The Pilot (2)

 

The Pilot

Chapter Two:

 

“Long way from the race, are ya mate?” came the tinny voice of a fox-skin hat. No, the voice of the man wearing the hat. “Not surprised much, you don’t look like much of a runner.” Hoping that statement was about his office attire and not his body, Clancy steeled himself to the matter at hand, 

“Where the fuck am I?” 

“Mate, you need water? Let's get you to the officials and fix you up.”

After a long and drawn out conversation with a bystanding concerned mother and avoiding several numbered marathoners, Clancy had an Idea of what had happened. Or at least what had seemed to happen. He was in Australia. Clancy confusingly had all his valuables, and wondered how long he had to have been knocked out or drugged by assailants to wake up on the other side of the Pacific. 

He found a newspaper. Checked the date. He hadn’t been out. He seemed to be exactly 17 hours ahead of where he had been, well, moments ago. The same place in the sun’s eyes, it a completely different place to his. His mind didn’t dare touch upon the circumstance that brought him there, dancing around it like a fire in open air.

First order of business: Call Hans. There was a phone booth conveniently placed at the end of the beach he found himself on. Jiggling the buttons until a few Australian coins shook loose, he made a collect call to his and Hans’ apartment. He bit his lip, nervous there would be no response. A crackle was heard, then a hello. “Hans, it's me, Clancy.” 

“Why are you calling collect at this hour- Clancy! Where are you? What is going on!?”

“Thank God you’re home. I think I’m in Australia, what happened when I went through that, umm, thing?”

“I went through it too, it was crazy, not scientifically possible, bonkers, I was somehow instantly transported to the Foxtrot. Where did you go?”

Clancy furrowed his normally easygoing brow, “Australia, on the beach and its bright sunlight out here, my head is pounding.”

“Have you tried pinching yourself? Could be a dream.”

“HANS!”

“Sorry, that wouldn’t make sense anyways. I’d have to be dreaming too…”

“Look, I’m going to try to save up for a plane ticket or something, I don’t really know, this is really strange.”

“I’ll tell Pistol Pete that you came down with something and hold down the fort. Look, I’m not sure how much collect call money we’ve got, might have to cut it off here.”

“Shit, ok. I’ll try to call again in a few days if I can find a way back. Bye Hans”

“Bye Clancy, get back safe.”

Clancy hung up the phone and whistled. It was a nervous kinda whistle, more teapot than songbird, but he needed to calm down somehow. He was rolling down a hill inside himself, and he wasn’t sure where that hill stopped. He stole an egg salad sandwich from a supermarket chain and found a little beach shack to cosy up in for the night. Thoughts being mush, he decided sleep was the only remedy. Even that was denied to him, however, as a stray dog walked in. Uh oh. 

Clancy pressed himself against the wall, squatting low. The dog inched closer and closer. Clancy read in a magazine that you’re supposed to hold the back of your hand out to greet dogs. He forgot he was holding the remnants of some egg salad sandwich. The dog sniffed and licked, then stole the mysterious hand’s food. Deeming it enough of a peace offering, the dog slowly saddled up to a petrified Clancy. Sleep soon took them, and they both slept well that night, having each endured quite the long day.

Not that the coming days were about to get any easier. Clancy, for his part, worked harder than he ever had before at completing odd jobs around the city. His mild past athletic training for once proved useful, and he could lift just enough more than the average person to be useful. At night he would nick some sandwiches for him and his canine companion, and they would the sound of beach waves wash them to sleep. 

The night Clancy had saved enough to confidently purchase a one-way ticket home was cool but windy. Clancy petted Bonaparte, his dog’s given name, and speculated the enormity of the situation he was in. Was it that big to begin with? Was anything in his life big? He had Hans, to be sure, but aside from that, them taking up positions at the Foxtrot hadn’t exactly closed the gap towards their dreams of investigation. 

Supposedly news reporters don’t even really do private investigation. “More of a police gig” his peers at the work had said. He looked across the water. Peered, if you will, into his life from the outside. And he thought, “Maybe Hans was right. I’m dreaming. And what I really need is just a wake-up call. But what am I supposed to wake up to?”

Hans hung up the phone. Clancy couldn’t return. He made a mug of earl grey tea and sipped it. No passport. Couldn’t travel back. He’d planned a whole story about being American and being taken by criminals, but the officers just thought he was trying to get a free ride back. Facing detainment, Clancy backed off and went to call Hans. He’d have to make his way through international bureaucracy to return. 

Back in America, things were looking equally dull. The fox population had plummeted back to normal levels. Story dropped, abandoned. Hans was told by his boss that it was such shite that it probably had never happened in the first place and that he should fire the mongrel responsible for the bonk statistic. Hans, in an attempt to keep the only job he ever had, kept his head down and uttered agreances to every antiplatitude. With Clancy gone, he was on double duty for each office chore.

One day, not long after the incident, Pistol Pete walked up to Hans at the office. He stood straighter than normal, and was without his pet cigar. 

“Schimmelpok, I’ve actually got work you might be good for.” He flinched.

“The Pilots Association of International Nations is hosting a conference here in a few months. Their new president has been recently elected, and I want you to interview her for an advertisement piece for the conference.”

Hans nodded along. This is the first time he’d ever heard of Pistol Pete wanting to advertise anything. At least he still had a job.

So, the following week he found himself preparing for the interview. Put on his nicest shirt. His least-worst shoes. Pulling out his work papers, one fluttered out that didn’t seem to belong. It had all sorts of article titles, “Car crash again, when will the city change?”, “Trains slow due to budget cuts”, “Bikes suck.”, and “Record low number of snakes on planes!” Late trains, dangerous cars, angry bikers, even cyclists were made out in a light of incredulity. Planes seemed to be the only mode left unblemished.

Funny, his forthcoming interview would probably continue this trend. Maybe old Pistol Pete had a youthful soft spot for planes. Hans giggled at the thought of his boss as a baby, swinging around his revolver and some model Cessnas. It struck Hans where he had found the list in the first place. It must have been the desperado he clutched from Pistol Pete’s office the night of the disturbance. Hans crumpled it in contempt of the event.

The pouring skies emptied the heavens on Hans’ head. He took a bite of a soggy ham sandwich. He was to meet his interviewee at the local headquarters of the pilots association. The first thing he thought when he entered the front door was, “wow, these guys have some money.” A cherry-faced secretary told him his spot, and he sat on a barely-comfy chair. The shiny walls and lack of business people running around made it feel more laboratory than office. Must be a slow day. Hans checked his watch, he was five minutes late.

“Hans, so glad you could make it on time, did the weather give you trouble?’ A woman in a crimson suit sauntered over. She looked important.

“Not at al-”

“Marvellous, I’m Nadia Filch, pleasure to meet you. My office is just down the hall, follow me.”

Hans was left hanging on a handshake. He holstered it in a pocket and followed Nadia.

The interview went well. Hans, to his pleasure, didn’t really have to speak, Nadia seemed to know everything she wanted to say already. He did ask what set her apart in her success.

“The biggest thing my associates before me were too afraid to do was to place the emphasis I do in research and development. You have to spend money to make money. In going the extra mile, we have made great strides in air transat technology. And our pilots always go the extra mile.” Her eyes twinkled. That would make a great title line, and she knew it. He thanked her for the time, and left. 

Behind the dashboard of his and Clancy’s old Impala, he thought of a dozen more questions he could have asked. He might as well have stepped in a bear trap as soon as he entered her office. Normally he’d just be there for the cover shot. Clancy would have kept it in check. He almost tossed his bag in his long-gone partner’s seat, but placed it in the back instead. A fox scampered beyond the lot, its coat wet in the aftermath of rain.

Back at work, Hans had a question for his boss about the article. Clancy gone, he was still figuring out the finer details of writing one. Of course, he was simply yelled at with a quick but exhaustive thesaurus entry for “incompetent.” On a glance around the room before he left, his eyes picked up on something. A gently smashed camera, with artful stickers in places identical to Hans’ own. It was Hans’ camera. Back from the grave.