Mister Weston

by Whitney G.

  I walked through the bedroom suite once more—picking up a couple of empty condom wrappers and tossing them into the trash. Then I pulled my captain’s hat and navy blue uniform out of the closet and set them on the bed.

  For over a decade, I’d flown for respectable airlines and companies, more than earned the four gold stripes that were sewn onto the shoulders, and I honestly thought that the remainder of my career would be spent flying for the beloved Signature Air. But the moment Elite Airways became the number one airline in the country, with its “steal everything from the incomparable days of Pan Am and just make it seem new” approach, I knew there was a chance that it would find a way to take over my favorite airline. Just like it took over most of the others.

  I picked up my phone from the nightstand, hoping to see a new acceptance email from any of the charter airlines I’d applied to work for last week, but there were none. There was only a text message from the woman I’d fucked earlier, Emily.

  She was listed as ‘Dallas-Emily’—city first, then name. That way, I wouldn’t confuse her with ‘San-Fran-Emily’ or ‘Vegas-Emily,’ so I could easily keep track of the other women I slept with in other cities.

  DALLAS-EMILY: Did I leave my earrings in your room?

  J. Weston: You did. I had someone from the front desk come get them. You can pick them up from there whenever you get a chance.

  Dallas-Emily: You could’ve just told me that I left them there, Jake...

  J. Weston: I just did.

  Dallas-Emily: You know what I mean. Maybe I left them on purpose because I wanted to come back up and talk to you.

  J. Weston: That’s exactly why I gave them to the front desk.

  Dallas-Emily: Can I ask you something personal? There’s something I need to say.

  J. Weston: I can’t prevent you from sending a text message.

  Dallas-Emily: The next time we meet up, would it kill you to start our night with something other than, “Get on your knees,” or “Open your mouth?”

  J. Weston: I’m not opposed to saying “Hello” from here on out.

  Dallas-Emily: That’s not what I mean, Jake! I mean that there’s something palpable between us. Something real... And I just...

  J. Weston: Are your ellipses (...) implying something significant or do you just enjoy abusing grammar for no reason?

  Dallas-Emily: I want more from you, Jake. More for the both of us.

  J. Weston: More fucking?

  Dallas-Emily: More of YOU. I like you A LOT and I know that with your career, you’re alone a lot (as am I) and I feel like the two of us have a real connection.

  J. Weston: We do not have a connection, Emily.

  Dallas-Emily: If we don’t, then how come the last time you were in town, we talked for HOURS and you treated me to a five course dinner?

  J. Weston: We spoke for twenty minutes and I bought you a taco.

  Dallas-Emily: Same thing...Every time we see each other, even if it’s only a couple times a month or so, I feel something and I know you do, too. I think we’d be really good together if we decided to pursue a relationship...What do you say?

  I TURNED OFF MY PHONE and made a mental note to block her later. There were plenty of other options in Dallas, plenty of other women who wanted nothing more from me than a shared fuck and a short, meaningless conversation. And the second she typed the word ‘connection,’ I should’ve ended our conversation.

  In my world, a connection was a temporary lull in an itinerary, a short-term flight that eventually led to a final destination and nothing more. The word itself was fleeting, never final, and it never applied to relationships.

  Walking into the living room, I searched for my tie—stopping when I saw the headline that was scrolling across the bottom of the television.

  A New Future, a Forever Beginning for #1 Elite Airways Starts Monday

  A BLONDE ANCHOR WAS interviewing one of Elite’s perfectly groomed and robotic employees. He was wearing the standard blue and white tie, an “I Love Elite” pin on his right breast-pocket, and a smile that never faltered. No matter how many lines of utter bullshit that streamed from his mouth, his smile remained the same.

  “Well, we’re the number one airline in the country for a reason, Clara.” The Elite representative couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five. “That’s why we’re excited about the acquisition of Signature Air and Contreras Airways.”

  “That’s right!” The blonde clapped. “Earlier this morning, you all announced that you just bought Contreras Airways! What an amazing time your airline is having!”

  “Thank you, Clara. It’s like our team motto says: We will do whatever it takes to be the best, no matter the costs.”

  No matter the costs...

  As the headline scrolled across the screen again, I felt my blood pressure rising. For most viewers, I was sure this was another business segment, another young interviewer’s big break on the airline industry and the American Dream, but to me, those words meant more than just the end of an era. They meant something I’d never forgive or forget.

  Livid, I forced myself to walk away and returned to the shower. I turned the water on its highest setting, trying to focus on something else, anything else, but it was no use. That ugly headline was all I could see.

  Fuck it. I’m not going downstairs until I feel like it.

  Three hours later...

  “THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR arriving on time, Mr. Weston.” Dr. Cox glared at me as she opened the door to the meeting room. “Did you purposely arrive here with only limited time to spare before your scheduled flight to Singapore, or is that just a coincidence?”

  “A convenient coincidence.”

  “I’m sure.” She groaned and led me inside the small room. “You can have a seat at that table over there.”

  I stepped inside and noticed that they’d transformed the sparse space to look like an actual orientation session. There were Elite policy posters tacked onto the walls, a projector screen, and a stack of Federal Aviation law books stacked high in a lone chair. There were two large boxes marked “J. Weston” in the corner, and the table was littered with huge binders, notebooks, and pens.

  As I took a seat, I spotted two glasses of water labeled “For Mr. Weston” dripping onto the table’s wood.

  Dr. Cox sat across from me seconds later, and another Elite executive, a grey-haired man donning a familiar blue and white tie, took his place next to her.

  “This is my colleague, Lance Owens,” she said, placing a digital recorder on the table. “Since you took your precious time getting down here today, my videographer left. So, I’ll have to record the audio of the interview and Mr. Owens will serve as a visual witness. Also, we managed to fill in most of what we were missing from your file as we waited, so this won’t take too long. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “None at all.”

  “Good.” She hit the start button on her recorder. “This is the final interview for employee #67581, senior captain, Jake Weston. Mr. Weston, can you state your full name for the record please?”

  “Jake C. Weston.”

  “What does the ‘C’ stand for?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Mr. Weston...”

  “It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just C.”

  “Thank you.” She slid a blue file toward me. “Mr. Weston, can you confirm that the previous job listings in the file in front of you are correct?”

  I flipped the file open and saw my professional career compiled into a sparse black list. United States Air Force. American Airways. Air-Asia. Air-France. Signature. No accidents, no infractions, not a single tardy.

  “This is correct.” I closed the file and returned it to her.

  “It says here that you’ve earned thirty awards in aviation since you graduated from flight school. Is that true?”

  “No. It’s forty-six.”

  “You know,” she said, reading from a sheet of paper. “Most pilots don’t earn thes
e particular types of awards until they’re in their fifties and sixties, when they have at least twenty-five to thirty-five years of experience under their belt. You have almost twenty years of experience, if I count your high school aviation achievements, and you’re only weeks away from turning thirty-eight.”

  I blinked.

  “Are you going to say anything about what I just mentioned, Mr. Weston?”

  “I was waiting for the question. There’s usually some inflection in your voice when you ask one. You only stated a list of facts.”

  The witness at her side cracked a smile.

  “Moving on.” She clicked her pen. “We’re having some problems verifying the people you listed as next of kin. The phone numbers that are listed for them go straight to payphones in Montreal. We need the updated information from you, okay? My ‘okay’ is a question, Mr. Weston.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s start with Christopher Weston, your biological father. What is his current place of employment and contact number?”

  “He’s a magician. He disappears and reappears into my life every few years. I’ll try to catch him next time and ask for his number.”

  “What about Evan Weston, your biological brother?”

  “Also a magician. His talent is in erasing things, making things appear differently than they are.”

  “No phone number?”

  “No phone number.”

  “Your mother?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Ex-wife. I’m sure she’s still ruining lives wherever she is. Look up the number for Hell.”

  She took off her reading glasses. “Every Elite employee is required to list at least four next of kin contacts. Every. Single. One.”

  “Then I’ll be the first exception.”

  “I don’t think so.” She looked at the witness. “Since Mr. Weston wants to play games, we’ll need to use our data team to find his family members. Make sure we tell the hiring board how uncooperative he was today when you do that.”

  The witness nodded, but I said nothing. I simply picked up a glass of water and took a long sip, knowing there was no way in hell they’d find anyone outside of my ex-wife. It’d all been buried decades ago, and it would never come to the surface again.

  “In the meantime,” she said, “surely you can order your next of kin in order of closeness so we know who to contact first in the event of an emergency?”

  “Surely.”

  “Okay, then. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the closest, how close are you to your biological father?”

  “Negative eighty.”

  Her brown eyes immediately met mine. “I’m sorry, what? What did you just say?”

  “Negative eighty.” I enunciated every syllable. “Do you need to rewind the tape and play it back for yourself?”

  She shook her head, and for a second she looked as if she regretted even asking, as if she was going to stop this line of questioning and move on to something else, but she didn’t.

  “Mr. Weston, on the same scale, how close are you to your biological brother?”

  “Negative sixty.”

  “Your biological mother?”

  “No comment.”

  “Mr. Weston,” she said, her voice a little harsher. “Could you please answer the question in regards to your biological mother?”

  “I could, but I won’t.”

  “Mr. Weston—”

  “It’s a no.”

  “It’s not a yes or no question.” She raised her voice. “Every question today is mandatory, especially since you waited until the very last minute to deem us ‘worthy’ of your time. If you wish to continue flying after your final trips for Signature this weekend, you need to answer me. Otherwise, we can stop this session right now.”

  “It’s undefined.” I clenched my jaw. “In regards to my mother, it’s fucking undefined.”

  “Thank you.” She let out a breath. “Last question in that set. On a scale of one to ten, how close are you to your wife?”

  “Ex-wife.” I corrected her again. “She shouldn’t be included in any files related to me, but she’s ranked right between my father and brother for a negative seventy.”

  “Well, enlighten me, please.” She looked up and scratched her head. “In the event of something unfortunate happening to you, who would you like us to call first?”

  “A funeral home.”

  Silence.

  She looked away as if she was unsure of what to say next. Seconds later, she slid a standard employee agreement to me, along with a pen. “You’ve signed this before, but please sign it with me as your witness...And wait. I actually have one last question. Are you aware that you have an ‘FCE’ on your employment file with us?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to know what an ‘FCE’ means?”

  “I assume it means I’m capable of counting and you’re not. You said the previous question was the last question.”

  “It was.” She frowned. “Do you, by chance, have any questions for me?”

  “Never.”

  “Very well, then. This concludes the completion of Jake C. Weston’s profile with Elite Airways.” She hit stop on the recorder and tucked it into a white box labeled ‘active pilots.’ “You can leave now, Mr. Owens. Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, standing. “Best of luck to you with our airline, Mr. Weston.”

  “Thank you.” I started to stand as well, but Dr. Cox motioned for me to remain seated.

  “I thought this was the end.” I looked at her. “I’m not interested in speaking to you or anyone else any longer than I’m required to.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said, her tone far darker than it was at first. “I just have one final, off the record question, and then you can leave and return to whatever shell of a life you think you have.”

  She waited until Mr. Owens left the room, and then she slammed a massive red folder on top of the table and glared at me. “I need you to tell me how the hell you passed your psychiatric evaluation six weeks ago.”

  “I studied.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Weston.” Her face was red. “The average score for a competent and sane pilot on the PILA test is a five. You scored a nine. “

  “Maybe the test was measuring something else of mine.”

  She ignored my comment. “A nine means damn near deviant. It means you shouldn’t have passed any of the remaining psych tests at all. Yet somehow, the doctor passed you with flying colors.”

  “How very generous.”

  “A little too generous.” She plucked a business card from her pocket and tossed it to me. “I won’t deny that your career thus far has been nothing short of outstanding, but—Well...I’m just going to be frank here. You have the most fucked up psych results I have ever seen.”

  “It’s an honor, thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to receive my award via mail.”

  “I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” she said. “According to the real test results—not the ones you scammed somehow, you’re exceedingly below the average in three out of four emotional areas. You’re socially detached, yet somehow manage to function in social environments.” She clasped her hands together. “I haven’t personally tested you, but I think you use your career as a means to get away, to cope with some type of issue you’re internally suffering from. Not only that, but your sleep tests showed high levels of...”

  I tuned out her voice as she continued to talk, only catching a few words like “psychotherapy” and “threshold” but my attention to her sentences waned with every word that left her lips.

  Leaning forward, I flipped through the binders on the edge of her desk, thumbing through the thick pages. I lifted the file baskets and the notebooks, setting them down when I saw nothing underneath.

  Still ignoring the sound of her voice, I stood up and walked over to the wall of taped airline policies. I s
tood in front of the one that announced the ‘100% No Employee-Fraternization’ rule and grabbed the paper’s edges. I slowly peeled it from the wall, glancing at the drywall behind it.

  Nothing...

  I put it back and checked behind another policy, then another. I was checking the wall behind the fourth one when I heard the sound of her heels clacking closer to me.

  “Mr. Weston?” She waited for me to turn around, finally stopping her long-ass spiel. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m searching for the point of this conversation, since it’s clearly not going to fall out of your mouth anytime soon.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Is it attempting to come out now?” I asked. “How much longer do I need to stand here and wait for it?”

  She took a step back and narrowed her eyes at me. “The point is, since you have an ‘FCE’ on your profile, I can’t force you into the mandated therapy we offer our pilots here on the health plan. But based on the results of your tests, I think it would greatly help if you saw a professional at least two or three times a month. Hell, five to ten times, if you can manage it.”

  “See how brief and concise that was?” I walked toward the door. “You could’ve summed that shit up ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m going to find out how you passed that test, Weston.” She followed me. “I refuse to swallow the results as they are, and I promise you, when I figure out how you managed to get our best doctor to give you a clearance—”

  “How about just asking me what you really want to ask me?” I interrupted her as I twisted the doorknob. “Ask me.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms, hesitating. “Did you proposition our lead doctor and trade a sexual favor in exchange for passing clearance results?”

  “First of all,” I said as I opened the door. “I’ve never had to proposition anyone. Ever. Second of all, if by ‘sexual favor’ you mean, did I fuck her against her office window until she couldn’t breathe, or did I ask her to get on her knees so she could suck my cock until she swallowed my come, then yes. But not in exchange for clean test results. She’d already promised to pass me after the way I ate her pussy.”