Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  “Maybe not. Give her a call and explain my fake solo plan. The flight might be even more convincing if you do it before his meds wear off. Tell his wife it’s a safe way to satisfy his thirst for adventure, and tell him you can’t include Guinness because the FAA would find out and end your pilot career. If she refuses, he’ll always resent her. My plan is a win for both of them with no risk to your licenses.”

  “Good idea, Sis. I’ll set it up. The sweet old guy deserves his shot at glory.”

  “Great. Call me when you’re ready, and I’ll help you. I’d hate to miss a chance to make a blind aviator happy.”

  I wish I could report that we accomplished the fake solo flight, but the blind man’s wife vetoed our plan. In fact, she threatened to sue my brother if he ever contacted her husband again.

  Oh well, I think all men are a little crazy, but at least Larry had good intentions.

  Girl Talk

  D.M. Littlefield

  Sue recognized him. It had been fifteen years, but he still had that silly grin she remembered so well. Back when they were teenagers, Ted had asked her advice on girls. He was her brother’s buddy and wanted to date her best friend, Linda.

  As she and Ted sat on her front porch swing, Sue said, “Linda told me she dated Jerry Gates only once because of what he said when she told him she was cold. She wanted him to put his arm around her shoulders. Do you know what the jerk told her?”

  He shrugged. “How would I know? I wasn’t there.”

  “I know you weren’t there!” Sue glared at him. “The jerk told her she would warm up if she chewed her gum faster.”

  Ted gave her that silly grin. “Did it work?”

  “Of course it didn’t work. She never dated him again. So what have you learned from that?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Never tell a girl how to chew her gum?”

  She rolled her brown eyes. “No, silly, if a girl says she’s cold, put your jacket around her shoulders or put your arm around her.”

  He frowned. “If I give her my jacket, then I’ll be cold.”

  “Then both of you cuddle under it!”

  He smiled. “That’s a much better idea.”

  “Girls like to be complimented. Pretend I’m Linda. Stare at me with a longing look and say, ‘Linda, you take my breath away.’”

  He squinted, looking like he was in pain. “Linda, you suck the life out of me.”

  Sue covered her face with her hands. “No, no, you look like you have a severe stomachache. I didn’t say, ‘You suck the life out of me.’ I said, ‘You take my breath away.’”

  Ted regarded her quizzically. “It means the same thing, doesn’t it?”

  She shook her head. “What you said is an insult.”

  Sue tried to think of something he desired or craved. Knowing teenage boys’ passion for food, she asked, “What’s your favorite food?”

  His face lit up. “Nothing is better than a hamburger at McDonald’s.”

  “Okay, then maybe this’ll work for you. When you look at Linda, pretend you’re looking at a delicious, mouth-watering hamburger and say, ‘Linda, you take my breath away.’ Pretend I’m Linda and do it.”

  Sue felt a warm glow flow through her as he gazed at her with longing and said, “Linda, you take my breath away.”

  “That’s perfect! Now practice that in front of a mirror until you’re comfortable with it. And remember girls like guys with good manners, so hold her hand and be polite.”

  His face lit up again. “When can I kiss her?”

  “It depends on the girl. When you walk her to her front door to say goodnight, if she leans her face toward you, that means she wants a kiss.”

  “Why can’t girls just say what they want, instead of making guys try to read their minds?”

  She sighed. “Because girls think it’s more romantic that way.”

  “Well, it sure would make dating a lot easier for us.”

  “Okay, rule one: What to do when things are going great, but she becomes quiet. Ask her if something is wrong, and if she answers nothing, that means something is wrong.

  “Rule two: Let’s say you’re having a lively conversation, but have a difference of opinion, and she ends it with whatever. That’s what girls say instead of screw you.”

  Ted’s eyes widened. “My mother says that a lot to my dad.”

  “Rule three: Let’s say you want her to go to a ball game with you, but she wants to go to the movies instead, and you say, ‘I’m going to the ballgame! You can go to the movies.’ She may say, ‘Go ahead.’ But don’t misunderstand. She’s not giving you permission; she’s daring you. Do not do it. You’ll live to regret it.”

  A muscle clenched along Ted’s jaw. “I don’t know if I can remember all this stuff, and it may not be worth the trouble.”

  Sue smiled, recalling their conversation all those years ago. Now, here she was standing in line at the bookstore for Ted to sign his latest bestseller. She placed his book on the table in front of him.

  “To whom shall I dedicate this book?” he asked, not looking up.

  “To Sue, who taught me how girls think.”

  Ted started to write then jerked up his head and stared at her. He jumped up and leaned across the table to hug her.

  “Sue! I owe you for my success as a romance author. I wanted to see you while I’m in town on tour.” He lavished her with that longing look he had mastered as if yearning for a hamburger. “Please, have dinner with me?”

  She couldn’t resist smiling. “I’ll be waiting for you at McDonalds.”

  The First Pilot

  S.L. Menear

  He was a bastard, literally, in a time when that mattered. His mother was a commoner with poor judgment while his father was a wealthy man with no conscience. He grew up fatherless, nameless. But during his sixty-seven years, he was a genius extraordinaire the likes of which the world may never see again.

  For the Catholic Church and wealthy patrons, he created beautiful sculptures and dark, enigmatic paintings worthy of their masterpiece status. His scientific drawings and inventions astound the world to this day.

  Although he was centuries ahead of his time, his aeronautical engineering expertise was not well known. He flight-tested his aircraft inventions in secret, reveling in the freedom, solitude, and pure joy of each flight. He knew the populace was not ready to accept his monumental achievements in aviation.

  History is still not ready.

  After working twenty years as an airline pilot, I studied the drawings of his various flying machines. I read about an exact replica built according to his detailed specifications and the successful test flight. That was big news to the aviation world—proof that his glider could fly, but not that he had ever flown it. I was certain he had flown it. For me, the most compelling evidence was something he wrote that demonstrated his personal, intimate familiarity with flight.

  “Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the Earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you long to return.” Leonardo Da Vinci, 1452-1519

  Eavesdropping

  D.M. Littlefield

  Joe heard the phone in their insurance office ring while his wife, Jenna, was filing invoices. Before she could get to it, he answered it. He noted the telltale click just as he heard a woman speaking.

  “Do you have a sex hour in your place of business?” she asked.

  Joe took a deep breath, knowing his wife was listening in. “Nooooo, we only have a lunch hour. Do you have a sex hour in your place of business?”

  “No, sir, that’s why I’m calling you.”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “I don’t take prank calls.”

  “Sir, this isn’t a prank call. I’m with the prestigious law firm of Getcha, Commin, & Goinn. I’m trying to find a man.”

  He sighed, gazed at the ceiling, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Lady, I wish I could help you, but I don’t think my wife would approve.”

  “No, no, you don’t und
erstand. The man I’m looking for is A. Sexhour. That’s his name. I think the initial ‘A’ might stand for Andrew, Adam, or Albert. Do you have anyone by one of those names in your office?”

  “No. Uh, how did you get my phone number?”

  “Your number is on the list of businesses they gave me to call.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair, thinking about Ted, his know-it-all brother-in-law, and smiled wickedly. “How late do you work?”

  “Until six.”

  “I know a man who’d be eager to help you. Are you ready for his number? It’s 642-1212.”

  The woman gasped. “Sir, I’m not looking for sex!”

  Puzzled, he frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You said the man could be reached at: Sex for two, want to, want to?”

  He rolled his eyes, heaved a sigh, and pictured a bimbo on the other end of the line. “No, no, lady, you’ve got it all wrong. I gave you Ted’s home telephone number, 642-1212. He works in the city at a U.S. government office. He’ll help you find the man you’re looking for. Call him around five-thirty. He’s usually home by then. If he isn’t, leave him a message.” Joe coughed trying to suppress a chuckle. “I’m sure he’ll get back to you right away.”

  “Ooooh, I misunderstood. I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’ve been very nice. Other people I’ve called have been nasty and rude. Thank you for your help.”

  “No problem.” He hung up the phone with a smile, turned, and saw his wife with her hands on her hips in the doorway.

  She glared at him. “Why did you give her Ted’s number? You know how jealous and suspicious my sister is.”

  Joe crossed his arms. “Jealousy and suspicion are family traits, or you wouldn’t know about my telephone conversation.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you, dear?”

  Jenna’s face reddened. She spun around and stomped back to her office.

  Joe leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fantasized about the bimbo caller. He imagined her as a dumb blonde with big boobs, long legs, and a short skirt.

  He grinned, thinking he was lucky his wife couldn’t eavesdrop on his thoughts.

  Mall Critics

  D.M. Littlefield

  Jim and his wife, Gail, walked into the mall corridor toward a bench. They had been enjoying a leisurely lifestyle since moving to Florida from New York after he retired. During their forty-five years of marriage, they had learned to compromise. Jim played golf twice a week, and Gail, a verified shopaholic, demanded equal time, so he had been taking her to the mall twice a week for the past few months.

  They had agreed she would shop from ten until one, before lunching together at the Chinese restaurant. He thought the only drawback was that he had to accompany her and drive the car. His wife, a city girl, never learned how to drive. He still hadn’t decided if that was a curse or a blessing.

  The first time, he made the huge mistake of shopping with her. She led him through every store in the mall from one end to the other until he was exhausted. Thirty-six holes of golf were a breeze compared to that. She, on the other hand, seemed to get more energized.

  So he settled on a mall bench, watching people or reading a book.

  This was fine at first, but then she began to return later each time. If she was more than a half hour late, he started searching for her. He detested her complete disregard for him. Their mall trips always ended in heated arguments.

  Last week, Jim devised an ingenious scheme.

  Today, before he plunked down next to an elderly man, he gave his wife a stern look and tapped his wristwatch. “Please be on time. One o’clock! Remember, one o’clock!”

  She adjusted the shoulder strap on the handbag that matched her red pantsuit and waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”

  He frowned as he watched his red-headed wife walk away. He knew better than to tell her the red pantsuit on her short, stout body made her look like a fire hydrant.

  The man beside him lowered his book and extended his hand. “My name’s Fred Watson. What’s yours?”

  “Jim Morton. Is your wife shopping too?”

  “No, she’s in the beauty shop getting her hair done. I read while I wait for her.”

  A group of teen-age girls painted in heavy makeup and tattoos giggled as they strolled by. They wore low-cut tight jeans with skimpy tops and gold rings in their noses, lips, and ears. Their frizzy hair sticking out every which way looked as if they had styled it with a Taser.

  Fred shook his head. “I wonder if those nose rings hurt when they have a cold and a runny nose.”

  Jim grimaced. “It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.”

  The girls were trailed by five teen-age boys, also covered with tattoos and piercings. As they sauntered by, Joe tilted his head to read one of the tattoos. Their pants hanging down around their buttocks exposed their underwear. Jim was tempted to yank up their pants.

  Fred arched his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “The only good that’s come from that idiotic fad is that the apprehension rate on thieves is way up,” Jim said.

  Fred peered above his reading glasses that rested halfway down on his nose. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, the perps can’t run with their pants falling down around their ankles, so they’re easy to catch.”

  Fred chuckled. “Teen-agers never envision their lives past twenty-one. I’m imagining how this group will look when they’re seventy-five.”

  Jim closed his eyes. “I’m seeing all that so-called gold bling on sagging, wrinkled skin.” He shuddered. “What a sad, repulsive sight.”

  Fred nodded. “You got that right.”

  They fell quiet until Jim elbowed Fred to check out a couple about their age. “Dead man walking on your right.”

  The wife gripped her husband’s arm like a vise while dragging him along. Her wide eyes had a fixed glaze as she marched triumphantly. The husband’s right hand appeared to have a death-grip on the wallet in his pocket.

  Jim and Fred turned to see what had mesmerized the woman. There it was in all its glory, a huge sign: CLEARANCE SALE—SEVENTY PERCENT OFF RED-TAGGED MERCHANDISE.

  Fred sighed, shaking his head. “The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance with odds like that.”

  They lowered their heads to read. Many pages later, Jim looked up to a child’s laughter in front of the toy store.

  A young mother parked a stroller behind her to examine the large plush animals in a floor bin. Her toddler climbed out of the stroller and made a bee line to the massive display near the entrance.

  Jim nudged Fred, and they gazed in amazement at the tiny tot’s uncanny speed of dismantling the intricate display without any tools. His mother’s head was in the bin, hunting for the perfect animal for him.

  “That mother should buy her kid an erector set, if they still sell them, or better yet, some power tools,” Jim said. “Have his father teach him how to build, not dismantle, or he’ll be stripping cars in ten minutes flat by the time he’s nine.”

  “It’s mind-boggling to see a tiny child with such incredible skills,” Fred said.

  The mother finally turned around and spotted her wayward son’s project. She threw the animal back in the bin, scooped up her son, and raced out of the store with the stroller. Jim looked at his watch: five minutes after one o’clock. “Fred, I’m going to have to use my new scheme to get Gail to show up. She’s late again.”

  “Are you talking about an offensive play or an interception?” Fred enjoyed using football metaphors.

  He blew out a breath like a long-suffering spouse. “Noooo, I call it a defensive strategy to prevent a continuing war of words which would stir up my acid reflux during lunch and ruin the rest of my day. I’m going to use Gail’s jealous streak to my advantage. Just watch, she’ll appear like magic.”

  Jim looked both ways down the long mall corridor to confirm Gail was nowhere in sight. A pretty, slender woman exited a store and walked toward them. He politely introduced himself and as
ked her for directions to the Chinese restaurant.

  Just then Jim’s wife entered the far end of the mall corridor and slowly strolled in their direction with two bulging shopping bags. In between her stops at every store window, she happened to glance in their direction and spied Jim talking to the pretty woman. That did it. In her rush over, she plowed through a group of teenage boys and scattered them like bowling pins.

  Out of breath, she marched up to Jim and dropped her shopping bags as she glared up at the tall woman. “Back off, sister, he’s mine!”

  The poor woman, bewildered, stepped back and looked down at her.

  Gail grabbed Jim’s right arm and thrust a shopping bag into his left hand. She grabbed the other shopping bag and dragged Jim to the restaurant. When they walked by Fred, Jim grinned and winked.

  Fred flashed him a well-deserved two thumbs-up.

  Virtual Sex Flight Instruction

  S.L. Menear

  Although I loved flying Boeing jets for a major airline, I also maintained my flight instructor certificate and enjoyed taking a private pilot student up for a lesson once in a while on my days off. Last night, a friend who runs a flight school called and asked me to help out with one of his students.

  At the crack of dawn, I rode my red Ducati Diavel motorcycle around to the flight-line side at the Lantana Airport and parked in front of the school. Clear skies and calm winds—a perfect day to fly. When I entered the front office/pilot shop, a stocky man in his sixties looked up from behind the counter. His Texas drawl distinguished him from the many northeasterners living in southern Florida.