Departure Control

“Head’s fucked up again,” Frank’s parting words this morning, like I had something to do with it. I don’t even use this one. He’s getting me back for calling him ‘Fearless’.

Milton descends into the main cabin, sun-blind. Heat, stagnant bilge-water and excrement smells: Dante’s eighth circle of Hell. Reluctantly, he opens the bathroom door.

Stupid design for a toilet, manually pumping sea water through a flapper valve. Milton faces the flaccid beast laying on dry porcelain and gives the long wooden handle a pull. Water flows into the bowl. On the forward push, water shoots straight up in a fine, muddy geyser, barely missing his face. The low ceiling: not so lucky.

Things not going down. I hate that bastard.

After a few more cautious tries, he goes to the galley for a plastic bag and bleach, captures the floating castaway that looks to be studded with corn - damn you Fearless, chew your food! - ties the bag tight, pours in a generous quantity of bleach and retreats back on deck.

Has to be a hundred and ten below deck. Got to get the smell out before I crank the generator and run the air conditioner. Diesel’s getting low, too. It’ll take an hour at least to pull the toilet and replace to valve. I can wait until evening. Or better yet, give Ricky a lesson in maintenance when he gets back.

Milton should feel elated running the island, but the reality feels more like den mother, janitor, maintenance man. Bright sunlight reflects off ripples as he picks up the binoculars and again scans for nonexistent threats. The raw beauty of the Exumas, a pristine, mostly uninhabited archipelago that stretches a hundred and thirty miles, fails to penetrate his malaise.

Forty-eight hours since my last bourbon. Why? To prove something? To whom? I’m head honcho now, goddamnit.

Fuck it - Fearless Frank is probably landing in Jamaica right now, won’t be back with the last load for six hours. Ricky’ll be another three. Juney will never know, and if he does, so what? He drinks just as much.

Pat comes up the cockpit stairs gracefully managing the steep treads carrying two plastic glasses filled with nectar: bourbon and coke. Her short black hair frames a movie star face above a loose halter-top and cutoff jeans.

“I’m gonna marry you one day, Baby. If you do plumbing, the deal’s done,” Milton says enthusiastically.

She hands him a cup. “Smell’s getting better below. Why don’t you tell Fearless to do it ashore, or over the side?”

“That’d be admitting defeat. Plus, he’ll tell Juney I can’t handle maintenance. That prick would love to fuck me over.”

“We need to get Fearless a woman. He won’t be nearly such an asshole if he's got someone to impress.”

Why didn’t I think of that? The wimp’ll be so grateful … and on his best behavior… perfect!

“Got someone in mind?”

“Lisa. You’ve met her. She’s one of the realtors in my office. She’d have to be paid, but I could see her and Frank hitting it off. She needs money. Two kids in high school and her husband’s a deadbeat. How much do you think she could make?”

“Next gig, probably another three loads. How’s fifteen hundred a load sound? Forty-five hundred for a week in the Bahamas with a suave pilot slash English professor? She can cook and clean, too. Help load the planes? Maybe do a little plumbing?”, he said with a wry grin.

“Forty-five hundred for a week keeping Frank happy, I think you’d be getting a deal. I wouldn’t push it.”

That solves the problem of Fearless's next gig. Will that make things easier or will I just have another fucking pain in the ass to deal with? At least Fearless is gone half the time. I said too high a price. Christ, she’d be making as much as Ricky. Maybe Fearless will pay half if they hit it off.

Milton begins to relax and take in the surrounding beauty that overwhelms but quickly fades to commonplace: islands rising from turquoise waters south and east, deep blue sky meeting horizon to the north, clearest water in the world. Running the island - inbound and outbound flights - fuel, security, loading and unloading planes, maintenance, food … more stressful than he anticipated. Juney always ran the gigs. Juney’s islands, Juney’s business. Juney’s boat, planes, trucks. Milton worships his older brother. Now he has the chance to prove he’s just as good. Better maybe.

Why go cold turkey? Management, not all or nothing.

He stretches his six-foot-four-inch frame full length on the cushioned bench.

I fly as good as Fearless. Better than that little shit, Ricky. I could run a load anytime I want, but I’m not stupid. I make twice as much as Fearless Frank, ten times what my baby nephew does. And with less risk. Who’s smarter?

“Can I get you another, baby?”

Milton looks at the empty glass, surprised.

“Half a glass.”

“That’s my man.”

It was Milton’s suggestion Juney fly cover stateside and let him manage this gig. He knew it’d be a challenge controlling his spoiled teenage nephew and that prima-donna, Frank, without blowing his top. Plus Pat, and next gig, another floozie.

Pat handed him a glass filled to the top.

“I flew a load, once. Did you know that?”

“No. Milton, why? When? I thought you said that was dumb.”

“Had to prove I could do it, but I’m smart enough not to. I’m not gonna be a just a part of Juney’s crew like that chicken-shit Frank, or my bed-wetting nephew. Juney’s retiring. Then it’ll be my turn. I’m gonna do it better. We’ll do the whole thing, you and me, not just transportation. I want to handle supply and sales too. End to end. Buy in Jamaica, move it up to Atlanta and sell there. It’s a better market than Miami. Higher prices, less competition. Cut out the middle man. Juney’s afraid to handle it stateside. He’s losing a good fifty percent at least.”

“Oh Milton, that’s exciting … and scary. Can we do that? When? When’s he retiring?”

“Soon, he says.” 

“Will Frank and Ricky work for you?”

“Probably, if I don’t fire ‘em. Fearless is close to burnt-out. He’ll only do the Jamaica runs. Afraid to cross the coast. Always thinks he’s being chased.”

“Why do you call him ‘Fearless’ if he’s so scared?”

“I meant it as a joke. Last time he had to cross the coast Fearless spent two hours in the head - wouldn’t come out, scared shitless. Juney finally promised he’d never have to cross the coast again after that gig. That’s why Ricky’s doing the inbound runs. He’s supposed to be running fuel and working ground.”

“Could he fly to Jamaica if you needed him to? Ricky, I mean.”

“Yeah, Fearless was training him to do the Jamaica run before his meltdown. It’s safer, but Ricky jumped at the chance to cross the coast instead. Lazy. Prefers the shorter trips.”

“Why’d you call him a bed wetter.”

Milton chuckled, “He pissed the bed ‘till he was like twelve. Fuckin’ drove Juney crazy. Had to change the sheets every morning when they came to visit Mom and Pop. What a loser.”

“Ricky seems like a good kid. Why do you dislike him?”

“I don’t, not really. It’s just that Juney’s givin’ him too much, too soon. Flying out here’s difficult and he acts like it’s a game. Flies ten feet off the water, buzzing boats when he makes fuel runs to Nassau. I told not to call attention to us. He won’t listen to me. I know he thinks I’m a coward cause I won’t fly loads.”

“I think Ricky likes you. Seems like he looks up to you. Maybe you could, you know, get him to follow you. He’d be a good person to have, don’t you think? Why don’t you invite him to spend some time with us in Atlanta when we get home. We could take him out or something. Try being his friend.”

She might be right. But what if the kid gets hurt, or busted? Juney will blame me. Pat’s smart, but she doesn’t understand everything. Besides, he’s working for me now, kind of.

Pat removes her top and stretches out to sunbathe. She has the body of a Playboy model except for a few stretch marks and a little muffin-top. She looks up from her repose and says, “We should have fish for dinner.”

Milton dislikes diving … never a great swimmer, and the blue snapper that hang around the boat elude the fish-trap no matter the bait. Inspiration strikes and he takes a deep breath, goes to the head to retrieve the bag he’d left in the sink. He refreshes his drink on his way past the galley.

Milton pulls the trap out of the water, puts the bag in the bait compartment, rips open the plastic and lowers the trap.

Pat startles him: “Milton, no! No way. You’re not fishing with …”

He adjusts the trap off bottom. Already a few Sargent Majors try to find their way into the mouth. Dissolving excrement streams out like campfire smoke.

“Think I’ll make sushi tonight. A victory feasts to celebrate my first gig as island boss. Pilots only. A special thank you.”

He downs the drink in one long pull … one more day, get this gig under my belt. Swallow the fucking insults, disrespect, envy. I’m honcho. Act more like Juney … manage them.

“What say we crank up the generator now and take a little nap?”

Pat smiles. “I was wondering if you’d lost interest. Is it okay, the diesel? Thought we were low.”

“There should be enough daylight left to send Ricky to Nassau when he gets back. What’s he been doing all day anyway? It’s just flying, not like real work.”