Maybe I need a distraction as much as Maverick needs exercise.
I clap my hands and head toward the closet door to retrieve Maverick’s leash. He bounds after me, eager to stink up our house.
We wind our way through my hodgepodge of a neighborhood without enough streetlights, and I’m listening to the rest of the Seahawks game through my earbuds when the tune “Danger Zone” fromTop Guninterrupts. Vincent’s special ringtone.
I pull my phone from my pocket and notice the time. It’s not as late as it feels. It’s just that I woke up at 4:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, which was one in the morning here.
I swipe my thumb over the wet screen and answer with a question. “Did you see that field goal attempt?”
“If you can call it that.” My spiritual mentor’s voice rumbles over the cell waves. Vincent is also the captain I most enjoy working with. “What’s on your schedule for the next four days?”
More remodeling. The popcorn ceilings need to be scraped away and an old brass light fixture replaced. “Texture and paint. Start on the flooring.”
“Did you see the snowstorm in Minneapolis? Crews are being stranded, and the trips they were supposed to work are popping up in Open Time.”
Open Time is the list of flights without crew. The trips can be picked up by pilots not already scheduled or awarded to new employees on reserve. When the airline is desperate, they’ll offer up to three times the pay for someone to work a trip in Open Time.
More raindrops blur my phone screen. If I’m going to check out Open Time for myself, I need to get to a drier place. I jog toward the overhang of an elementary school just ahead.
“Did you pick up a trip?” I ask, finally able to log into Premier Air.
“A four-day. Easy flights with long overnights in San Luis Obispo, San Antonio, and Green Bay.”
Those kinds of trips usually only go to senior employees. San Luis Obispo itself is a coveted destination since our company puts us up in a clifftop resort overlooking the ocean. I haven’t been there since spring.
The only overnights more desirable are long hauls to Maui. But those are so rare that someone with less seniority—like me—could only get one on a holiday, when the more senior pilots would rather have the day off.
A list of trips populates my screen, and I scan airport codes to see if the first-officer position for Vincent’s trip is available.
“Desiree picked it up too. We thought it would be fun to have you along.”
Desiree is Vincent’s wife, a motherly type who always feeds us pilots leftover first-class meals and has been known to sing her announcements as if she’s in a gospel choir. And oh happy day, the position is still listed.
It’s only offering time and a half, but that’s not a bad chunk of change for watching the sun set over the ocean, touring the Alamo, and finally getting to visit Lambeau Field. I’m not a Packers fan, but that place is iconic. Plus, a trip will distance me from futile thoughts of a certain flight attendant who just moved in across the street.
“I see it.” I click on the link.
The trip sheet opens. A six a.m. showtime means I’ll need to get tobed early, but that shouldn’t be a problem given how early I was up today. Going from an early showtime to a late showtime, or vice versa, is what messes up my internal clock.
The duty periods are all under nine hours. Not bad, considering they can schedule us for up to fourteen. One trip is even under six hours, which is awesome because we still get paid for minimum flight time even though we aren’t working that long.
Unless, you know, we get stranded in a blizzard. Or our airplane breaks down. Or ... or ... or ...
My finger continues down the pairing details to make sure I know what I’m getting myself into. No long layovers in airports, thankfully. No deadheads, though I don’t mind getting paid to fly as a passenger. Now just to make sure the second flight attendant isn’t the girl who uses baby talk or the guy who’s always coughing. I already have to work with him later this month, so I should probably start doubling up on my vitamins.
My finger stops on the nameClaire Holloway.
I grunt in surprise, not sure if this is a good or bad development.
Maverick sits at attention, in case I’m grunting at him.
“Did another FO beat you to it?” Vincent asks.
“No.” I tap on Claire’s name, and the photo from her ID badge pops up. She’s as cute as I remember, with her ballerina bun and button nose. But she’s not the reason I’m considering the trip. I’d take it to hang out with Vincent. To experience the legacy of the NFL’s oldest stadium. To make enough extra money to pay for my hardwood floors.
“Then what’s wrong?” Vincent demands.
A flash of headlights blinds me as a car turns into the far side of the parking lot.
