The Pilot

I was facing East, standing in front of an empty hangar and peering into the first light of the sun. At first I was puzzled, confused. A shadow of doubt crossed my mind: I must be looking in the wrong hangar or something. But no, this was mine, and the plane was gone. Way up the ramp, at the gas pumps, was a man whose silhouette in the light was very familiar. He was short, solidly built, with multiple chins and more than enough stomach. And, he was getting ready to gas up my plane!

I hobbled up the tarmac as fast as I could go. The birds screeched in front of me, still gobbling French fries dropped at the air show the previous day. I hated them. That’s what made me fall yesterday, tripping over those damn seagulls. Why, there wasn’t a sea within miles!

Five hundreds yards to go, and I heard the little Musketeer cough and come to life. The pilot guided her through the rows of private planes and headed toward the end of runway Two-One. No doubt he could see me through his rear window, but he wasn’t looking. A short warm-up and he would be cleared for takeoff. What could I do to stop him?

I screamed at the people in the tower, to no avail. Helpless, I watched him gain speed. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fif—he was off. I had to think of something right away.

Maybe there was a phone, outside, at the bottom of the tower. It was worth a try. But what could they do now?

Huffing and puffing from the extra effort it took me, running with a cast and a crutch, I found the phone and jangled the hook. “This is LaGrande airport tower,” a voice said. “Do you need something?”

“Did you see that Beech that just took off?” I asked.

“What were the tail numbers?”

As if anyone else had taken off! What a joke! “N1927W,” I said.

“Yes, 1927W has just made its turnoff to the north. What about it?”

“So, it’s headed north by northwest?” Yes, of course it was, but what of it? He was taking my plane home. To his home, that used to be my home. I stifled a sob.

Thinking fast, I said, “You need to radio him and order him back to base. His right passenger door was not shut. I could see it flap as he took off.”

“Surely he would have noticed that and would come back of his own accord to correct it if he needed to,” she said in her official tone.

“And I think he may have damaged his landing gear,” I said, “so he’d better try landing here instead of proceeding.”

She sounded alarmed now. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, wailing. “Could you just tell him he forgot his keys?” She started to laugh.

“And his wife?” I said. She stopped laughing.

“What’s his name?”

“Just call him, The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because he knew that taking my plane was the way to hurt me the most.”