by Steven Swaks
“I surely hope so.”
“Even if things go south, you’re young; you can bounce back in no time… ah! What are we talking about? Won’t even happen! Don’t worry about it! Get out of here and go make some money!” Jim said with a friendly grin.
Nick walked out.
Four days after the talk, the situation had not changed. The bad coffee still ran out of the old brewing machine, pilots complained about the weather, passengers continued walking in, and mail kept pouring into our small postal room. It might work out after all. Perhaps the grass was indeed greener on the other side. A Norton Aviation/ Bush Air alliance would take over the local airline industry like a cocky matador grabbing an anemic and hypochondriac bull by the horn. United companies could level the field and bulldoze the competition out of the Delta. This transaction could very well be a good move for us. Just as Jim told Nick, perhaps the only real change would be on the tail of the planes, a shiny new paint job, a different logo on the pay stub and, Tada! We are riding atop the strongest horse in town.
I parked the 4Runner in front of Norton and stepped out of the truck on this early morning. The late February darkness did not matter, it almost brought a sense of comfort, a darkened blanket thrown over our corner of the state. I took a rejuvenating deep breath of cold air and enjoyed the moment. This would work out. I walked on the hard snow towards the front door, my bunny boots crushing small crystallized chunks of snow. I stopped for an instant and looked at the windswept airport road. It was still fairly quiet with an occasional car driving by. The light breeze carried fluffy snow over the icy pavement. The flakes danced a few inches above the ground, sometimes by themselves shimmering in cars’ headlights. Other times, they stayed in a meandering ribbon of white particles carried by the wind. They were almost alive, enjoying their season. I opened the front door light hearted. I knew it would work out.
I walked into the small terminal enjoying the brewing coffee. It was a simple pleasure, a tradition, a reassuring smell to tell me that everything would be all right. Tomorrow, the same scent would be there, and the next day, and the next day.
Jeb was behind the counter.
I knew.
“What’s going on?” My stomach tightened. His face did not need words to express his fears, it was down to the details, the extent of the damage, a dunce’s report card after a failed semester.
Jeb looked up with a concerned look. “We just got a call from Anchorage. We’re not going to fly mail or charters anymore,” he said calmly.
The sentence was a punch in the belly. The coffee’s aroma degenerated into a sickening stench, a rotting sulfurous matter dripping into my lungs. The once strong and sturdy edifice of cohesion and trust was collapsing under my feet.
“That’s ninety five percent of our flights… what’re we going to do? Freight? There’s hardly anything sitting outside.” I glanced at a small row of large tools and weather proof items waiting to be shipped. “Most of that stuff is for the Skyvan anyway.” I was pleading, trying to find a compromise with a wall four hundred miles away.
“I don’t know what to tell you…” Jeb was resigned. He looked at the counter unable to find anything else to say. He gazed down at a shelf under the counter and bowed his head to find something; anything was a good escape from our crumbling reality, even for an instant.
“Do you have anything for me?” I asked with a nervous chuckle.
Jeb looked at the snow covered ramp and the pile of freight under a fine layer of snow. A gray tarp with a loose corner flapping in the wind was wrapped over a case. He pulled a yellow plastic bin and shuffled a few manifests. “I have a small crate for Tunt if you want it… it’s… it’s 150 Lbs. The flight is probably not even worth the expense, but it does not even matter anymore, does it? We just need to get rid of our freight.”
“And after?”
“After? Maybe Bush Air is going to throw us a bone to make us feel better, who knows?”
I flew my single flight to Tuntutuliak. As I the travelled over the delta, I took the time to enjoy the frozen tundra and the glistening snow under the morning sunshine. The pure white was sparkling with thousands of ice crystals shining as the sun’s reflection shifted and changed. Each new light angle unraveled a new wave of glitter. But the morning beauty only contrasted my inner distress. I did not know what was happening, I could only hope, pray, and wait. The bulk of the Skyvan training was only a few weeks away. I could already feel my back resting on the left seat and the power levers under my fingers, while my log book swelled with high quality flight time. In just over a year, I could pretend to apply for a major airline, I would sit at a few job interviews, and receive the phone call a few days later to tell me I was hired. A job offer with a training date and a place to show up to crown a lifetime of waiting, working, and dreaming. That was the ultimate goal. The high school teenager distracted from a dull math class with his eyes turned skyward would finally be walking down the airport concourse with his chin up, his chest inflated with pride and accomplishment. My number was up. The dream could not fail. Soon, the young boy would be at the gate manning his own aircraft. The dream would be.
I came back into dispatch after my short flight, 1.1 hour flight time. Jeb was not there. Toad was behind the phone.
“Where’s Jeb?” I asked.
“He went to the post office to get the mail. Maybe AC after, I don’t know.”
“Did we hear anything new?”
“Didn’t hear squat. Bet you we’re screwed anyway.”
“Where’s the Skyvan?”
“Went to Hooper Bay with some freight. At least the box’s still flying, there’re a few more loads outside.”
“Nick?”
“Went home.”
“Jim’s upstairs?”
“Yep, but I wouldn’t go if I were you, he’s in a pissy mood. He’s been working here for like twenty years, and now it’s all going down the toilet.”
“There’s nothing else to fly?”
“Nope.” The word felt final, like a fine blade entering my bowels. There was no arguing, no cataclysmic event, no personal gross negligence, only an easy word, nope, no more flying. “You can go home early if you want.”
Early, the word was almost laughable. I consulted my watch, it was 11:15. A week ago, early meant 4:30 or 5:00. Today, it came with the territory, a new label for a new situation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then… should I even bother?”
“Sure, why not?”
Sleetmute
Late February
“Do you want to come along?” Robert asked.
Saturdays used to be fun, Jim was not in the office, the mood was light, the romantic evening with Lydia was pointing its nose at the end of a shortened shift. Not today. This Saturday was grim and somber. It was like a hard wake up after a bachelor’s night out. The fun time had ceased. We skillfully avoided the acquisition’s topic. There was no news and no point to talk about the merger anyway. Monday would come with its share of updates and decisions, with its load of good news and the Jack Rabbit out of the hat twist of fate, the rapid purchase of Norton and “sorry for the inconvenience, you can resume your normal flying activities and report to a new headquarters, and by the way, we are going to freshen up your terminal to handle the increased passenger traffic.” Or perhaps we would linger in agony, starved for information. Maybe somebody would have pity on us and finish us quickly, “Here is the door and thanks for playing with us, your number is up and good luck to you.”
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“Sleetmute, I have to fly three snow machines up there.”
“Why not, there’s nothing for the sleds anyway.” In the heart of our misery, a flight on the Skyvan was always welcomed.
We flew in silence, hardly commenting on the stunning scenery. One more time, the wild Alaska was there before us. The mountains rose and cut out the horizon in an elaborate decoupage, the gray and white clouds spread above and below us like fine lace
over the snow covered forests rolling beneath the plane.
We delivered the snow machines and I flew back on the left seat, the captain’s chair. I was no longer a trainee on the right merely observing the instructor in action. It was a bitter sweet experience, a present for a weakening future. Was it a prelude or a farewell? I could not tell. No one in Norton could tell.
I landed back in Bethel and managed an honorable touchdown. We taxied back and shut down. I did not want to leave the left seat, this was where I had longed to be, where I had waited to be for a long time, even in my flight school days.
For the first time, I looked above my left shoulder, and watched the propeller slow down before coming to a complete stop in a winding down motion. In an uncanny twist of fate, the blue and gray Norton Aviation logo hung on the building just behind the propeller blades. The perspective was unsettling, the long awaited Skyvan and the potentially crumbling Norton. Was it a sign? Would it work out? Or was it a cruel coincidence? Norton was slipping between my fingers like sand. A knot squeezed my stomach in a tightening visceral grip. All that work and dedication to see an easy path to success littered with traps and a potential crevasse the size of a canyon.
“What now?” I asked Robert still strapped in his seat.
“Who knows? We’ll see on Monday.” Robert shrugged and gathered his belongings before climbing down the short ladder.
Monday, Monday
February
Some Mondays came with their load of post-leisure depression. They carried the weight of the week and ignored the feelings. Sunday was still in the minds and the hearts, but Mondays did not care and wiped out the weekends’ works. This Monday was as cruel as all the others, at the toll of midnight, it rolled in the bedroom in silence and sat on my chest in a sadistic oppression. It looked and indulged in the suffering. Mondays did not care about the morning; it only enjoyed the pain, the apprehension of an early meeting with the boss, a presentation for a big customer, or an exam in the classroom. My Monday enjoyed the turmoil, the doubts and questions. I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. The bedroom was dark, hardly lit by a distant streetlight. My heart was pounding. What was going on? Where was I going? Why now? I had risked my life for Norton for what result? We hung and were left in the dark like a bunch of scared kids in a gloomy cave.
The Norton game was not over, the king was cornered and the Bush Air player was about to play. The pilots and ground crew were pawns scattered throughout the board unable to really make a decisive move. The game was played in Anchorage, far from the bush. We could only watch at a distance to see if the main pieces would be able to save our king.
I walked into the terminal, one more time. There were no pilots, no ground crew either. The coffee was not brewing. The heart had stopped.
Jeb was behind the counter, sitting quietly, arms crossed.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Jeb rose a lazy shoulder, “don’t know, Jim’s upstairs, you can talk to him if you want, but he doesn’t know much either.”
I walked to the staircase entrance. I looked up. It felt so long and dark, so foreign. I had never noticed how gray the wall was. Was it just faded paint or the other wall casting its shadow? I had never taken the time to stop in this area. I had always rushed and trotted upstairs for a quick bite or answer Jim’s barking. I had walked up for a job interview, for training, an oral exam, or just to say good bye at the end of a busy shift. Now, I was climbing those stairs to fetch news. I had lost any hope. There was no bunny in the hat, no magic trick and last minute savior. Denial could only work for so long. Did I even want to hear the latest? I climbed each step towards the brightly lit upstairs room. I walked by the thick wooden table, the old companion I had used so many times. Jim’s office was open, he was clearing his desk. He stopped when he saw me.
“Hi Steven.” There was no energy in his voice, no ardent flavor, no burst of excitement, not even anger or nervousness. The Jim I had come to know and appreciate was stifled, the economic logic, the numbers and merger had taken the best out of him. His shadow was standing before me. “Don’t ask. The others didn’t bother coming. I still don’t know anything, Anchorage won’t say a word, just… hang tight.” His voice was mechanical, almost like an impersonal recorded message. He sustained my gaze for an instant. It was a last recognition, a mutual appreciation of experiences and respect. Jim looked down and resumed cleaning his desk. There was no nervous twitch, just the weight of defeat.
I walked out of his office. I took the time for a last look around the break room, the now and back then, the warm memories and the present emptiness. The silence inhabited the premises, hardly disturbed by Jim’s activities. I picked up my headset, flight bag, and a few extra navigation charts resting behind the table on a dusty shelf.
I walked back downstairs. Jeb was still behind the counter. I looked at him unable to express any feeling.
“Let me know if you hear anything.”
Jeb had a blank stare, sitting on a stool like a puppet without strings. There was no more grand master actuating him, no more grand genie giving life and pushing him forward, no more pilots to dispatch and numbers to crunch. We did not need a call from Anchorage. The blood of life had been depleted, Norton Aviation was no more. The month notice had turned into a week.
I walked down the short corridor towards the exit. The history laden pictures hung on the wall for a silent farewell parade. I opened the terminal door and stepped out. The thick panel swung back and closed in a muffled bang.
It was still dark outside, but the night was welcoming; the cold did not matter anymore. Perhaps Monday was not so bad; perhaps I was missing the point. Norton was not the destination; it was only a step for one potential future among others. Flying, not flying, the airlines, something else, who knew what would happen? I did not know what tomorrow would bring, but I knew one thing for certain, Alaska was still there. I came with an agenda and a self-centered flight experience to gain; I walked out with much more. I found a different culture, an unprecedented warmth amidst the polar cold. People made the difference, it was not the type of plane I flew, the salary at the end of the month, or the type of car I drove, it was personal relationships I had never experienced before. It was not an occasional semi-interested friend here and there in an all too busy megalopolis. It was a few people, locals, and non-locals, natives and foreigners who had decided to live in harmony. If Bethel was an eye sore, a muddy and mostly frozen small town only shining under a layer of snow and darkness, it was also a warm community vibrating with wonderful people truly caring for each other with their own lifestyle and traditions.
I took a deep breath of cold air and smiled. I was getting it. I walked to the truck, started the engine, and drove away; the rest of my life was impatiently waiting.
Epilogue
Jim was the last one to walk out of the terminal. Before shutting off the lights, he turned around for a last look. Twenty three years in this hangar and those few rooms. Twenty three years flying for Norton and coming back with ice on the plane. He would miss it. Anchorage had called on Wednesday. Finally. The hub had officially closed as of the previous Friday. The boys had worked on Saturday and they were not even employees anymore. What a joke. Jim smiled bitterly, the thought was almost amusing. He did not worry about his future, he knew people in the area and knew there would be a reasonable position available somewhere, perhaps in the hospital. With a personal plane tied down further down the ramp, Jim would not miss flying. He felt good about the guys, even if he had been hard on them at times, he loved those little jerks. He knew they would be ok. He had seen his wounded ground crew, Alex, roaming around AC, he was a little stiff but he carried his unique energy high and proud.
One morning, nobody came to open the door. No one was there to answer the phones. There was no ground crew outside running around and loading planes. Jim was not upstairs cursing, there was no pilot to complain about the company and rewrite aviation. Norton Aviation had become qu
iet. At first, when the other airlines’ pilots taxied by our ramp they noticed the emptiness. Our planes had been sold and scattered throughout Alaska, our little terminal and aircraft parking had turned into a ghost town. The weeds took over each crack on the pavement and flourished under the weak summer sunshine. Soon, the ice would come back and the cycle of life would move on.
It was July. A light rain was falling on the delta. The white airport authority pickup truck was going down the main taxiway in search of foreign objects, anything that could have been swallowed by a turbine or turned into a missile by a propeller wash. The driver was peering through the windshield, the wipers were going back and forth fighting the sticky mist. The older man spotted a small rock at the edge of our ramp, right where Norton’s ground crew had pushed the plowed snow during the winter. He stopped, stepped out of the 4x4 and readjusted his collar to protect his neck against the rain. He walked to the object, it was not a rock, it looked pink and white. It was covered with mud but it was definitely man made. The driver pushed it with his boot, the small article rolled over. As the rain fell on it, each drop revealed a little more. A row of teeth stood out to form a perfect half circle of human dentures, Ron had left a little of himself on the ramp.
Not so far away, another airline was buzzing with activity. Coastal Aviation had always been there, they had never been a threat; they were different with a main focus on passenger service to the local communities, so far away from our little war with Bush Air. Max and Brent were in front of Coastal Aviation’s maintenance hangar hunched over a 207’s engine for a quick fix. Ron and the others were loading sodas in a Caravan. I stepped out of the large terminal with a group of passengers and waved at Robert who was coming back from a flight, Coastal Aviation had become our new home.
