by S. L. Menear
Somewhere over no-man’s-land in central Florida, the Tiger motor exploded. A cylinder on the right side shot out of the engine like a cannon ball, leaving a gaping, flaming hole. I cut the fuel. The engine stopped, and the propeller seized.
The fire burned out, but the motor was still trailing black smoke. Oil covered the windshield and blocked my front view. I looked down over the side and saw a smooth strip of grass with a windsock, so I circled down and glided to a landing while looking out the sides. I coasted to a stop in front of a small hangar where an elderly gentleman was waiting with a fire extinguisher and ice tea. What a sweet guy!
I called my brother, explained what happened, and asked him to fly in and pick me up.
“That’s too bad,” Larry said, “but that old Tiger engine was bound to blow up sooner or later.”
Nice.
A few months later, I dared to hang out with Larry again. An airline pilot, powered paraglider and powered parachute instructor, as well as an airplane and seaplane flight instructor, he excelled at flying almost anything. Maybe because he was so good at everything, he forgot that many others were not, including most of his buddies.
Larry took me for a ride in a tandem powered paraglider that we foot-launched from the public beach on Singer Island and flew low over the mansions near the north end of legendary Palm Beach. The view was spectacular. I finally got to see what was behind all those tall hedge walls no one can see over from the road.
After we landed, he asked if I’d like a ride in the powered parachute that weekend. It resembled a dune buggy with an engine and propeller in back and a rectangular chute overhead. “You can go up with Carl while I give a lesson in mine,” he said.
“Isn’t Carl the guy who crashes a lot?” I asked.
“He’s way better now, hasn’t crashed in months. Besides, it has dual controls. You can take over if necessary.”
“But it isn’t anything like an airplane. I’ve never flown one of those.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. Besides, Carl won’t have any problems.”
So, I thought, my brother loves me. He wouldn’t send me up with Carl if it wasn’t safe. Wrong!
I never found out how well Carl flew because we never made it off the ground. He crashed us into a drainage canal at takeoff speed when he made an abrupt right turn for no apparent reason. As our flying machine descended the steep bank, the chute overhead continued forward at 25 mph and yanked us upside down into the muddy, icky water. We almost drowned while trying to release our seat harnesses. Then we dropped headfirst into the muck. I was drenched and covered with mud and slime when I climbed up the bank.
Larry waved as he flew over us—real nice.
So much for this year’s exploits. I hope I’ve entertained you.
Happy Holidays!
Sharon
Stuck In An Elevator
D.M. Littlefield
Katie sat on the hotel bed, prepared to wiggle and contort her body to pull on her pantyhose. This pair was sliding on too easily, though. She looked at the package. Oh, no, I bought the largest size! Two of me could fit in these with room left over.
The phone rang. “Katie, where are you? We’re all waiting for you.”
“I’m ready, except for the pantyhose. They’re waaay too big.”
“Then take them off. Just hurry.”
“No, I have to wear them or my black-and-blue toe will show.”
Mike’s voice grated. “Okay, leave ’em on. Tie a knot or whatever you have to do to make ’em fit ’til you get here, and ask one of the women for a safety pin. Hurry up, honey.”
Katie lifted her evening gown to her chest in front of the mirror. She grabbed the large waist of the pantyhose that had fallen to her knees, tied it into a knot, released her gown, and gasped. “No way!”
Her waist looked like it had sprouted a tennis-ball size growth. She untied the knot, gathered the waistband to the side, folded it back over, and tucked it under her gown. It started to slide down. She realized she would have to hold it in place with her right hand clutching that side until she found a safety pin.
She grabbed her evening bag and rushed into the open elevator across from their room. Katie smiled at the sole passenger, a tall handsome man with a sprinkle of gray at his temples, looking elegant in a tuxedo.
He smiled. “Are you a visitor to Dallas?”
Her blue eyes were bright with excitement as she pushed her long blond hair away from her face with her evening bag. “Yes, my husband’s a fireman. He’s receiving a medal for bravery at the Firemen’s Banquet tonight.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“Mike Minnelli.”
“I’m Mayor John Kincaid. I have the honor of giving our heroes their medals.” He reached out to shake her hand. “I’m pleased to meet the wife of our most decorated hero. I understand you’re celebrating your first wedding anniversary tonight.”
She shoved her evening bag over her right hand, which was clutching her waist, and extended her left hand.
Katie blushed. “Yep, married to me, my husband gets lots of practice being a hero.”
The mayor raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”
She sighed. “I’m Katie K. Minnelli. The K stands for klutz.” She looked up at him. “I warned Mike that I’m accident prone, but he said he could handle it. Now he refers to me as his little package of dynamite. He anticipates explosions and says I keep him on his toes and in shape.”
The elevator lurched and plunged past the next four floors. Katie screamed, dropped her bag, and grabbed the railing with both hands, allowing her pantyhose to drop to her knees. The elevator jolted and screeched to a halt, sending her pantyhose to her ankles.
The mayor’s face was ashen as he turned to her. “Are you okay?”
“My heart’s pounding!”
The mayor used the emergency elevator phone to report they were stuck between floors. He smiled and ran his hand through his short brown hair. “They’ll have this fixed soon. While we wait, tell me how you met your husband.”
She shuffled her feet, trying to turn around in the tangle of pantyhose.
“Did you hurt your legs?”
“Noooo, my feet tingle.” I’m too embarrassed to tell him about my predicament. “Mayor Kincaid, will you please let my husband know where I am?”
He smiled and imitated John Wayne’s famous drawl. “I sure will, little missy, don’t you worry your pretty head. The firemen will rescue us.”
She managed a weak smile as he called his assistant on his cell phone to notify her husband.
“Now, tell me about your husband, the hero,” the mayor said after he hung up.
“Mike is handsome and very strong. Firemen make the best husbands because they know how to do everything. He’s even a great cook. My girlfriend is Mike’s sister. She introduced us at her family’s picnic at the lake. Mike took me for a boat ride and wanted to take my picture on the end of the pier by the boat. He motioned for me to back up a little, but I backed up too much and fell in the lake. That’s the first time Mike rescued me. I can’t even recall them all.”
“Oh, come on, I’m sure you can tell me a few more.”
“OK, his sister lived in the apartment next to him. We double-dated often, and one time when I spent the night at his sister’s, I got trapped upside down in her fold-up wall bed. I was squashed between the bedding and wall until she ran next door to get Mike.
“That must’ve been uncomfortable.”
“It was. Then on our honeymoon at this very hotel, the revolving door held me hostage. It stopped revolving after I got in. I was trapped again, and Mike rescued me.”
Katie puffed out a sigh. “He told me not to go near the twelve-foot ladder he had leaned against our house to clean the upstairs windows. I wanted to surprise him by cleaning them myself because he was busy working on the car. He came to do the windows just in time to catch me when I fell off the ladder.”
“That was fortunate.
”
“Not for him. He got a black eye from being hit with my bottle of glass cleaner. Last week my big toe got stuck in the bathtub faucet. It’s black and blue, and I have to wear open-toed shoes because of the swelling.”
“How did that happen?” the mayor asked with a perplexed look.
“I know men have a hard time understanding these stupid things. It was one of those you-had-to-be-there moments. I was relaxing in a bubble bath listening to music and tapping my toes against the bathtub to the beat when I accidentally shoved my big toe up the faucet. I waited two hours for Mike to come home and rescue me. I’m such a klutz!”
The elevator jiggled, and she screamed as it lurched and jerked down to the banquet floor as they clutched the railing. When Katie heard the uproar of the press awaiting them, she panicked and fainted. The whoosh of air from the door being pried open woke her, and she discovered the mayor had scooped her up in his arms.
“Hey, Mayor, who’s the babe you’re holding, your new girlfriend?” someone shouted. “Looks like you made the most out of being stuck in the elevator!”
Katie remained limp and kept her eyes closed. She imagined photos in the Dallas newspapers of the mayor holding her with her pantyhose dangling from her shoes. She heard the press casting more crude innuendos as cameras flashed. She prayed Mike would come to their rescue.
“Move, please! Coming through! Move!” a deep familiar voice bellowed.
“I hope to God you’re her husband,” the mayor said. “I swear I was a perfect gentleman. Please, can you clear up this mess?”
Mike took a deep breath and sighed. “It’s okay, I’m used to it.”
She felt him grab her pantyhose from her prized new Mootsies Tootsies shoes with five-inch heels. Her feet were pulled up as Mike peeled off the pantyhose to display the extra-large size to the media.
“I’m her husband. Let me talk!” he shouted. “She bought the wrong size of pantyhose, and they wouldn’t stay up. She was on her way down to me to get this safety pin when the elevator malfunctioned.” He held the pin up in the bright lights. Mayor Kincaid is a fine gentleman. I’m grateful he took care of my wife through this life-threatening incident.”
She felt Mike lay the pantyhose on her lap, transfer her to his arms, and kiss her cheek.
The mayor sighed with relief as reporters apologized and proclaimed him the hero of the day.
“Mike, you know you’re her hero, don’t you?” the mayor said.
“Yes, sir,” Mike whispered. “But I’ve heard you’re a man who can knock the socks off women. Bet you never thought you’d be accused of knocking off their pantyhose.”
The mayor laughed. “Take good care of Katie. She’s one in a million.”
Katie opened her eyes and saw Mike roll his eyes and mutter, “Believe me ... I know.”
The mayor patted Mike on the back. “It’ll be my extreme pleasure to award you your hero’s medal tonight. God knows you’ve earned it.”
Catatonic Snifferitis
D.M. Littlefield
You’ve been invited to a new acquaintance’s home for the afternoon. You knock on the door, and your hostess greets you. As you step in, your feet freeze to the floor while a powerful offensive odor invades your nostrils. An alarm sends an urgent message to the olfactory center of your brain. Your sinuses begin a meltdown worse than the Chernobyl disaster. Your nasal passages clamp shut.
Your sniffer has been snuffed.
Your eyes bulge, blink, and water while you hold your breath in a catatonic stupor. A few seconds ago, your sensitive sniffer was a finely tuned instrument, enabling you to identify a dozen vintage wines in succession with merely a faint whiff of the glass while blindfolded.
But now your brain has activated your body’s fight-or-flight defense mechanism. You apologize and gasp that you forgot you left a pot of soup boiling on the stove. You rush outside and gulp in fresh air while trying not to barf up your lunch.
You’re experiencing a mysterious malady known as feline-induced Catatonic Snifferitis. That means the cat’s litter box has built up so much toxic waste, the Environmental Protection Agency should declare the house a disaster area.
If you’re wondering why this appalling condition still pervades in this era of high technology, you’ll be pleased to know the scientific world is addressing this repugnant household dilemma. This very moment at the Lame Brain Laboratory of Science in Catnip Junction, Arkansas, my brilliant colleague, Garfield Morris Peeyew, is diligently tackling the problem. He has often been maligned as a crackpot, as have so many great men of science, but Dr. Peeyew has invented a revolutionary new electric litter box that evaporates odor.
You merely plug the litter box into a household outlet, and it evaporates the odor as soon as the urine touches the box. The invention is not quite ready for the market, though. Unfortunately, there’s a small problem.
It evaporates the cat too.
Our dedicated research doctor will persevere with his primary project while also investigating the legend of cats’ nine lives.
Let’s hope we can dispel that old saying, “Cats don’t smell bad, their owners do,” meaning cats have an acute sense of smell, but their owners’ noses have become immune to the reeking, contaminated litter box, having lost all their sense of smell.
I, Dr. Dudley Dimwit, wish you purrrrrfect health.
Sibling Insanity
S.L. Menear
My brother, Larry, called from the airport in Lantana, Florida. “Hey, Sis, wait ’til you hear about my new flight student. You’ve never had one like him. Everybody said he’d be impossible to teach, but he’s a real natural.”
“I’m guessing he’s a doctor or lawyer. Their egos usually make them difficult to teach.”
“Nope, he used to be an accountant—had to retire after an auto accident. Now he wants some excitement in his life.”
“Are you teaching him in one of your airplanes?”
“We’re flying my powered parachute.”
“Right, the one that looks like a cross between a dune buggy and an airboat. Why not use an airplane?”
“He wants to avoid all the FAA regulations associated with airplanes.”
“Is that code for not passing the pilot physical?”
“Yeah, he’d never pass the vision test, but he has an uncanny feel for the aircraft.”
“Well, I guess his vision doesn’t need to be 20/20. There aren’t any instruments to read anyway.”
“Some pilots install an altimeter and an RPM gauge, but they’re not necessary.”
“Do you intend to sell him a powered parachute when he finishes his lessons?”
“No, his wife would pitch a fit. She doesn’t approve of his flight training. If she had her way, he’d never leave the house.”
“So I guess he’ll rent yours whenever he feels the urge to fly.”
“No, he’s just aiming for a spot in The Guinness Book of World Records.”
“Doing what?”
“One solo flight.”
“Clearly there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Oh yeah, did I mention he’s blind? Lost his sight in the auto accident.”
“Blind! Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. He flies by the seat of his pants, smooth as butter. I talk him through the landings, and he greases it on.”
“Yeah, but you won’t be with him when he solos. He’ll literally be flying blind!”
“I have that covered. I’ll talk him down on radio headsets.”
“Gee, what could possibly go wrong? Radios are soooo reliable.”
“He’ll have his cell phone as a backup. It’s just one flight. Think of it. A boring little accountant will go down in history as the only blind person ever to fly solo.”
“Oh, he’ll go down all right, and your flight instructor and pilot licenses will go down with him. This has to be the dumbest thing ever!”
“Now you sound like his wife. Don’t worry.
Everything will be fine.”
“It’s just that I know how much you love flying. I’d hate to see you risk your career so some fool can get in the record books.”
“I’d hate to crush his dream.”
“So send him on a fake solo flight.”
“He’d sense my presence.”
“I’m not suggesting a real flight. Mount the rig on big springs, strap him in, fire up the engine, and let him think he’s flying solo. Anchor the rig and aim a big fan at him. With the engine powered up behind him and the headset on, he won’t hear the fan. He’ll feel the wind in his face like he did during his lessons. Give the rig occasional bumps and jolts for realism. Talk to him on the radio like it’s really happening. He’ll experience the thrill of a lifetime, and you won’t risk your career. Problem solved.”
“But then he won’t get in the record book.”
“And you won’t go down in history as the world’s dumbest flight instructor.”
“Sis, you worry too much.”
“Uh huh. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to save your sorry ass.”
“Yeah, well my intrepid ass has succeeded plenty of times where cowardly asses feared to tread.”
“Yes, but not this time. A Guinness representative will need to witness the flight. The scheduled blind solo will be reported to the media, and the authorities will shut you down and yank your pilot certificates before you start the engine.”
“His wife’s walking him over here now. It’s time for his last lesson. I’ll think about it and call you back later. Bye, Sis.”
The next day, as I tapped away on my laptop and enjoyed the view from the deck of the Hilton on Singer Island, I answered my cell. “Hello, brother dear, how’s it going with your blind student?”
“Not so good. He was feeling cocky after his final lesson yesterday, so when he got home, he took their rider mower for a little test drive. His wife ran behind him yelling for him to stop, but he gunned it and ended up in the deep end of their swimming pool. Now she has him heavily sedated. Guess his glory days are over.”
