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I popped the tab from the Coors can and walked over to the window. I stared into the darkness and watched as people strolled beneath the streetlamps by the park. The little house was mine now. No Fiona. No Biscuit.
I walked over to the couch, sat down, and put my feet up on the coffee table. I picked up a recent copy of Sandlapper magazine, a monthly rag that the nouveau riche and those struggling to attain social status use to validate themselves, and turned to a dog-eared page. A picture of a beaming Fiona greeted me. A four page glossy spread displayed her new surroundings, an upscale Charleston home furnished with Victorian antiques. A fitting home for the wife of a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives.
Our hurried escape from Eddie took us to the low country of South Carolina for a few days. Fiona upped her game and she wormed her way into the circles of old money and influence. A brief fling with a state representative resulted in his hurried divorce and a few months later a lavish wedding to Fiona. Her dream had come true.
As I looked into her eyes, I wondered what lay beneath them. What was she scheming now? Had her craziness surfaced for her new husband to deal with? I knew she could never be satisfied with what she had.
Eddie was never seen or heard from. I remember how thankful both of us had been when we returned home and found the house still standing.
I have not heard from Fiona since I bought the house. Occasionally a stray piece of mail, usually from a collection agency, will show up in the mailbox. And several times, roses have been delivered from some man or other who did not know she had moved on.
Not much has changed for me. Still the same-old, same-old routine, but from time-to-time, I am startled by a small black shadow slipping into the next room. I know Biscuit's gone but still I can feel him watching me as I try to sleep. And sometimes, in the stillness of the night, I can hear those damned flip-flops slapping the hardwood floor.
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ROCKING AT THE STORE
I tapped the brakes to slow down and turned left into the driveway of the country store. The gravel crunched underneath my tires and I goosed the old '53 Ford just a bit to kick up a little dust. I slid to a stop by the side of the building.
Four old raggedy ass cars sat parked in front of the door along side a brand new 1963 Chevrolet Corvair. The building was lit up with fluorescent and neon lights and even a blind man could see it for a country mile. Mama always said it made the grocery store look like a dadblamed juke joint. Thousands of bugs, from candlebats to old hard shelled black bugs swarmed around the lights. I rushed inside quickly pulling the screen door closed to keep them out. The ugly black bugs clung to the screen and I stopped and flicked a few just to see how far they would go.
Inside, my two younger brothers sat rocking back and forth on upturned Coca-Cola crates. I kicked at Larry and he flipped over backwards. He came up yelling, "Daddy, Marcus made me fall over."
"Cut that out," said Daddy with little enthusiasm in his voice.
Four old men sat in a circle staring down. I walked over and saw that one of them had drawn a diagram on the plank floor. It looked like what one of my teachers at school called an asterisk. It had a circle around it and old man Morehouse kept poking at it with a carpenters pencil.
"What ya'll looking at?" I asked.
"Marc, Mr. Morehouse here is describing his hemma-roid operation. That diagram would be his ice-hole."
"Huh," I said. "I didn't know they did it with a pencil."
Mr. Morehouse looked up at me and rolled his eyes. "Marc, you ain't got the sense the good Lord gave a turnip. Get on out of here."
I laughed and walked over to the lunch counter in the corner of the store. "Gimme a hamburger and some french fries, please Maam."
"You paying or is this for free? That'll tell me how big to make the burger."
"Let's just say I'm paying."
My grandmother dropped a cigarette butt into an almost empty Coke bottle and threw a large hamburger patty and some onions on the grill. She dropped a handful of fries into the deep fryer. "It'll be ready in a few minutes." she said.
A black '50 Ford filled with smart-asses pulled up to the gas tanks. A pneumatic bell rang and announced their arrival. "Jimmy," said my father addressing my middle brother. "Go out and pump those comedians some gas."
"Why do I have to do it?" he complained. "Make Marc do it. They don't want but fifty cents worth anyway."
"That's fifty cents more than we got," said Daddy. "Now get out there and pump that gas." Jimmy stood up, his drink crate falling to the floor. With out poked lips, he walked out the door letting it slam behind him. It didn't slam too loudly though. Jimmy had already gotten his behind torn up once today. I suspected that he didn't want another one. He was a defiant sort to say the least.
"The band is gonna play outside tonight," I said with authority. I knew if I asked if we could play I would receive an emphatic 'Hell No' from my father.
"Ya'll ain't gonna play any of that devil's music are you?" asked Mr. Morehouse. "We want to hear some self respecting music."
"You saying my boy ain't self respecting?" asked Daddy.
"Now, Milford. You know that ain't what I'm saying."
Everybody laughed. Mr. Hampton lowered his eyes and snickered behind his hand. Long, spindly, pasty white legs poked out beneath his flowered Bermuda shorts. In the early '60's no man from our area would be caught dead wearing such an outfit. Mr. Hampton was a transplant as Daddy called him, from somewhere up north. He was a funny little guy but he brought my mother some big band and jazz records that I liked to listen to. Mr. Hampton also drove the Corvair; one of the nicest cars in town. He had his uses, I guessed.
"We might play a little of both," I said.
"Well, at least play a couple of country songs," said Mr. Lester.
We lived in a small town in the deep South, not far from the South Carolina-Georgia line. The population was almost equally black and white. The white folks spoke with a country twang and the blacks with a kind of slurred speech. Our taste in music was reflected in the makeup of the white and black population. The white folks favored country music and the black folk liked what they called 'blues' music. Myself, I favored the blues but I did like some country music and of course rock and roll. I didn't give a royal rat's behind for 'doo-wop' music though. It just sounded silly to me. My music was a kind of high intensity, gut-bucket blues.
Daddy spoke up and said, "OK. Go ahead and play a few songs. It might draw in a some customers and we need all the money we can get."
I walked over to the heavy black telephone in the corner. I picked up the hand set, listened to make sure nobody was on the party line and dialed 4362. I placed the receiver back on the hook and waited for it to ring. T-Bone was waiting for the call and he picked up quickly.
I picked up the phone and asked, "That you T-Bone?"
"Yeah, it's me. You're the one who called. Who did you think it would be?"
"Well, we're on. Go by and pick up Dan and get on over here." I listened to him for a minute and hung up the phone.
After I finished off my burger and fries, I went outside. To the left of the store was an old concrete pad where an ice house used to be. It served as a stage for our band. I uncoiled a couple of extension cords and ran them outside the fr
ont door of the store. Then I opened the trunk of my old Ford and pulled out a shiny red Harmony electric guitar and a twenty watt amplifier. Next came the chrome microphone, a mike stand, and a cardboard box full of cords and what not.
I plugged everything in, strummed a couple of cords and sang a few lines. Everything worked. I heard a whining sound and looked up just as T-Bone's old one-eyed International pickup truck rolled to a stop. Dan jumped out and started unloading his snare drum and tom-toms. T-Bone lugged his guitar and amp to the concrete pad. A few minutes later everything was ready and we tested the rig out. Everything sounded fine. At least it did to us. Nobody with good hearing would say we were a good band. Most of our songs, rock, country and blues, sounded alike and for the most part were in the same key. We didn't care though.
T-Bone was a small boned boy that knew a few chords on the guitar. He had a nice Gibson that his daddy left him when he died. His real name was Tommy Bates. One night we were listening to the Jiving Hoss Man on WLAC radio in Nashville, Tennessee. He played a song by an artist named T-Bone Walker. Tommy quickly adopted T-Bone as his stage name.
Dan's stage name was Dangerous Dan. Sammy Franks had some old 78 RPM joke records made in the 1920's that we liked to listen to. One of the jokes was about a character named Dangerous Dan McGrew. Dan would cackle like a laughing hyena when listening to that joke, so we started calling him Dangerous Dan. He liked it, even though he was far from being a dangerous person.
My name? Well, I was a big boy. Stood six foot - three. Weighed in at a net of 262 pounds. Net weight meant I was buck nekkid. I was not a football tackle kind of big though. Over the years, I had taken advantage of my grandma's hamburgers, hot dogs, fried chicken, and BBQ hash. No, I was what was referred to as a fat ass. I didn't have much of a gut but I did have an ample gluteus maximus. At least thats what the kids at school said. The biology teacher confirmed it too. I, therefore, went by the name of Big'un.
Cars started arriving and parking around the driveway. The town was so small and far back in the sticks that any kind of activity quickly generated excitement. Every Thursday night, Daddy willing, we would play a few songs out front. At least in the spring and summer. Tonight was a danged hot summer night and the heat made the atmosphere ripe for something bad to happen.
The crowd consisted of a few carloads of teenagers who parked near the front of the store and the stage. Listening to us play was their excuse to get together and makeout for a while. A few old rednecks parked a little further out and even further back was where the black folks parked.
We mounted the stage and played a couple of country songs to satisfy the old timers in the store. As the driveway began to fill up, we started with our blues set. I hit a couple of heavy E chords and wailed into the mike. "I'm a natch'l born lover, Yeah, I'm a real good lover." The cars on the front row rocked back and forth and a couple of kids yelled out, "Yeah, I'm a natch'l born lover."
We played about fifteen songs and decided we'd take a break after the next one. We were already hot and sweaty. We launched into Jimmy Reed's 'Big Boss Man.'
Now, ain't it funny how time just seems to slow down and stand still when something bad is about to happen? You know the feeling. That's the feeling I was getting right now.
"You ain't so tall....."I moaned as my fingers walked down to a B7 chord. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large black woman walking toward an old rust covered Dodge that seemed to be rocking back and forth. She raised her arm and I saw the gun as she pointed it in the car window. Pow, pow, pow. It sounded like a small .32. Everybody's head turned toward the car.
For some folks, fear makes your mouth go dry. But not me. My mouth filled up with slobber. I had just rocked back on my left foot and was beginning to roll forward for my next line. My ample gluteus maximus undulated as I moved. As I rolled forward, my wet mouth came in contact with the ungrounded microphone.
"Woooooooowwwww," I yelled.
Heads turned back in my direction. My right foot came up and I did a little involuntary backslide.
"Get your black ass out of that car and leave my husband alone," the big woman shouted. She pulled the car door open and reached inside. Heads swiveled back to the car.
I was totally out of control and my head flopped back to the mike and once again my wet lips brushed it's shiny chrome body. "Got-to-mighty, dagnabbit," I screamed. Heads turned back to me.
"I'm gonna beat your fat ass to death," shouted the angry black woman as she dragged the adulteress from the car. Heads once again swiveled. The woman tumbled to the ground and a half-pint of whisky fell from between two massive breasts. The glass shattered on the gravel.
"Lord have mercy, she done gone and broke my liquor bottle," came an anguished cry from inside the car.
Still out of control, I brushed the mike again and the current transferred to my sweaty fingers. A flurry of never before heard notes came from the amp and it screamed with feedback and distortion. I slipped and rolled to one side, fell to the stage floor, turned over on my shoulder with my legs flying in the air, and came up on my feet. People turned back toward the stage with their mouths agape. I crashed backward and fell over Dan's drums breaking my guitar in the process.
The two black women were rolling on the gravel with fists and cuss words flying. Some men tried to separate them. The adulteress jumped up and started to run. "Come here to me, you hussy," screamed the other woman waving her pistol in the air.
I was vaguely aware that the air was filling with swirling red lights and wailing sirens as the sheriff and two ambulances arrived on the scene. Hearses from both funeral homes pulled up, sure that someone was dead. After all, there were gun shots.
The sheriff subdued both women. Finally he led them and the drunk husband away in handcuffs. Disappointed, the drivers of the hearses and ambulances left the scene.
A few minutes later, the local newspaper owner walked over to me sitting on the ground. "What in the world happened here tonight, Marc?"
Still dazed, I sat for a couple of minutes to gather my thoughts. "Well sir, I don't rightly know. I saw and heard the gunshots, felt myself being electrified, fell all over the stage, broke my guitar and Dan's drums and now, here I am."
"I'll have to write this story up for the paper," he said. "Been a long time since we've had this much excitement around here. This might even be an historical moment ."
Now, I don't know if history was made or not, but a couple of years later, I head James Brown make that same kind of yowl that I made when the juice hit me. And I swear up one side and down the other that Eric Clapton copied those guitar licks that I made when my fingers turned to fire. And that little back step I made? Michael Jackson did the same thing and became famous. Called it the moon walk I think. And even later some boys from Atlanta did what they called break dancing. It looked just like I did when I fell and rolled across the stage that night.
I've thought about that night many a time over the years and I've often wondered if a country boy with an oversized gluteus maximus and an ungrounded microphone and a mad black woman with a pistol had any influence on rock and roll. Of course, I can't prove it, but I say they did.
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CROSS COUNTRY
"Florence radio, Cessna 17 Bravo clear runway 27," I said into the mike.
"17 Bravo clear 27," replied the tower.
I taxied the small Cessna 15
0 back to the FBO, stopped, got out, and tied the plane down. Robert watched my every move including the tie down. He read the time meter inside the plane and scribbled some comments into his notebook.
"Well Sherm," said Robert, "it looks like you are ready to take your long cross country flight on your own. With a couple of small exceptions, this flight was almost flawless."
"Sounds good to me." I beamed with pride. Robert Morris was not an easy flight instructor to please. He had been teaching me the in's and out's of flying for the past eight months. We had just returned from a dual cross country from Florence to Wilmington and back. I would follow the same route on my solo flight.
Getting this far hadn't been easy. I had to scrape and save for every hour of flight and instruction time. At $11 per hour for the plane and $5 per hour for the instructor, learning to fly wasn't cheap. I bought my flight time in five hour increments when I could afford to; otherwise the flight time would have been $13 per hour. Robert was patient and understanding and told me to be realistic about the time it would take to get my license.
He taught me to taxi, takeoff, land, how to fly straight and level, slow flight techniques, and stalls. I did not care for stalls and told him so. "It's part of learning to fly, Sherm. You have to be ready for anything. There's a lot that can go wrong in the air."
I soloed at ten hours and then we started working on cross country flights. The requirements for the private license included two dual and two solo short cross country flights. Then, there was the long flight that required flying to a location at least one hundred nautical miles from the originating airport with a stop at an intermediate location. Three legs in other words.
"When will you have the money to take the flight?" he asked. "The sooner, the better so you don't forget anything that we worked on today."
I thought for a few minutes and finally said, "I can probably have the money next week. It'll be a stretch, but I'll make it happen."
We walked into the fixed base operations (FBO) office and scheduled my solo cross country for the following Thursday. "What's the damage for today?" I asked.
Robert checked the accumulated hours in his notebook and said, "Looks like three hours today. That's $39 for the plane and $15 for me."
"Can you cash my payroll check?"
"How much is it?"
I pulled the folded paper check out of my shirt pocket and looked. "$91.77," I said. That's a full weeks work.
He checked the cash drawer and said, "I don't have enough on hand, Sherm."
I pulled out my checkbook and scrawled out a check. July 11, 1971, payable to Goodman Aviation for $39. I pulled three crumpled up fives from my pants pocket and handed them to Robert. I always paid him in cash. I wish I made five bucks an hour, I thought.
I gathered my log book, charts, mechanical flight computer, and other implements, put them in my flight bag, and then headed home. Although I had just made the same flight I would make next week, I felt somewhat apprehensive. But, I thought, I had 32 hours now and had successfully made my two required solo short cross country flights. I had flown from Florence to Bennettsville and from Florence to Lumberton, N. C. There was minimal trouble and I made it back safely. The long flight was more intimidating.
I spent the next eight days planning my trip over and over. I plotted the course using my sectional charts and plotter. I selected check points, recorded radio frequencies, selected airports along the way for emergency landings, modified my course to compensate for various wind aloft situations, and calculated the required fuel for the trip. By Thursday, I was ready.
I walked into the pilots lounge at the FBO and looked around for Robert but he was nowhere to be seen. I checked to make sure today was the right day and that I had the plane scheduled for the rest of the day. Everything was OK. I stepped out into the hanger and saw Robert and the owner of the FBO standing near a plane that was undergoing it's one hundred hour inspection. I overheard their conversation before they saw me walk up.
"Bob, what did they offer you for 17 Bravo at the Raleigh dealership yesterday. We really need to get the best deal possible on that new plane."
"It wasn't good, Maurice. They said 17 Bravo was nothing but a bucket of bolts being held together by baling wire. They will have to do a complete overhaul before selling it. They wouldn't offer more than $5,000."
"Bullshit," said Maurice Goodman. "We need twice that much to make the trade. I don't have that much extra cash to put down and I'm already financing the max that they will let me borrow."
I stepped back out of sight, not wanting them to see me. My guts roiled. A bucket of bolts held together by baling wire? I've been flying this thing for the past eight months. I walked back to the pilots lounge. What should I do? My nerves were shaken. This was not how I wanted to start the day.
The door from the hanger opened and Robert and Maurice walked in. "Well, you ready to get started?" asked Robert with a huge grin. This is your day, my boy. Go ahead and lay those charts out and go through the planning process and then file the flight plan."
I hesitated for a minute fumbling with the charts and papers.
"You OK, Sherm? You look a bit rattled."
"I'm OK. It's a little intimidating, that's all."
"Well, let's get started. There's nothing to worry about. You've done this before."
I opened up the charts and laid them out on the table. I drew a circle around the three airports, Florence, Wilmington, and Laurinburg. Using my plotter, I drew a line from one to the other. Three legs in all. I noted obstructions along the route and selected 3,000 feet as the altitude I would fly. I recorded the magnetic deviation from true north and entered this on my flight planning worksheet.
After Robert confirmed my initial plan, I called the Florence weather service and got the latest enroute weather information including wind speeds up to 3,000 feet. I applied this information to my flight plan and finally had my final course bearings. Robert looked over the plan and approved it. I was ready to go.
I called the control tower and filed my flight plan. I would fly from Florence to Wilmington, N. C. for the first leg of the flight. After that I would fly from Wilmington to Laurinburg, N. C. and then back to Florence. I had to stop at each airport and have someone sign my logbook to prove that I was actually at that location. The trip was about 220 nautical miles and would take about two hours of flying time in the small Cessna. I figured about four hours overall including time to stop at each airport.
Robert and I walked out to the Cessna 150 that was tied down on the tarmac. I began the preflight procedure. I checked the oil, looked for loose wires or anything that might be out of place in the engine compartment, checked for water in the fuel, made sure the tires were properly inflated, and did a walk around looking for surface damage. I checked to make sure the elevator, tail, and ailerons worked as they should.
"Robert, this thing is pretty old. Are you sure it's safe to fly?"
"Why would you ask that, Sherm? You've been flying it for the past eight months and have made five cross country flights in it. You jittery or something?"
I hesitated for a minute and then said, "I overheard you telling Maurice that the dealership in Raleigh said it was just a bucket of bolts held together by baling wire. That kind of unsettled me."
Robert laughed. "I exaggerated to make a point to him. He's expecting to trade 17 Bravo in for a new plane and he's being unrealistic about the trade-in value. This plane is fine. I just flew it to Raleigh yesterday. Do you think I would take it up there if I didn't think it was safe. You
know I wouldn't be sending you off on a long cross country if I didn't think that."
"Yeah. I guess so," I said. "You don't mind hearing something like that about a car or truck. But an airplane is an entirely different story."
"Forget what you heard Sherm. Everything is OK."
I nodded and got in the Cessna. I fired up the engine and tuned the radio to 123.625 to listen to the ATIS report. I recorded the wind and barometric pressure information. I set the altimeter to 147 feet above seal level. Then I switched the frequency to 12.19 and contacted Florence ground control.
"Florence Radio, Cessna 17 Bravo at Goodman FBO enroute Wilmington."
Cessna 17 Bravo, taxi to Runway 9 and hold. Altimeter two niner niner seven. Winds from the east at 5 knots."
"Florence Radio, Cessna 17 Bravo taxiing."
I thought about my conversation with Robert and felt a little better but there was still a nagging in the back of my mind. What if this thing weren't safe to fly? I tested out the controls as I rolled along the runway. The plane responded to my every touch. It's OK, I thought.
I pulled up short at the threshold to Runway 9, turned into the wind, ran up the power, and checked the engine RPM's. I tested each magneto and the carburetor heat. Everything seemed perfect. I radioed the tower. "Cessna 17 Bravo ready for takeoff."
"17 Bravo, no traffic in pattern. You are cleared for takeoff on runway 9. Altimeter 29.97. Winds are light and variable."
I eased the throttle forward and turned onto runway 9. I lined up with the center of the runway and pushed the throttle to the firewall. I watched as the airspeed indicator approached takeoff speed. At 50 knots, I gently pulled the control column back and continued to accelerate to 70 knots. The plane responded and lifted off the ground. I raised the nose slightly to reach the best rate of climb speed of 68 knots and continued to climb out. I watched the end of the runway pass beneath the plane as I scanned the airspace for other traffic.
Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire! The thought popped into my mind without warning and my mouth went dry. Forget it, I thought. The aircraft is OK. It was flying just as it should. I made a slight left turn and continued my climb out. I turned the plane so that the directional indicator was set to 87 degrees. At three thousand feet, I throttled back and watched until the tachometer settled on 2370 RPMS. I leveled out and held my course and altitude as best I could. I checked my charts and notes to make sure I was on the right heading. I scanned the sky looking for other aircraft.
My first checkpoint was the Pee Dee River. I looked to my left and saw the Highway 501 bridge. Right on target. I continued on. I could relax a bit now, I thought. I scanned the instrument panel, the airspeed indicator, the directional indicator, the tach, and fuel gage. I was using the dead reckoning and pilotage navigational methods and didn't need the VOR yet. I would tune into the Wilmington VOR as I got closer as an aid to find the airport. Robert had emphasized using all three navigational aids. Can't be too safe, he always said.
Dead Reckoning. Dead, I thought. That's not a word you want to hear in an airplane. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Again the thought popped into my mind with no warning. Forget it, I thought. That's just what Robert said. Forget it.
I continued to scan for checkpoints. I found them but they seemed a little out of place. Just the direction I was looking in, I guessed. The little Cessna moved through the sky with little effort. I watched as my second checkpoint passed out of my left window. The town of Marion. Of course all towns look about the same from a plane. I hope that's Marion. I continued on.
I enjoyed the view. It was a beautiful summer day with hardly a cloud in the sky. I felt proud that I had learned to fly an airplane. It was something I never thought I could do. My parents would be proud and my friends envious, I thought. I was confident in myself.
I looked for my next checkpoint. I should be able to see the small grass airstrip at Green Sea. I was warned to watch out for jump planes in this area. I could not find Green Sea. Well, it was just a small grass airport and easy to miss unless you were looking closely. I'm OK I thought.
There were sure a lot of swamps in this area. Looking down, I saw the foreboding trees, rivers, and creeks that dotted the landscape. I shivered a little. I sure as hell don't want to go down here. Or anywhere else for that matter. Well, the Twin City and Brunswick airports are not far away if I need to land.
For some reason, my checkpoints seemed not to be showing up where I thought they should be. I looked for roads and other terrain that I had marked on the map. There. There's a road. I hope it's the right one.
Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Damnit! Get that thought out of your mind, Sherm. I tested the controls and adjusted the throttle. The plane seemed OK. No problems. Time passed by and I once again relaxed. I kept looking out of the cockpit for other planes. At 3,000 feet the only other thing to look for was tall radio towers. I should have already passed the highest one just outside of Mullins. It was 1,609 feet high. I kept a vigilant watch anyway.
I should be able to see the town of Clarendon by now, I thought. I scanned the ground below. It was no where to be seen. Well, it is a small town after all. Not much more than a crossroads really. I scanned left and right and finally saw a small town to my right. That must be Clarendon, I reasoned. It's not where I thought it would be, but at least it's there. I settled back a bit and then realized that I needed to take a leak. Well, I can't just stop by a cloud can I. I laughed out loud at the dumb joke.
A few minutes later a quick scan of the instrument panel revealed something to be out of place. What the hell! The directional indicator read 128 degrees. I checked my notes. My path should be 87 degrees.
I began to panic. No wonder the checkpoints looked out of place. I was headed in the wrong damned direction. Did I miscalculate the heading? Did I forget to compensate for magnetic north instead of true north? Was the wind speed faster and different than I thought? Where the hell was I? I had a vague thought that the town of Marion was on my left when I passed by. It should have been on my right!
Below me and to the right, two Air Force A-10 Warthogs passed by in a flash. It was unnerving to see planes streaking by at a high rate of speed. I remembered the day Robert and I were practicing stalls near the Pee Dee River. An Air Force jet came by so close we could see the pilot and read the tail number. It scared the crap out of both of us. We had wandered into a military oil burner route.
What were the Warthogs doing in this area, I wondered. They were stationed in Myrtle Beach. Ahead I saw a small lake. I didn't remember a lake from the last trip. I decided to descend a bit to get a better look at the surroundings. At 2,000 feet I could see the lake more clearly. A large industrial building was beside the lake and when I saw the red and white ringed smokestacks I knew where I was. Conway. I was way the hell off course. My mind was boiling over. What to do? What to do?
Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. For Christ's sake, Sherman. Get it together and figure out your next move. Man, I had to go.
"Myrtle Beach Control, Piedmont 910."
"This is Myrtle Beach Control. Go ahead Piedmont 910."
"Myrtle Beach, there's a small Cessna wandering around near the power plant. He's not far off the approach to runway 18. He's either lost or does not know what he's doing. He's just outside of your control zone."
"Roger Piedmont 910. We'll be on the lookout for him."
My face turned red with embarrassment. I
knew they were talking about me. I scanned the air in every direction. I did not see an airliner anywhere. Thank God he could see me though.
Damnit. I picked up the sectional chart and found the VOR setting for Wilmington. I switched on the VOR indicator and entered the heading. I turned the plane and lined myself up with the VOR signal. I guessed it was about 70 nautical miles to Wilmington. I was way off course and way off schedule. I need to pee in the worst way, I thought.
I kept a vigilant watch on the VOR and the directional indicator to keep myself on course. I climbed out to 3,000 feet and settled in. I plotted new checkpoints and was able to find them with no problem. I felt like I was finally on the right path. I wondered if this would cause me to flunk my cross country flight. It might, you dumbass, if you don't kill yourself first. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Good Lord!
I had my thighs pressed together now, such was the urge to urinate. My hands grew clammy and I was aware of perspiration running down my back. My mouth was dry as a bone. I had nothing in the plane to use for a urinal. If only I could tie a knot in it and make it go away. The urge grew worse. Focus on the course, I told myself. I was shaking. I wished I could run away and hide. Don't be a child, Sherm.
I stayed on course but the urge didn't go away. Everything began to take on a yellowish hue. My eyes must be filling up. They were floating for sure. I thought I might as well go ahead and pee in the plane. That would be the last resort though. I was not that far from Wilmington now. Sweat popped out on my forehead as big as dill pickles. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Arrrrrrgh!
A wave of naseau washed over me and I shivered. Just in case, I pulled the barf bag out of the door pocket. I had never been airsick, but then, I had never had to piss this bad in the air. The wave hit me again and I barely had time to open the bag before I vomited my guts out. The plane bounced up and to the left. I was losing control. I grabbed the controls and finally wrestled the Cessna back into the correct attitude.
The smell of vomit overwhelmed the tiny cabin. I tried to close the bag off, then opened the window and pitched it out. I hoped it didn't hit anyone on the ground. A second later I heard a splat as the bag exploded against the fuselage. Damn it to hell!
Finally, I saw the Wilmington airport ahead. I picked up the mike and said, "Wilmington control, Cessna N8117 Bravo twenty miles out, inbound from the west ."
"Roger, Cessna 17 Bravo. Inbound from the west, twenty miles out. Runway 35 active. Winds light and variable. Altimeter 29.92. No traffic in pattern. Advise when you have the runway in sight."
"Cessna 17 Bravo will advise when runway 35 is in sight."
I focused on the airport in my sights. I throttled back to 2000 RPMs and set up a glide to the airport. My crotch was on fire and it was all I could do to maintain my wits. My hands cramped from holding the controls so tightly. The 150's cabin seemed to get smaller and smaller. My legs yearned to stretch. God, I needed to go. Just let it go, the little devil on my shoulder said.
"Kiss my ass," I yelled out loud. Man, I was losing it. I tightened up my thighs. Time to turn downwind.
"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo turning downwind runway 35."
"Roger, N17 Bravo."
I descended to 1,000 feet and calculated my turn onto the base leg. At 700 feet, I turned left onto base and at 500 feet I tuned onto final approach. I could barely function. I pushed the throttle in instead of pulling out. I forgot to turn on the carb heat. I was coming in hot. I pulled back on the carb heat and the throttle and glided to the runway. I bounced and then floated. It was all I could do to get the plane under control and down on the runway. Finally. The chirp of tires. This time I stayed down. I slowed and turned left onto taxiway H.
"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo clear runway 35."
"Roger, N17 Bravo clear runway 35."
I pressed the throttle in and raced along the taxiway, faster than I should have. I hoped no one noticed. I taxied onto the tarmac at the FBO, switched off the engine, flung open the door, and headed for the FBO in a dead run. I threw open the door and yelled out, '"Bathroom, bathroom." A couple of guys behind the counter laughed and pointed to the back of the room.
I stumbled into the restroom, raced to the urinal, and almost pissed myself before I could get it out. I stood there in simultaneous pain and relief as the fluid left my bladder and filled the urinal bowl. It seemed to take forever to finish. When I did finish, I sat down on the nearest toilet and let myself sink into a puddle of tortured human flesh. I caught my breath. My body was shaking violently. I stood up and slowly walked out into the lounge.
"Everything come out all right?" asked one of the men working the counter. The other man and a couple of pilots laughed. My face flushed.
"It's all right," said one of them. We've all been there."
"Top it off," I said to the attendant. A guy sitting at a table in the corner stood up and walked out to the fuel truck.
"I need you to sign my logbook for my cross country," I said to the attendant.
"Student pilot, huh?" he asked as if he didn't already know. "Where's your logbook?"
"Damn. Left it in the plane." I went into the bathroom and pulled out of handful of paper towels to clean the vomit off the plane and then ran outside to retrieve the book. I looked at the plane and thought, Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Add a piss poor pilot to that and you have a disaster in the making. I shuddered.
A dull and burning ache flared through my groin. I turned away from the FBO to rub myself in an attempt to ease the pain. I walked around the outside the office for ten minutes before the ache subsided.
Back inside, I invested two bucks in a small plastic pilot's urinal. The attendant checked out my logbook and then signed it. I wanted something to drink in a most desperate manner, but I was afraid to. I finally bought a small coke and took a couple of sips. Before I left, I revisited the restroom twice. I pulled out all the cash I had with me and paid the attendant for the gas, coke, and urinal. I sat down at a table in the lounge and studied my route to Laurinburg. At least it's only sixty nautical miles, I thought.
Back at the plane, I did another preflight. Everything seemed in order. I settled myself in and checked the instruments. The tanks were full. I radioed the tower and then taxied back out to Runway 35. I ran up the engine and checked everything out. I looked for incoming traffic. When I was cleared for takeoff, I pulled onto the runway and pressed the throttle to the firewall. I could not get away from Wilmington quickly enough.
The plane responded and raced down the runway. At fifty knots, I rotated the column back and the plane soon left the ground. I was airborne.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
"What the hell?" I shouted aloud.
Bam! Bam!
Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Oh God Almighty. No. The noise grew worse and panic set in. I'm going to die, I thought. I couldn't go through the hell I've just been through and then die in a fiery crash on the runway. I was too high to settle back to the ground. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. The hair on my head stood up and I could feel my entire body break into a cold sweat.
I tried to regain my composure. I quickly checked the instrument panel. Everything looked fine. I looked out the right window and looked at the wing and aileron. They looked g
ood. So did the right wheel. I did the same check on the left side. I looked back. The tail and elevator were in place and working. The bamming continued. It sounded like the entire plane was falling apart.
"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo. I've got to make an emergency landing. I've got a major problem here."
"Roger N17 Bravo. We've got our eyes on you. Go around and land on runway 35. All other traffic will be cleared."
I went through the motions of climbing out, turning at the appropriate altitudes, and finally found myself back on final approach. The noise would not stop and seemed to get worse by the minute. I'll never know how, but I greased it in for a perfect landing. I slowed and turned at the first taxiway. Thank God Almighty, I was on the ground.
I stopped on the taxiway and caught my breath. The plane had landed perfectly and nothing appeared to have fallen off. I opened the door and reached down to unbuckle the seat belt. It wasn't there. I got out and looked back. The belt was hanging out the door and the buckle had beat the crap out of the side of the plane. I felt like a damned fool.
I got back in, buckled up, and radioed the tower. "I found the problem," I said. "I'm ready to go."
I took off as soon as I was cleared and left Wilmington as fast as the bucket of bolts could carry me. In my minds eye, I could see the controllers in the tower laughing at the fool from Florence. I was hoping that someone in there was praying for me. I could not get out of there fast enough. It was almost twenty years before I returned to Wilmington - In a car.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful though the ache in my groin was still there. I kept a close eye on my course and fuel. I stopped over in Laurinburg to get my log book signed. I went to the restroom twice, even though I didn't have to. I took a few minutes to drink a coke and get myself under control. I realized that everything that had happened today had been pilot error. At no time did the little Cessna fail me.
Back in Florence, Robert met me on the tarmac. "How did it go?" he asked.
"Not too bad," I replied, trying to appear confident.
"Really, no problems at all?"
"Well, I got a little off track a couple of times and had to piss real bad, but other than that it was OK."
Back in the FBO, Robert signed off on my long cross country flight. One more step on the way to my private license completed.
On the way home, I recounted the day's events. The horror I felt at being lost. The pain from having to pee so badly. The embarrassment for making a complete fool out of myself. I wondered if Robert had talked to the FBO in Wilmington to check on me. Had he overheard the radio conversations? I had to be the worst student pilot in the world. But worst of all was the fact I had been overconfident and made a lot of errors in judgment that could have resulted in disaster. I was a danger to myself and others. That the plane was just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire just compounded my feelings of total incompetence. I could have died today, I thought. I felt my bowels loosen. Two miles to go to get home.
I almost made it.
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