Fly The Friendly Skies
I was heading back to Tucson after I had made a Drug Run of eighty kilos of Cocaine to Sacramento. It was originally meant to be delivered to San Francisco but an earthquake of devastating proportion caused the destination to be changed.
I finally boarded my flight to Phoenix after my stopover in Los Angeles.
Whenever traveling alone it seems I always get seated next to someone with some kind of annoying trait or disgusting habit. The incessant talkers that go on even after you express disinterest. There’s the drunks with an unpleasant attitude . Or those with body odor or with an excessive amount of cologne or perfume which is just as displeasing. Close talkers with bad breath. Others who pick their nose or clean out ear wax. Then they offer to shake hands with the one they just used to pick their nose. You get the idea. I do wonder if the person that gets seated next to me may find me annoying. I’m occasionally drunk, seldom stinky, borderline attractive, depending on the border and my demeanor couldn’t be classified as unpleasant. I am an absolute pleasure , how could anyone not enjoy an encounter with me? This time fate does me a solid and my traveling companion in Seat 12 A , the window seat on this flight to Phoenix, is not a beautiful woman but instead a scholarly looking fellow. His face is wrinkled, weathered and pocked, a testament to his many bouts with the challenges that life has thrown at him. As I sit down he uncaringly stuffs his jacket under the seat. He strokes his scraggly beard then pushes the call assistance light to summon the Flight Attendant. He stares at me with a blank expression not showing any emotion. It seems as though he’s sizing me up.
I notice the Flight Attendant coming toward us. She’s working her way up the aisle through the passengers still boarding, stashing their items in the overhead storage and searching for their seats.
“Good morning sir. How can I be of assistance?” She greets us in a melodic voice while reaching to turn off the call light.
” Well let me tell you that as soon as possible, I need three of those baby bottle sized Whiskeys you sell. No need for a glass, water or ice. Just the Whiskey and I don’t care what brand. And how about you there Pancho you want something? I’m buying.” The scholarly fellow asks.
“Sure , thanks. I’ll have a Whiskey as well in the baby bottle. It doesn’t matter which brand. ” I responded.
“I’m unable to serve you gentlemen before we depart but I will get your order as soon as we reach our cruising altitude and the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign.” She says.
“You need to know I am an alcoholic and must have my medication otherwise I can’t be held responsible for my actions. And Pancho here appears as though he may possibly suffer from the same affliction. How is it that I noticed when I first entered there were people enjoying cocktails up front there. What gives?” The self proclaimed dipsomaniac asks.
“Sir, that’s the First Class you’re in Coach. Those passengers pay extra for that privilege and service.” The waitress in the sky explained.
“So let me understand. I’m just second class and it all comes down to money? Another example of the inequality of Capitalism and it smells of bullshit! Do I appeal to the head of the Airline to protest this bourgeoisie oppression or would this be something you could possibly remedy? ” He says.
I am unable to hide my reaction from the humorous exchange and I begin to laugh. The attendant leaves hastily shaking her head in disgust although still with her smile. She returns moments later with six baby bottles of Scotch.
“A gift from the Airline. My pleasure. And I know who you are, mister. So mind your manners. ” She warns.
” Thank you ever so much.You shall be generously rewarded by the Gods my dear. Ya see Pancho sometimes ya just have to kick the rules in the balls .”
I wasn’t offended or insulted with what some might consider a racist comment with the Pancho reference. There was no malice intent in his expression describing my ethnicity. Although I’ve always been under the impression that my appearance was more Italian than Mexican. The ball kicker hands me two bottles of scotch and keeps four for himself. One extra for him as commission for his effort he explains.
” So what’s your story Pancho? Everybody’s got a story, some just not as interesting as others. So what do you do? You a drug dealer or a crop picker on vacation? Are you in this country legally or are you one of those border jumpers?” He inquires.
“I don’t want to disappoint you but I am a Priest from Nogales ,Arizona. I just delivered donations of food and clothing to the earthquake victims in San Francisco. I’m headed back gotta work Bingo at the church tonight.”
“Son of a bitch! Are you fucking feeding me a line of bullshit? I would have never guessed that even if I was clairvoyant. You should be wearing your Collar so you don’t catch people off guard. It’s not fair going undercover. So how’s that God fellow doin? Ya think he ever feels guilty about destroying people’s lives by his ruthless ungodly actions?
I think of his assholiness as quite a prick. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t exist anyway. Don’t want to offend you or your beliefs so I won’t give you my take on him or religion. Gonna have to wait until I’m drunk. Then ya can give me a Peso for my thoughts. Here’s to your Jesus and the rest of the fictitious characters in that Bible. And to all the religious fanatics as well . What a fairy tale ,a book of fables written by religious fanatics, numerous authors , interpreted by an unknown number of editors. Thrown together hundreds of years ago without any factual data. And with events stolen directly from other religions. I’d rather worship the spirit in these tiny bottles. At least I know it exists and it tells the truth.” He says raising his bottle in a toast that excludes me. So that was an example of him sparing my feelings by not expressing his opinion? I found it curious that he was concerned with possibly insulting my religious ideals but had no problem referring to me as Pancho. I truly liked this character. There was realism in his demeanor and a fire of wisdom burning in his eyes . His views no matter how socially or politically incorrect were sung and voiced without derogatory intent.
“So what do you have to say for yourself Mr. Dipsomaniac? You do anything else other than drink and give people a hard time? Are you a mean drunk? And what experience was so traumatic in your life that it resulted in you becoming an alcoholic as you refer to yourself? Another question, the Flight Attendant said she knew who you were. What did she mean? And…” He interrupts me.
“Hold on there Padre! I’m not one of your misguided flock that you can flog with your rosary and threaten omnipotent retribution for indiscretions. Just thought we would share philosophies on the complexity of women or maybe discuss a favorite or worst book you’ve read. I’m not much for sports or political issues. But you want to pick at my psyche, get personal, have me bare my naked soul and we haven’t even gotten off the ground. Not gonna happen Padre.” He speaks without taking a breath.
The airplane begins to make its way down the runway. We are thrusted into the cloudless sky as the ground below shrinks into minute images.
“It’s only the take offs and landings that rattle my nerves.” He says.
The fourth miniature bottle of Scotch meets with his lips and is emptied in one loud gulp. The aircraft levels off at the pilot’s designated altitude and the ding sounds indicating the fasten seat belt light has been turned off. Immediately after, he reaches once again for the Assistance Button and pushes at it with force.
“Gotta find our Angel of Mercy to stoke the fire. Ya ready for another there Padre?” My new best friend askes.
“No, I am just fine at the moment. I’ll wait it out till Phoenix , have a connecting flight to Tucson. They say if ya die in Tucson your soul will have to catch a connecting flight to heaven.”
“Cute, not funny, just cute. And you can spare me your Reader’s Digest witticisms. Save them for the Bingo crowd. Have you always been a servant to your imaginary deity or was there a time when you cut loose? Understand what I’m getting at?”
“Yes I understand and absolutely, I had an abundant supply of paint when I was younger with which I generously painted many a town red. However the time came around when I wrestled with the ” Better to serve in hell than Reign in heaven” quote. I concluded that I could become more useful as a Priest than as a party animal.”
“Familiar with Milton I see.”
“Yes and with Voltaire, Moliere, Rousseau and the entire pack of howling Philosophers. The Beat Writers and Poets as well.”
“Quite impressed there Padre Pancho. But I am starting to develop a severe case of doubt concerning you being a man of the cloth. In fact I don’t believe you are a Priest at all or for that matter a Catholic or even a Christian. Where the hell is the Attendant? I am drying out .” He says while looking down the aisle front and back.
“Would you like me to fetch her for you?”
“I see her in back there readying the drink wagon now. Guess I’ll have to ride out the drought.”
“Here take my other bottle, you need it more than I .” I offer.
He accepts my gift displaying a huge grin.
” I don’t care who the hell you are Padre, you’re okay in my book.”
I’m trying to figure out who this guy could be. He didn’t seem familiar to me at all. I was sure he wasn’t an actor or a famous musician. He couldn’t be a politician like a Senator or Representative. I was leaning toward the Arts, maybe a famous Painter or Film Director. Then it all became obvious to me who this character was and what he did. He was a writer, a famous Author. I had read a lot of his work of Transgressive Fiction. This guy had written a great number of books and was a celebrated poet as well.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Father Santiago. I’m enjoying our time together on this flight. You’re quite the character.” I said.
” Still going with the Father act huh? Well I’m not buying what you’re selling. So is it alright if I just call you Santiago?”
“Sure, Santiago will be just fine.”
As we shook hands he introduced himself.
” Pleased to meet you Santiago. I’m Henry Chinaski. Henry Chinaski is my name. My one friend calls me Hank.”
” Okay Hank. I should have known.”
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild: Cautionary Tales, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequila’s Bad Advice: Poetry With the Worm, Lords of the Afterglow: Renegades and Noblemen, Overdose of Destiny: Impulse Fiction, Architect of Havoc, A Charlatan’s Aphorisms: Junk Drawer Poetry.
