The Ego Makers

by Donald Everett Axinn

  That afternoon, after leaving Ken and Ari at the club, I turned off my car phone. I just wanted to be alone. I preflighted the plane carefully, punched out with Clearance/Delivery at Islip and flew to the deserted airport at Montauk. I parked 355 HM and walked down the runway to the east, over the dunes to the shallow freshwater lakes just before the point and the lighthouse.

  I sat quietly as scaups and buffleheads swept in from the sky, alighting on the lakes to begin earnest conferences with their colleagues. The day was calm, the wind busy somewhere else. The late winter sun did not have to contend with clouds and shone with clarity and friendliness. The tall grasses had turned brown, offering tufts and seed pods. Short, wild choke cherry, beach plums, dwarf oaks, and hollys of several kinds mingled in small patches of sand. The peace I felt was, I suppose, my version of what people feel in churches or synagogues. That afternoon, away from the howling storm into which I had been thrust, or, as Steve would have said, the storm of my own making — I began to find some of the direction I needed.

  After what seemed like a long time, I stood up, ambled to the dunes that protected the flats where the two ponds resided, stood on the highest dune, and faced east. My thoughts seemed to turn me around and around, as if I had lost control. I had to struggle not to fall down.

  These words came back to me: “Oh, Lord, God, please help me for I know not what to do nor where to go in my affliction,’ I said them, I thought them, I kept saying it again and again.

  Finally I seemed to hear this in the wind: “Help comes from within,’

  I cranked up 355 HM, flew back to Islip, drove into Manhattan, went to Smith and Wolensky for Caesar salad, a thick Delmonico steak, and a half-bottle of their best Montrachet

  The next morning, I told Ken, Ari, and Cal that Fd stick around through sometime in April, and that we would fight it out together.

  Part 2

  Lay upon the sinner his sin,

  Lay upon the transgressor his transgression.

  Punish him a little when he breaks loose.

  Do not drive him too hard or he perishes.

  The Epic of Gilgamesh

  1

  IT was, as I had feared, the most ignominious winter I had ever experienced. When things at last stabilized, and the sun remembered to climb again from its low December path, I began to think more and more about getting away.

  But though the sun lifted itself higher and higher, it did not manage to cure the depression that stuck to me like the tentacles of some giant octopus. Once it became known that I had lost 355, my centerpiece, as well as so many other properties, the brokers, bankers, and other developers rapidly lost interest in me. Daniel Spear seemed particularly to revel in my downfall. I could sense it when we played squash. He was more cocky than ever, and more condescending every time he whipped my ass.

  “Whatsamatter, Henry, losing your grip?” he said one day after he’d wiped me out, 21-6.

  “Maybe you ought to take some lessons, Henry,” he said on another occasion, then added, “though I’m not sure what difference it would make. Where’s that old spark, kid?”

  Normally I would have responded to his taunts by lifting my game, but now his tasteless digs only drained my confidence. So had the smirks and whispers in the locker room.

  I saw Karen Viscomi several times, but it just wasn’t the same. I didn’t feel like mounting a campaign; my head wasn’t in it. And I didn’t like it when she talked about her other dates. Her fantasies had been one thing, but having other lovers irritated the hell out of me. She reminded me again and again that I was a hypocrite, and she was of course right. But when a woman tries to change me, I turn into a Missouri mule.

  The advent of April. I needed to put an end to the dark, enveloping thoughts of winter. I needed to hear grass grow, see plants break through the soil, revel in flights of geese migrating north against the steely sky. I badly needed the resurgence of juices everywhere. I needed to feel alive. I had not gone bankrupt, but with the business situation as sour as it was, I was mired in depression.

  The recession would eventually bottom out, and it would obviously take several more years for the excess amount of space to be absorbed. In any event, I’d had enough. It was time to go. But go where?

  Iceland? England? Norway? Too early in the year. And long distances over water are best flown with two pilots to share the navigation and possible emergencies. Mexico and Central America? A friend had moved to Costa Rica. Maybe too hot. Maybe head west. Canadian Rockies, Alaska. That sounded good. Wildlife galore: wolves, Kodiak bears, moose. Salmon. Yes, probably the best fishing anywhere. Get the maps and landing approach plates from Jeppesen.

  No plan, no reservations, no time frame. Away! Gone! I’m ready to sniff the spring winds for new, moist, full, fat, rich smells.

  I lifted off Islip Runway 33 with full fuel, after having filed an instrument flight plan to Canada. The Canadians require you to take a rifle when you fly over remote areas, not to protect you from wild animals — although that’s what you might think — but rather to be able to shoot game if you went down. I liked the idea anyway. Who the hell knows what-I’d run into?

  I took complete camping gear: small propane cook-stove, foldup saw, waterproof matches, sleeping bag (my whole senior year at Middlebury I slept in one; I hated to make my bed), freeze-dried food, a couple of those silver survival blankets, a bottle of scotch. And personal stuff.

  I had decided to make my first fuel stop in Wisconsin. Not in a big city, but in a town with a seaplane base as well as standard facilities for landplanes, I wanted to renew my seaplane rating. Why seaplanes? I was going to Alaska; more seaplanes there than anywhere else.

  Wausau. That fit. Wausau of the insurance company ads: the train station in the background: stability and continuity. Okay, Wausau.

  Because the weather was CAVU and the forecast good all the way to Wausau, I chose to fly direct, utilizing GPS — Global Positioning System — navigation.

  “I'd appreciate flight following,’ I requested from Clearance, “GPS direct Wausau, Wisconsin. Identifier, WSA. Altitude ten thousand, five hundred.’’ I chose that altitude because the headwinds would be increasingly stronger the higher I flew. However, the higher the altitude, the lower the fuel consumption. I balanced the two criteria, and selected 10,500.

  “Roger, three-five-five Hotel Mike, have a good trip.”

  The climbout was routine, engine temperatures normal. I leveled off at my final altitude and talked to other controllers I had been switched to as I passed through at LaGuardia and the thickness of aircraft around New York. The GPS indicated approximately four hours to Wausau. This length of flight lent itself to utilizing the autopilot.

  There are times when I feel as though I've been invited into the halls of the gods, to share the magnificence of the ethereal, ever-changing skies, and to disconnect from my fellow human creatures. I felt at peace, as I often do when I've lifted myself through the gravities that hold me so tightly to earth’s realities.

  After western Pennsylvania, the ridges of the Piedmonts curled in parallels, pushed together as if by some giant kicking up from under the land. The flattening terrain between the ridges was filled with farms stretched into green squares and rectangles. En route, charts provided specifics for navigation and visual references like highways and railroads, rivers and lakes, airports, cities and towns. I watched the land passing underneath, as if on a magic carpet.

  The cold front had devoured the moisture-laden clouds, and I could see strips of spring land showing lush, verdant colors; fields that had hibernated and were now awake. They were the farmer’s children that he had nourished and cultivated. He had fed and cared for them over the long winter, and now they were delighted to do his bidding. I could also see his barns and homes tucked snugly between the clusters of oak and elm, and his driveway where his wife’s car was parked. I wondered if she was content, or perhaps bored and lonely, the sweetness and excitement of their courtship and early years together replace
d by work, her husband’s and children’s needs, the endless chores, the food, the canning and sewing, the books and accounts, the housekeeping.

  Farther, over Ohio, Indiana, western Illinois, and lower Wisconsin I looked down on corn and grain towers in the towns, the gleaming railroad tracks that in times past had carried freight trains, cargos from autumn harvests. Now largely replaced by ten-wheelers that rolled down roads, highways, and superhighways, trailers that followed dutifully behind smoke-spouting diesel engines heading off to distant mills.

  And the towns themselves, venerable and wise from years of wind-filled winters and scorching summers, one-streeters usually, the bank and post office, the 4-H clubs over the hardware or general store. And often a river running right through the town, or next to it, winding toward the Mississippi, Missouri, or Ohio rivers, cottonwood and willow trees lining its shores.

  I flew through two time zones, the winter of my losses channeled further and further back into memory.

  “Five Hotel Mike, you are twelve miles from Wausau. Report airport in sight, or switch to their frequency, one twenty-two point eight.”

  “Roger, Minneapolis. Unicorn frequency one twenty-two point eight. Thanks a lot for your help. Hotel Mike.”

  Wausau Unicorn reported a Piper J-3 Cub in the landing pattern and also an Ultralight nearby. Terrific. These guys had no radios. I slowed down from 190 knots to 120. Where the hell were they, especially the Cub that was somewhere in the traffic pattern?

  “Wausau traffic, I’m a Cessna 414 Chancellor. Ill slow down as much as I can and also enter a wide left downwind.”

  “Yeah, that should help, Mister,” was the reply from the ground. “The pilot flying the Cub doesn’t bother much with other planes,’ I could just imagine some rachety old coot they had to lift into the plane, get his feet on either side of the stick and on the rudders, then scream out “Contact!” when they pulled the prop. Old planes didn’t have starters.

  I made the proper announcement: “Twin Cessna, left downwind, Runway three-three.” Where were those little putt-putts?

  “Hurrah for you,” came a snappy voice from the Cub. “Try to land that thing without busting up a gear, okay? We don’t like having to fix up those fancy machines.”

  “No worries, friend,” I replied. “I suppose she lands the same as my jet fighter used to. Maybe a touch slower. You sure you got five miles of runway?” I teased. “Looks a wee bit smaller from out here.”

  “Well, hotshot, if you fly as good as you talk, we’ll see you on the ground. Otherwise, we notify your next of kin.”

  “All right, Admiral,” I said. “You’re on. Twin Cessna on final.” I greased in the landing, knowing I was being observed by the locals. As I taxied to the FBO, the fixed base operator, I saw the Cub come straight in, no downwind or base, just straight on in. In a non-controlled airport such as Wausau’s, it was not illegal. Just a little worrisome.

  I waited the three and a half minutes after landing for my engine turbochargers to cool, then secured the controls, noted the Hobbs time, opened the split door, watched the ladder fall, and the steps open up. That pilot flying the Cub, should I give them a hand lifting him out?

  The Cub’s split panels opened. I saw someone in a flying suit swing out in one liquid motion. So, it wasn’t an old pappy. In fact, it wasn’t a he at all, but a tall, lithe she. She strode over as I was putting on the pitot tube covers, then shook her long dark hair as she removed her cap and headset. It fell into straight lengths about her shoulders.

  “Pretty swanky machine you have there,” she said for openers. “I bet she goes a mite faster than my Cubbie.” She stood an erect five six, plus or minus, and despite the bulk of her one-piece flight suit, I divined a lovely figure. My guess was she was in her mid- to late thirties.

  “I watched that soft three-point landing of yours. A real beauty. How long you been punching holes in the sky?”

  Her skin was light, but her features contained hints of more than one culture. As I knew when her almond-shaped eyes met mine.

  “Since my mother flew me here from Alaska. She was a WAF in the Second World War. Ferried every kind of plane under creation. She also instructed any number of wet-eared cadets who almost always insisted on ground-looping their Stearmans. Did you know the Russians used women fighter pilots extensively? They flew those old 1930s biplanes and knocked out plenty of Nazi fighters in combat and bombers on the ground. Gutsy women, wouldn’t you say?” There was a challenge in the way she framed her question.

  “Uh, huh,” was my eloquent response.

  She hesitated, as if unsure whether or not to continue. “That plane, is it yours or do you work for some corporation? I run this place. Together with my brother,’

  She stuck out her hand. I took it. Her grip was strong and firm.

  “Martin,” I said. “Henry Martin.” By then, a beat-up, eight-cylinder Olds had arrived. The man who stepped out looked about ten years younger than she, and a little taller. Solidly built, he had curly blond hair and sported a Pancho Vila mustache. His smile was broad and warm. A natural smile.

  “Moving on or staying over? Well give you a good deal on fuel,” the woman asked. I liked her open, friendly style. “Fm Julie. Julie Roppel. This is Lenny Dale. He likes to be called Len. My brother.”

  “Well, heading west and north, but not on any schedule. The plane’s my company’s. I'm the company. With my brother, but I basically run it.” I realized my explanation was beginning to sound complicated, so I changed the subject. “Flying in your family?”

  Len’s eyes lowered as he spoke. “Both our folks were pilots. They started the flight service here. The school, too.” He looked at Julie. “Dad was killed climbing, Mom didn’t last much after.”

  “I'm sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. I remembered so many people saying that to me when Nancy died. I suppose there’s not much else to say. If this young man had been my friend, I might have said that I knew how it felt, but I really didn’t.

  “Where you staying tonight, Martin?” Julie asked.

  “The nearest decent motel, I guess.” It sounded as if she might be thinking of offering me a room in her house. The last thing I wanted. The reason for the trip was to be alone, find myself Find what was slipping away. Unless it was already gone.

  She must have sensed my thoughts. “Best Western,’ she said. “Big indoor pool. You can borrow our car if you like.”

  It was not unusual for FBOs to give pilots a courtesy car to use even if he didn’t buy fuel. But customarily I would gas it up if I drove more than a few miles. I liked these people. And also what she said next.

  “And you’re invited for dinner. Well cook you a thick Midwestern steak you'll remember, plus some solid vegetables and pasta. You’re not a recluse, are you?”

  “No,” I said with a laugh. “But I promised myself I’d stay solitary this time. That’s the purpose of this trip.” I was immediately sorry I had said that, and looked quickly over at her brother. “Do you have any WAC charts? I’m missing a few sectionals, too.”

  He nodded. “WAC charts no, but we have sectionals. C’mon into the office.”

  I put 355 HM to bed, tied her down, and put the control locks in place. Then I walked into their office.

  Old photos had been tacked on the walls, together with newspaper articles and other memorabilia from the ‘30s, ‘40s, and ‘50s. Models of planes from those eras hung from the ceilings. A black board at the far end of the room was filled with names of student pilots on it and their schedules. “You’ve got an active flight school here,” I said, glancing around the room.

  “We sure do,” Julie said. “And we’re proud of it, too. Well, Martin, are you coming to dinner? We eat about six-thirty. Drinks first.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to get to know everything about their family, so I stalled and asked if I could use the phone to call the Flight Service Station, to check the next day’s weather. The forecast was for dense morning fog and low IFR condit
ions on and off indefinitely. Certainly not the kind of weather I would choose to fly in if I didn’t have to. And I didn’t. So it looked as if I might be in Wausau for another day at least.

  I relayed the weather forecast to Julie and Len. “Yes, I’d like to have dinner with you,” I said. “You’ll have to tell me how to get there,” Then, turning to Len: “Tomorrow, or maybe even later today, I’d like to rent one of your seaplanes. I’m rated, but it’s been a while.”

  “Can’t. We have a two-oh-six on floats, but it’s in for its annual. Getting it ready for the season.

  “Too bad. Mind if I take a few of these airplane magazines with me to the motel? I’ll return them.”

  “Not at all,” Len nodded.

  “One of us will pick you up,” Julie said. “About six-fifteen? Don’t dress up. And remember to take a shower.”

  “Julie!” Len shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Martin. She has absolutely no savoir faire,” he said, mutilating the pronunciation.

  Julie pointed at her brother. “Give them a little education and see what you get, Martin?”

  “Henry,” I said, “please call me Henry. Martin was what they called me when I was in the service.”

  “Sorry,” Julie said. “No offense, but you strike me as Martin.”

  I decided not to argue. If the lady wanted to call me Martin, what the hell. “Six-fifteen,” I said. “On the button.”

  The Best Western was exactly as Julie described: both levels of rooms opened up on a huge interior pool, at least a hundred feet long. Tables and chaise lounges were placed around it, as well as Ping-Pong and pool tables, and various other games. The manager told me that Wisconsin winters are long and that his customers came for weekends, fantasizing that they were in Florida.