane hangar. His harness was securely fastened as he stretched his wings to their fullest. Eyes closed,
Trip jumped at twenty thousand feet into a four-minute free fall. The wind rushed past his extended arms and

legs. He imagined that he could accelerate his fall by diving, head first toward the ground. Previous pretend death plunges had taught him not to pull the rip cord in this head-first position.

He continued his vertical, high-speed descent until he caught his dive partner who had jumped five seconds earlier. Trip leveled off and reached to touch his dive buddy. It was Socrates. Socrates showed up in many of Trip’s daydreams. They both pulled their rip cords. A mild jerk flipped his feet below the billowing nylon chute. Patchwork-quilted farmland circled beneath them in alternating squares of green, gold, and brown.

Four feet, two were webbed, securely nestled in wheat field stubble, the skydivers gathered in the cords and fabric.
When the daydream ended, Trip removed his harness and noted that the parachute had popped out the back. A great daydream was one that blended the imagined with reality. This reality meant that he had to re-pack the chute or Buzz would be livid. Trip could lead a class on this task. While clumsy in many things, he knew his way around a parachute.

Trip returned the parachute to the rack, looked back through the hangar, and with a sigh, turned out the lights. The daydreams might be cool, but Trip always returned to his boring, unfulfilled bunkroom life. He was not a pilot. He’d never skydived, he’d never even been up in an airplane. Maybe he’s the loser that people think he is.

Trip flipped on his bunkroom lights. He touched his Navy Blue Angel poster, and sighed, “Someday.” With Socrates comfortable in his corner bed, Trip wandered around his tiny room, touching jet planes hanging from the ceiling. He hung up his work shirt on a simple nail in the wall. He dropped his pants and adjusted the waistband on his airplane boxer shorts. He turned off the ceiling light. The small lamp on the nightstand beside his bed illuminated the ceiling plastered with stars and crescent moons that glowed in the dark. Lying on his bed, Trip thumbed aimlessly through another airplane magazine. Sleep came quickly. The skydiving daydream must have been exhausting.