Barnstorm Page 2

  The Liar Flyers exercised free roam of the entire airstrip. When Deb wished they were in the hangar supervising skydivers packing their chutes, they were holding court at her lunch counter commenting on how much pepper should be added to the soup of the day. When Buzz was walking a flight student through a review of basic airplane mechanics, they hovered much too close for comfort. In airport parlance, the Liar Flyers were always a runway near miss.

  Their favorite hangout was at the large, plateglass window that looked out over the tarmac from the Sky Gypsy Café. Here they could comment on the comings and goings of the entire operation. Buzz had just landed his Air Tractor AT-501 crop duster after his dive-bomb of Trip in his pickup truck. Bomber noticed that Buzz was taking a short detour to inspect his jump plane before escorting a group of skydivers to the drop zone. As Buzz struggled with the rear storage door, Bomber said, “Looks like Trip will be back on the crap list.”

  “Yep,” chimed Crash. “He’s only asked Trip to fix that sticky door eighty-nine times since last Thursday.”

  “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer by a long shot,” as Hooker registered his valued opinion on Trip’s ranking on the bell curve. “And to think, he wants to be a pilot.”

  This verbal abuse of Trip would have continued for another half-day had an ultralight not shadowed their tarmac vantage point.

  Hooker snapped, “Stupid flyin’ kites. Nothin’ but duct tape and jockstraps. Ain’t real flyin’. When I wuz barnstormin’ in the air shows-”, his sentence interrupted mid-thought as he crash-sat at a table like an old man into a chair that was lower than he had expected.

  Deb slid a mug of coffee down the counter as Buzz entered the cafe from the hangar. Like a well-choreographed dance routine, Buzz grabbed the mug and raised it in a salute of thanks. They made eye contact, raised eyebrows as if, here se go again. The three Liar Flyers all talked at once. How a tirade about ultralights segued to a discussion of hot women from a bygone era was anyone’s guess.

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  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?