Approved
Hagai Cohen
3 June 2003
“Today, I am twenty one, Daddy, not your little girl any more. It’s time you told me what happened on your first date with Mom. Neither you nor Mom is willing to talk about it and Grandma gets amnesia when I ask her. I have had enough evasiveness. I am not leaving this room until you talk.”
“Listen darling, if I tell you without your Mom’s consent, I’m a dead man.”
“You tell me, Dad, and I’ll deal with Mom.”
“Ok, but if you ever use this story against us, I won’t know you.”
“Deal! I love you, Dad.”
“Well" I started, "it was fall in New York. The fall colors were beautiful that year and the weather-man promised wormer temperatures. Your Mom invited me to spend the weekend at her ‘country house’ (this very house), to hike around and look at the fall colors.
Linn and I had had a long-term work relationship. We had known each other for two years and until then our relationship had been formal.
As I had nothing better to do, I accepted the invitation.
The drive up to the house was a pleasant one. With every mile northward, the fall colors became more radiant and luminous.
It was also the first time we discussed personal topics. The questions and answers revealed we had many common interests. Our taste and preferences in food and wine were similar. I also discovered that your Mom was a romantic. It was somewhat surprising, very different from the buttoned up image she projected at the office. I was especially impressed with her great sense of humor and her sweet impish smile.
Before setting out on our hike, we sprayed ourselves with insect repellent. We hiked through the woods, across farmer Baker’s meadow to the stream and the lake. We leaned over the side of a narrow ridge, trout nets in our hand. It was really fun to hold each other from falling into the water, While trying to fish. Our catch was three nice size rainbow trout.
Only after we had bagged the fish, Linn told me all she could cook was meat loaf, and had no idea what to do with trout. This pleased me, as many women in my experience; find it romantic to have men cook for them. It was my turn to impress Linn.
On our return to the country-house, I steamed the trout with fresh ginger, chopped scallions, and soy sauce. While the fish was steaming, I cut the vegetables for the salad and in less than fifteen minutes, dinner was on the table. A bottle of Chardonnay was uncorked to enhance the taste of the fish and Linn was in high spirits.
After the repast, she suggested we return to the meadow and lie down on the flat rock to watch the stars.
The full moon turned the meadow and the forest into a romantic setting.
While we were spreading a blanket on the rock, our faces touched inadvertently and before we knew it, our passions were kindled. After a few exploratory kisses, we stripped rapidly, scattering our clothes all over the rock. The exposure of our bodies to the caressing breeze, the moonlight, the warm rock and an overdose of hormones made our lovemaking highly intense, and very promising.
After the delicious lovemaking, we lay on our backs to watch the stars.
I was still enjoying the residual pleasure of our act, when a loud noise startled us.
We jumped to our feet to see a three thousand pound bull with a horn span of four feet, huffing and puffing through his huge nostrils while digging his hoofs into the turf threateningly.
We did not know that while we were feasting on the fish, Farmer Backer had rounded up his herd and brought it to the new pasture.
I had good eye-to-eye contact with the beast but my severe look did not make an impact on him. ‘I am not really after your harem,’ I said in panic. The determined bull was not impressed.
He was twenty yards from us, when he charged. I hoped the rock itself would discourage him but he jumped right on it like a springbok.
His stomping felt like an earthquake. Linn screamed. I pushed her and we jumped to the side.
Were you scared Dad?
“Correct, we were horrified, petrified, terrified, and etcetera.
The granite rock was too slippery for the massive bull. He skidded and fell over on the other side.
While the bull was recovering himself, Linn cried: “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She collected the clothes we’d thrown off hastily half an hour earlier. She used my jeans as a laundry bag and stuffed in shoes and all.
The fall made the bull more determined. He turned all his anger towards Linn who had made my pants look like competitive horns. I used the blanket to divert his attention and every time he missed us, we inched towards the log fence. We finally made it to safety.
Retrospectively, I think we did a great job escaping the vicious bull, but at that moment, all I thought about were my words to the bull: ‘I am not after your harem.’ I think Linn took it as an insult.
‘It wasn’t that funny’ she said, and fell into silence. Not a word was said and the tension was unbearable, we forgot we were still naked.
Suddenly Linn put on a sweet smile and said: “You know Jack, we were lucky….”
“You bet,” I said, thinking it’s a miracle we had escaped the bullfight unharmed.
“We were very lucky Jack,” she said again, “we did not step on a single ‘meadow muffin’.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Cow pat, if you must know.”
This silly remark was what relieved the tension. It started a nervous laughter that very soon became hysterical.
After controlling myself a little, I continued in the same vein. I knelt down, put my hand on Linn’s hips and said: “Thank you, my dear Madam, for letting me protect you. Bare handed, bare footed and bare assed.
I bravely fought the killer bull to save your life. Not every day Madame, does an opportunity like this present itself to a man.
I’ll kill anything for you Madame, a bull, a tiger and even a water bug, if necessary.
You, lady, have retrieved my lost dignity. I’ll be your slave forever. Thank you, thank you, and thank you!”
Linn picked up a branch, rested it on my shoulder and said:
”With the authority vested in me from heaven, I dub thee Sir Jack, Knight of the BULLSHIT and lord of the MEADOW MUFFIN. Arise Sir Knight and kiss your queen.”
“Yes, my dear.”
The naked knight and his equally nude queen walked joyfully back hand-in-hand along the pathway strewn with fallen leaves. While walking on the path, carrying their garments under their arms, they knew, they had fallen in love.
Our moment of euphoria did not last long. As we approached the back yard, a car turned into the driveway and caught us in its headlights. We were so startled we stood stock-still.
It stopped five yard from us. Unexpected and unannounced, Linn’s mother, Grandma Ruth stepped out of the car. It was extremely embarrassing.
“Are you crazy or what?” she screamed at us. “What do you think you’re doing walking about like this in the woods?”
“Mom!”
”There are lime disease ticks, spot fever ticks, poison ivy and you might even catch a cold.”
“Mom, please! Would you believe me if I told you we were chased by a bull and barely survived?
“I’ll believe anything about you, my dear girl, but I am sure the bull had nothing to do with the way you look right now.”
We started to laugh at Grandma Ruth’s great humor. The embarrassment and discomfort disappeared.
Linn said through her laughter: “Mother… this is… my friend…. Sir Jack, the savior.”
I dropped the blanket from under my arm, stepped forward in all my nudity, and offered my hand.
“Please to meet you Mrs. Kaplan.”
Your Grandma took my hand, looked me over from top to bottom and said: “Nice physique, Jack.”
“Thank you Mrs. Kaplan.”
Without letting my hand go, she continued. “Listen to me you two weirdoes, run into the house and take a shower, TOGETHER! Check each other for ticks, THOROUGHLY! Or I’ll come in and do it myself.”
That evening, while Grandma Ruth enjoyed the last trout, I received the stamp of approval.”
“Will you walk to that rock with me, Daddy? Please, please, oh, please!”
“Why not? I haven’t been there for years and it will be nice if you find the socks I lost that night.”
The End
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The circle
In memory of my friend Menachem, Who did not live to see Israel's sixtieth anniversary.
In the summer of 1948, Jerusalem was under siege. The streets were fairly empty as every venture out of the house was risky because of the constant shelling. People had to queue for rationed water from cisterns. The Arabs had sabotaged all the water pumping stations along the road to Jerusalem. Also there was also no fresh food supply. No convoys could break through the ambushes and the blockades.
Each person was allowed two slices of bread per day. The only source of protein was the dried beans most people kept at home along with rice and pasta. As there was almost no cooking oil and no kerosene for the stoves; we learned to cook on wood fires outdoors.
When the shelling became very heavy, we would take cover in the closest bomb shelter. My father was busy with the defense forces, while my mother took care of the food supply, mainly queuing for rationed food. She made a shelter kit for me, containing some food, a canteen of water and a book. My job was to cook and to take care of my younger brother.
“I’ll be away for two minutes,” said my Mom and added humorously: “Don’t forget to stir the soup every fifteen minutes.”
One morning, while I was at the outdoor stove, I heard the familiar sound of a shell being shot. As usual, I removed the pot from the fire, took my brother’s hand, lifted my backpack and crossed the street to our bomb shelter.
The bombs fell closer. More and more panic-stricken people rushed in. A Hassidic lad about three years older than I, came and sat next to me. There were many seats around but he chose to sit by my side. I did not pay much attention to him and had no particular desire to talk.
I sat quietly and about to get my book out of my backpack, when suddenly, the Hassid turned to me and said: “My name is Menachem. I noticed you and your brother were the first in the shelter. How did you know it was coming?”
“It’s very simple,” I said. “The cannon is located at Nabi Samuel and always shoots in the same pattern. They start to shoot east of us, then turn the gun westward and shoot in sequence. Ours is the sixth shell, the seventh is aimed farther west of us, and the eighth one is ours again, as they backtrack. After they shoot thirty shells, they let the gun cool for exactly half an hour and then re-start.
“Are you telling me you know when to hide and how much time you have to spend in the shelter?” asked Menachem.
“Yes, but I am referring only to this gun. There are others as well.”
“You have to teach me,” said Menachem.
I was very pleased he wanted to know as most of the adults to whom I tried to explain the sequence, regarded me as a highly confused ten years old child. They were shocked someone so small and so stupid (in their opinion) should be left in charge of an even smaller sibling. “What kind of parents will leave two children unattended at time like this” they whispered to one another.
I had some precocious knowledge of the subject as my father drew the civil defense maps and charts on which the types of guns and their locations were clearly marked. My mother was the only adult who trusted my observations and her food-gathering schedule was planned according to my intelligence reports.
“Ok,” I said to Menachem, “I’ll teach you. My name is Yakov.”
“There are two kinds of shells,” I said, the canon shells, If you know the direction it is coming from, a tall building can give you very good protection. You can identify the shell by the sound:. The shot, the whistle and the explosion. If the whistle and the explosion come together and very loud, check if you’re dead. The mortar shells are more dangerous as they are come down in straight lines. They fall inside courtyards, narrow alleys and so on. The only warning you get is the sound when the shell is fired. A continuous dull rumbling follows this sound. If you hear it, run immediately for shelter as you have a very short time.”
I could tell Menachem was impressed. We practiced the various sounds and made a chart to predict the next bomb with great accuracy. It was very pleasant to have someone with whom to speak. Most of the children in the shelter were huddled around their parents and were always scared.
Menachem and I both looked forward to getting together. Unfortunately, we could meet in no other place but the shelter. I would become the laughing stock of my friends in the neighborhood if I were seen with him. If he were seen with me, he would be grounded forever! We had to rely on the goodwill of the Arabs to spend time together.
As days passed, I discovered Menachem was interested in subjects like geography and science. I did my best to share some of my knowledge. I showed him my schoolbooks and he started even to read a Jules Verne book but only in the shelter, of course.
Once, after spending a whole night in the shelter, Menachem decided not to go home. He told me nobody at home would queue for food and there was not enough for his younger brothers and sister. “They’ll have more to eat if I do not go home” he said.
We had enough food at home. My father with an experience of two big wars, had bought spaghetti, rice, dried beans and canned food in commercial quantities. I suggested to Menachem he eat with us. Menachem refused at first, as our food was not kosher enough for him. After some debate, we found a solution: Menachem would get his own pot and I would cook his food separately.
With the new cooking arrangement, Menachem spent more time with me and felt more and more comfortable. One day, he even dared to enter my home and was fascinated with the objects he saw. For him, it was like a visit to another planet. He saw my father’s paints and paintings, the drafting table, the survey equipment, the blueprint frame and more. He was very interested and wanted to learn everything at once. He stopped suddenly by the piano and said, “What’s this?”
“A piano,” I said. “Let me show you.” I was not surprised he didn’t know what a piano was, he didn’t know anything. I sat down and played the opening bars from “To Alice” by Beethoven. I played for a minute, stopped and looked up at Menachem. He was mesmerized. Without a word, he took my place on the bench and tried out the notes with his ears cocked as though listening carefully. Slowly he advanced and played two more notes. His discordant chords transformed slowly into music. Not so clear at first, but soon, with hesitation, the opening bars of “to Alice” emerged from one hand, later joined with chords from the other hand. He made very few mistakes.
As I heard Menachem play, I got goose bumps. It was eerie. What was going on? How could a person, who never saw a piano in his life did not know even what a piano was, start playing like this? He had watched me for just one minute and then played as well as I did after two years of learning.
From that day on, Menachem’s first love was the piano; we spent most of our time together sitting at the instrument. I was sure Menachem would make little progress without a real teacher. I tried very hard to convince him to join me at one of my piano lessons, but he refused. Despite his limited knowledge Menachem started composing. He did not want to spoil his ecstasy with theory or learning to read notes.
Menachem’s honeymoon with the piano lasted only two months. One afternoon after a heavy shelling, we returned to the house to find the piano had been blown away. Menachem was sad and depressed. He was convinced it was an act of God to stop him from playing music. When I reminded him King David played the harp and it was definitely not against God’s wish to play musical instruments, his answer was: “You don't understand. David’s harp was sacred”.
I could not and would not debate this stand.
A few weeks later, when the bombing stopped and the road to Jerusalem was opened, Menachem stopped coming. I only saw Menachem one more time, when he told me he wanted to become a rabbi.
Five years went by before I saw him again.
One afternoon, as I left school at the end of the classes and walked home with my friends, I saw Menachem walking towards me. He did not stop. We made eye contact and he gave a tiny head gesture, indicating his desire to talk. I excused myself from my friends and followed him. We spoke as though we had seen each other only yesterday.
He told me he had done very well in his studies and he was almost a qualified rabbi.
We filled the five years gap with information about ourselves. Menachem, after some hesitation, asked me: “Did you buy a new piano?”
“No,” I answered, “but if you want to play, I have some friends who will definitely let you play.”
“No,” he said, “I want a package deal: you and the piano. I miss music very much - not just playing - I miss listening. I wish I could learn some theory, some musical terms, things I feel about music but don’t know.”
“How can I help?”
He ignored my interruption.
“Every Saturday, after the Morning Prayer, I take a walk in a secular neighborhood. I sit on a bench, listening to the Saturday morning chamber music program from someone’s radio. I feel the music all around me, penetrating my skin and getting into my bones.”
I really felt sorry for him.
“Do you want to get together some time, maybe we’ll listen to music?” I said.
“Yes, I’ll write to you. Goodbye now.” He said and walked away quickly.
“Why did Menachem go through all the trouble to find me?” I thought. My school was quite far from his home. I could not believe he did it just to find out if I had a piano? Why didn’t he just stop and talk? Why the hiding, the mystery? Perhaps he needed some other kind of help? Perhaps the piano was an excuse? I did not have the answers.
I waited for him to show up again. But Menachem did not contact me.
Four years after that meeting, I returned to the old neighborhood to take out a girl I was dating. Down the street, Menachem spotted me. This time he approached me with a big smile, “Hello!”
While I was pleased to see him, I was a little angry too. “Look Menachem,” I said, “I’m in a hurry. I have a date with a girl who lives around here and I’m late.”
“Do I know her?” asked Menachem,
“Since when are you interested in secular women?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I owe you an explanation.”
After a pause he added: “Listen carefully to what I have to say. I’ll say it only once. Nobody has heard it before and I’ll never repeat it.
Four years ago, I loved a girl who was not a Hassid. I did not know how to approach her or how to talk to her. I was afraid she would make fun of me. My thoughts drove me crazy.”
“Was that the reason you wanted to talk to me back then?” I interrupted.
“Yes. I had the fantasy I would come to play your piano and you would invite the girl. I wanted her to see me in a different light.”
“Menachem, let me tell you, rabbi or not, you are the biggest shmock ever born! If you had only spoken to me at the time, I would have arranged it without a piano,” I said. “Who is the lady?”
“You know her very well, but I am married now. I have a son two years old and my wife is pregnant again. I married through a matchmaker and have learned to love my wife.”
“Good for you!” I said.
“I want you to come tomorrow to my nephew’s Brith. Please, come as my guest.”
I was intrigued. It was the first time he was ready to admit friendship with someone outside his community. “I’ll be delighted to come,” I said. “Will you introduce me to Mrs. Rabbi?”
“I’ll show you where to look,” promised Menachem, “but you’ll do it discreetly,” he added with a warning look.
“OK,” I said. “Settled!”
I was excited as it was my first and only participation in a Hassidic ‘Simcha.’
I arrived early and watched the Hassidic orchestra getting ready. Menachem was the producer and the organizer.
The orchestra set their amplifiers and speakers and tried their instruments. The saxophone player, tried the instrument. To my surprise, he played the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria. “He could not be a Hassid.” I was thinking.
The Brith was a happy affair; the orchestra played well and the music was appropriate. Menachem sang the Hassidic songs with the orchestra. He improvised beautifully. I realized I had been invited to hear Menachem sing. With him on the mike, the audience became ecstatic. They jumped and danced as if they were on drugs.
At the intermission, when Menachem went for quick Vodka, he stopped by me and whispered: “The fourth on the second row.” It was of course Mrs. Rabbi in the women’s section. I glanced over at her but she looked exactly like the other women.
At the end of the evening, I asked Menachem: “Do you always hire the same orchestra?”
“Yes. I like them, the audience likes them, and, most important, they let me sing with them,” said Menachem.
“I like the way you sing, Menachem. As I said to you many years ago, you need a professional teacher. You are a real musician.” Without waiting for his answer, I continued: “Do you really believe Hassidic outfits make the orchestra kosher?”
“How did you know they are not Hassidic?” asked Menachem. “Nobody knows it, and you did not even get close to them.”
I told Menachem about the Ave Maria and was very surprised to hear Menachem say: “music is just music and they’ll never find it in a million years.” It was the first time I heard Menachem refer to his community as ‘they’. It left me somewhat concerned.
During the following years, we met often. I was surprised to find he was not happy and drank a lot.
At one time Menachem told me as follows: “the Hassidic community is very supportive if you follow the herd. Me, I feel imprisoned sometimes; I wish I had been more courageous a few years ago followed my heart and my music.”
In his community, Menachem established his position as a teacher and a scholar. He founded a small school and became famous and wealthy before he was forty.
Menachem confessed one day “it was only because of our relationship that I was able to get into a rich Hassidic community abroad.
“How come?” I asked.
The parents of my students want them to cope with the real world. I could offer them the service because of you. I learned from you to have no fear of the outside world and I pass it on to them.”
We met once or twice a month but I never met anyone of his family. We always met on a Thursday and always at his initiative. I had his phone number but never used it. He would call me and we met always at Omry’s pub where Rabbi Menachem felt comfortable.
It was so odd to see a Hassid in a pub, people asked me if Menachem is a real Hassid or an under-cover something. Most of his students had cars, he picked different one each time to be his driver. (Real world experience). Sometimes he brought Shuki, another Hassidic friend. Shuki was a mortician who never learned to cope with death. He came to the pub to drown his agony.
About six weeks before the gulf war Menachem called me. “I do not have transportation; I need to talk to you.”
I felt the urgency in his voice. “After Omry’s, I need a lift to Jerusalem.”
Of course, I did not question his need to talk, and drove to Bney Brak to pick him up. We drove to Omry’s and sat at our regular table.
“I want you to do me two favors,” he said after we got our beers.” I need you to find a certain young woman for me.” He talked very fast and I did not like the way he said it.
“And what will happen to this young woman after I find her?” I asked.
“No, you don’t understand. You don’t have to tell anybody where she is, not even me.”
“Okay, Menachem,” I said, “Start from the beginning.”
“This girl is my niece,” said Menachem. “She ran away from home and is in hiding. The community, including my brother, her father, is anxious to find her. Some want to punish her and some just want to bring her back. She is determined to be a musician, and my brother won’t let her. It would disgrace our family, so my brother believes.”
Menachem took a long drink of his beer.
“She is very talented. With the help of my fake Hassidic orchestra, I managed to get her a guitar. The problem was that she had no a place to keep the guitar or to practice.
She was terrified her father would find the instrument and break it. So, she took it and disappeared. She changed her name. I know she takes guitar lessons and she has no money. I want you to find her and discover a way to give her money on monthly basis, without leaving a trail to me. You have to help me Yakov; she’ll never make it without my help.”
“This is heavy stuff,” I said to Menachem, “and what might your second request be?”
“I want you to buy me a CD with vocal jazz music and I want you to arrange for me to sing with a real jazz band, just once.”
The second request came to me as a big surprise; it did not fit into the place or the time, but it was easy for me to do. Two years earlier I founded a chamber music orchestra and had all the necessary contacts.
I drove Menachem to his home in Jerusalem; we did not talk during the trip. As Menachem got out of the car, I said to him: “Okay, Menachem, I’ll do it for you.”
There are not too many classic guitar teachers it was easy to find Menachem’s niece. I asked her to meet me and my musical director and we gave her an audition. Menachem was right.She was good.
I took her aside and told her about my relationship with her uncle, about the piano, his fake Hassidic orchestra, his love of music and his desire to sing with a jazz band, and about the allowance he planned to give her. “He does not want another frustrated musician in the family,” I explained. “He feels you did what he would like to have done but never had the courage,” she had tears in her eyes.
A jazz bandleader whom I knew personally, promised to let Rabbi Menachem sing with them. “The only problem is, we usually play in a church,” he said.
I told Menachem about the church and, to my surprise, he said: “A church is only a building. I am not planning to attend services. I simply have to do it.”
I gave Menachem a CD of the music they played and a date was set. Menachem’s singing was immature but he improvised like a professional, it was thrilling and very exiting. At the end of the session, the bandleader took me aside and said: “Your man is a musical genius but I cannot use him. He hasn’t any basic musical education and I cannot explain to him what I would require of him.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “He wanted no more than this opportunity.”
I took Menachem to Omry’s pub for a beer. We were about to sit down with the beers when the sirens went off. It was on the first night of the Scuds We put on our gas masks, took our drinks and went down to the ‘sealed room.’ We had four and a half minutes before a Scud Missile fell somewhere in Israel.
We consumed our beers slowly and quietly. I could not stop thinking about the other shelter forty-four years earlier. I had no idea it was to be our last beer together.
Two months later, Shuki called me and said: “I need a drink, and I need to see you. I am alone. Will you join me at Omry’s?”
It was not unusual for Shuki to want to have a drink it was peculiar he came alone. Of course I agreed.
We sat silently drinking and I waited for Shuki to speak. He did not say much but drank a lot. After his fourth Scotch, he excused himself, went out to his car and brought in a black plastic garbage bag. He handed it to me and said:
“Menachem had a stroke a month ago. It was his second. The first was very mild, about two months ago. He is now partially paralyzed and in a bad shape. He does not want to see you, or anyone else. He asks you to do him one last favor. He said you would know what to do with this bag.”
The bag had a knot on top and was heavy.
“Did he say anything else? Can I call him?”
“No.” said Shuki.
I decided to keep the bag closed until I got home.
In my garage, I untied the knot and discovered within a shoebox, full of small packages of ten thousand of dollars all in large bills.
I gave the shoebox to Menachem’s niece.
Shortly after, she left for Spain to continue her musical education.
---------------------------
In the summer of 1948, Jerusalem was under siege. The streets were fairly empty as every venture out of the house was risky because of the constant shelling. People had to queue for rationed water from cisterns. The Arabs had sabotaged all the water pumping stations along the road to Jerusalem. Also there was also no fresh food supply. No convoys could break through the ambushes and the blockades.
Each person was allowed two slices of bread per day. The only source of protein was the dried beans most people kept at home along with rice and pasta. As there was almost no cooking oil and no kerosene for the stoves; we learned to cook on wood fires outdoors.
When the shelling became very heavy, we would take cover in the closest bomb shelter. My father was busy with the defense forces, while my mother took care of the food supply, mainly queuing for rationed food. She made a shelter kit for me, containing some food, a canteen of water and a book. My job was to cook and to take care of my younger brother.
“I’ll be away for two minutes,” said my Mom and added humorously: “Don’t forget to stir the soup every fifteen minutes.”
One morning, while I was at the outdoor stove, I heard the familiar sound of a shell being shot. As usual, I removed the pot from the fire, took my brother’s hand, lifted my backpack and crossed the street to our bomb shelter.
The bombs fell closer. More and more panic-stricken people rushed in. A Hassidic lad about three years older than I, came and sat next to me. There were many seats around but he chose to sit by my side. I did not pay much attention to him and had no particular desire to talk.
I sat quietly and about to get my book out of my backpack, when suddenly, the Hassid turned to me and said: “My name is Menachem. I noticed you and your brother were the first in the shelter. How did you know it was coming?”
“It’s very simple,” I said. “The cannon is located at Nabi Samuel and always shoots in the same pattern. They start to shoot east of us, then turn the gun westward and shoot in sequence. Ours is the sixth shell, the seventh is aimed farther west of us, and the eighth one is ours again, as they backtrack. After they shoot thirty shells, they let the gun cool for exactly half an hour and then re-start.
“Are you telling me you know when to hide and how much time you have to spend in the shelter?” asked Menachem.
“Yes, but I am referring only to this gun. There are others as well.”
“You have to teach me,” said Menachem.
I was very pleased he wanted to know as most of the adults to whom I tried to explain the sequence, regarded me as a highly confused ten years old child. They were shocked someone so small and so stupid (in their opinion) should be left in charge of an even smaller sibling. “What kind of parents will leave two children unattended at time like this” they whispered to one another.
I had some precocious knowledge of the subject as my father drew the civil defense maps and charts on which the types of guns and their locations were clearly marked. My mother was the only adult who trusted my observations and her food-gathering schedule was planned according to my intelligence reports.
“Ok,” I said to Menachem, “I’ll teach you. My name is Yakov.”
“There are two kinds of shells,” I said, the canon shells, If you know the direction it is coming from, a tall building can give you very good protection. You can identify the shell by the sound:. The shot, the whistle and the explosion. If the whistle and the explosion come together and very loud, check if you’re dead. The mortar shells are more dangerous as they are come down in straight lines. They fall inside courtyards, narrow alleys and so on. The only warning you get is the sound when the shell is fired. A continuous dull rumbling follows this sound. If you hear it, run immediately for shelter as you have a very short time.”
I could tell Menachem was impressed. We practiced the various sounds and made a chart to predict the next bomb with great accuracy. It was very pleasant to have someone with whom to speak. Most of the children in the shelter were huddled around their parents and were always scared.
Menachem and I both looked forward to getting together. Unfortunately, we could meet in no other place but the shelter. I would become the laughing stock of my friends in the neighborhood if I were seen with him. If he were seen with me, he would be grounded forever! We had to rely on the goodwill of the Arabs to spend time together.
As days passed, I discovered Menachem was interested in subjects like geography and science. I did my best to share some of my knowledge. I showed him my schoolbooks and he started even to read a Jules Verne book but only in the shelter, of course.
Once, after spending a whole night in the shelter, Menachem decided not to go home. He told me nobody at home would queue for food and there was not enough for his younger brothers and sister. “They’ll have more to eat if I do not go home” he said.
We had enough food at home. My father with an experience of two big wars, had bought spaghetti, rice, dried beans and canned food in commercial quantities. I suggested to Menachem he eat with us. Menachem refused at first, as our food was not kosher enough for him. After some debate, we found a solution: Menachem would get his own pot and I would cook his food separately.
With the new cooking arrangement, Menachem spent more time with me and felt more and more comfortable. One day, he even dared to enter my home and was fascinated with the objects he saw. For him, it was like a visit to another planet. He saw my father’s paints and paintings, the drafting table, the survey equipment, the blueprint frame and more. He was very interested and wanted to learn everything at once. He stopped suddenly by the piano and said, “What’s this?”
“A piano,” I said. “Let me show you.” I was not surprised he didn’t know what a piano was, he didn’t know anything. I sat down and played the opening bars from “To Alice” by Beethoven. I played for a minute, stopped and looked up at Menachem. He was mesmerized. Without a word, he took my place on the bench and tried out the notes with his ears cocked as though listening carefully. Slowly he advanced and played two more notes. His discordant chords transformed slowly into music. Not so clear at first, but soon, with hesitation, the opening bars of “to Alice” emerged from one hand, later joined with chords from the other hand. He made very few mistakes.
As I heard Menachem play, I got goose bumps. It was eerie. What was going on? How could a person, who never saw a piano in his life did not know even what a piano was, start playing like this? He had watched me for just one minute and then played as well as I did after two years of learning.
From that day on, Menachem’s first love was the piano; we spent most of our time together sitting at the instrument. I was sure Menachem would make little progress without a real teacher. I tried very hard to convince him to join me at one of my piano lessons, but he refused. Despite his limited knowledge Menachem started composing. He did not want to spoil his ecstasy with theory or learning to read notes.
Menachem’s honeymoon with the piano lasted only two months. One afternoon after a heavy shelling, we returned to the house to find the piano had been blown away. Menachem was sad and depressed. He was convinced it was an act of God to stop him from playing music. When I reminded him King David played the harp and it was definitely not against God’s wish to play musical instruments, his answer was: “You don't understand. David’s harp was sacred”.
I could not and would not debate this stand.
A few weeks later, when the bombing stopped and the road to Jerusalem was opened, Menachem stopped coming. I only saw Menachem one more time, when he told me he wanted to become a rabbi.
Five years went by before I saw him again.
One afternoon, as I left school at the end of the classes and walked home with my friends, I saw Menachem walking towards me. He did not stop. We made eye contact and he gave a tiny head gesture, indicating his desire to talk. I excused myself from my friends and followed him. We spoke as though we had seen each other only yesterday.
He told me he had done very well in his studies and he was almost a qualified rabbi.
We filled the five years gap with information about ourselves. Menachem, after some hesitation, asked me: “Did you buy a new piano?”
“No,” I answered, “but if you want to play, I have some friends who will definitely let you play.”
“No,” he said, “I want a package deal: you and the piano. I miss music very much - not just playing - I miss listening. I wish I could learn some theory, some musical terms, things I feel about music but don’t know.”
“How can I help?”
He ignored my interruption.
“Every Saturday, after the Morning Prayer, I take a walk in a secular neighborhood. I sit on a bench, listening to the Saturday morning chamber music program from someone’s radio. I feel the music all around me, penetrating my skin and getting into my bones.”
I really felt sorry for him.
“Do you want to get together some time, maybe we’ll listen to music?” I said.
“Yes, I’ll write to you. Goodbye now.” He said and walked away quickly.
“Why did Menachem go through all the trouble to find me?” I thought. My school was quite far from his home. I could not believe he did it just to find out if I had a piano? Why didn’t he just stop and talk? Why the hiding, the mystery? Perhaps he needed some other kind of help? Perhaps the piano was an excuse? I did not have the answers.
I waited for him to show up again. But Menachem did not contact me.
Four years after that meeting, I returned to the old neighborhood to take out a girl I was dating. Down the street, Menachem spotted me. This time he approached me with a big smile, “Hello!”
While I was pleased to see him, I was a little angry too. “Look Menachem,” I said, “I’m in a hurry. I have a date with a girl who lives around here and I’m late.”
“Do I know her?” asked Menachem,
“Since when are you interested in secular women?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I owe you an explanation.”
After a pause he added: “Listen carefully to what I have to say. I’ll say it only once. Nobody has heard it before and I’ll never repeat it.
Four years ago, I loved a girl who was not a Hassid. I did not know how to approach her or how to talk to her. I was afraid she would make fun of me. My thoughts drove me crazy.”
“Was that the reason you wanted to talk to me back then?” I interrupted.
“Yes. I had the fantasy I would come to play your piano and you would invite the girl. I wanted her to see me in a different light.”
“Menachem, let me tell you, rabbi or not, you are the biggest shmock ever born! If you had only spoken to me at the time, I would have arranged it without a piano,” I said. “Who is the lady?”
“You know her very well, but I am married now. I have a son two years old and my wife is pregnant again. I married through a matchmaker and have learned to love my wife.”
“Good for you!” I said.
“I want you to come tomorrow to my nephew’s Brith. Please, come as my guest.”
I was intrigued. It was the first time he was ready to admit friendship with someone outside his community. “I’ll be delighted to come,” I said. “Will you introduce me to Mrs. Rabbi?”
“I’ll show you where to look,” promised Menachem, “but you’ll do it discreetly,” he added with a warning look.
“OK,” I said. “Settled!”
I was excited as it was my first and only participation in a Hassidic ‘Simcha.’
I arrived early and watched the Hassidic orchestra getting ready. Menachem was the producer and the organizer.
The orchestra set their amplifiers and speakers and tried their instruments. The saxophone player, tried the instrument. To my surprise, he played the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria. “He could not be a Hassid.” I was thinking.
The Brith was a happy affair; the orchestra played well and the music was appropriate. Menachem sang the Hassidic songs with the orchestra. He improvised beautifully. I realized I had been invited to hear Menachem sing. With him on the mike, the audience became ecstatic. They jumped and danced as if they were on drugs.
At the intermission, when Menachem went for quick Vodka, he stopped by me and whispered: “The fourth on the second row.” It was of course Mrs. Rabbi in the women’s section. I glanced over at her but she looked exactly like the other women.
At the end of the evening, I asked Menachem: “Do you always hire the same orchestra?”
“Yes. I like them, the audience likes them, and, most important, they let me sing with them,” said Menachem.
“I like the way you sing, Menachem. As I said to you many years ago, you need a professional teacher. You are a real musician.” Without waiting for his answer, I continued: “Do you really believe Hassidic outfits make the orchestra kosher?”
“How did you know they are not Hassidic?” asked Menachem. “Nobody knows it, and you did not even get close to them.”
I told Menachem about the Ave Maria and was very surprised to hear Menachem say: “music is just music and they’ll never find it in a million years.” It was the first time I heard Menachem refer to his community as ‘they’. It left me somewhat concerned.
During the following years, we met often. I was surprised to find he was not happy and drank a lot.
At one time Menachem told me as follows: “the Hassidic community is very supportive if you follow the herd. Me, I feel imprisoned sometimes; I wish I had been more courageous a few years ago followed my heart and my music.”
In his community, Menachem established his position as a teacher and a scholar. He founded a small school and became famous and wealthy before he was forty.
Menachem confessed one day “it was only because of our relationship that I was able to get into a rich Hassidic community abroad.
“How come?” I asked.
The parents of my students want them to cope with the real world. I could offer them the service because of you. I learned from you to have no fear of the outside world and I pass it on to them.”
We met once or twice a month but I never met anyone of his family. We always met on a Thursday and always at his initiative. I had his phone number but never used it. He would call me and we met always at Omry’s pub where Rabbi Menachem felt comfortable.
It was so odd to see a Hassid in a pub, people asked me if Menachem is a real Hassid or an under-cover something. Most of his students had cars, he picked different one each time to be his driver. (Real world experience). Sometimes he brought Shuki, another Hassidic friend. Shuki was a mortician who never learned to cope with death. He came to the pub to drown his agony.
About six weeks before the gulf war Menachem called me. “I do not have transportation; I need to talk to you.”
I felt the urgency in his voice. “After Omry’s, I need a lift to Jerusalem.”
Of course, I did not question his need to talk, and drove to Bney Brak to pick him up. We drove to Omry’s and sat at our regular table.
“I want you to do me two favors,” he said after we got our beers.” I need you to find a certain young woman for me.” He talked very fast and I did not like the way he said it.
“And what will happen to this young woman after I find her?” I asked.
“No, you don’t understand. You don’t have to tell anybody where she is, not even me.”
“Okay, Menachem,” I said, “Start from the beginning.”
“This girl is my niece,” said Menachem. “She ran away from home and is in hiding. The community, including my brother, her father, is anxious to find her. Some want to punish her and some just want to bring her back. She is determined to be a musician, and my brother won’t let her. It would disgrace our family, so my brother believes.”
Menachem took a long drink of his beer.
“She is very talented. With the help of my fake Hassidic orchestra, I managed to get her a guitar. The problem was that she had no a place to keep the guitar or to practice.
She was terrified her father would find the instrument and break it. So, she took it and disappeared. She changed her name. I know she takes guitar lessons and she has no money. I want you to find her and discover a way to give her money on monthly basis, without leaving a trail to me. You have to help me Yakov; she’ll never make it without my help.”
“This is heavy stuff,” I said to Menachem, “and what might your second request be?”
“I want you to buy me a CD with vocal jazz music and I want you to arrange for me to sing with a real jazz band, just once.”
The second request came to me as a big surprise; it did not fit into the place or the time, but it was easy for me to do. Two years earlier I founded a chamber music orchestra and had all the necessary contacts.
I drove Menachem to his home in Jerusalem; we did not talk during the trip. As Menachem got out of the car, I said to him: “Okay, Menachem, I’ll do it for you.”
There are not too many classic guitar teachers it was easy to find Menachem’s niece. I asked her to meet me and my musical director and we gave her an audition. Menachem was right.She was good.
I took her aside and told her about my relationship with her uncle, about the piano, his fake Hassidic orchestra, his love of music and his desire to sing with a jazz band, and about the allowance he planned to give her. “He does not want another frustrated musician in the family,” I explained. “He feels you did what he would like to have done but never had the courage,” she had tears in her eyes.
A jazz bandleader whom I knew personally, promised to let Rabbi Menachem sing with them. “The only problem is, we usually play in a church,” he said.
I told Menachem about the church and, to my surprise, he said: “A church is only a building. I am not planning to attend services. I simply have to do it.”
I gave Menachem a CD of the music they played and a date was set. Menachem’s singing was immature but he improvised like a professional, it was thrilling and very exiting. At the end of the session, the bandleader took me aside and said: “Your man is a musical genius but I cannot use him. He hasn’t any basic musical education and I cannot explain to him what I would require of him.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “He wanted no more than this opportunity.”
I took Menachem to Omry’s pub for a beer. We were about to sit down with the beers when the sirens went off. It was on the first night of the Scuds We put on our gas masks, took our drinks and went down to the ‘sealed room.’ We had four and a half minutes before a Scud Missile fell somewhere in Israel.
We consumed our beers slowly and quietly. I could not stop thinking about the other shelter forty-four years earlier. I had no idea it was to be our last beer together.
Two months later, Shuki called me and said: “I need a drink, and I need to see you. I am alone. Will you join me at Omry’s?”
It was not unusual for Shuki to want to have a drink it was peculiar he came alone. Of course I agreed.
We sat silently drinking and I waited for Shuki to speak. He did not say much but drank a lot. After his fourth Scotch, he excused himself, went out to his car and brought in a black plastic garbage bag. He handed it to me and said:
“Menachem had a stroke a month ago. It was his second. The first was very mild, about two months ago. He is now partially paralyzed and in a bad shape. He does not want to see you, or anyone else. He asks you to do him one last favor. He said you would know what to do with this bag.”
The bag had a knot on top and was heavy.
“Did he say anything else? Can I call him?”
“No.” said Shuki.
I decided to keep the bag closed until I got home.
In my garage, I untied the knot and discovered within a shoebox, full of small packages of ten thousand of dollars all in large bills.
I gave the shoebox to Menachem’s niece.
Shortly after, she left for Spain to continue her musical education.
---------------------------
Thursday, April 17, 2008
interstate motel
THE INTERSTATE MOTEL
Bill and I were driving the company’s Town-Car towards Albany NY from our main office in Fort Lee NJ. Despite the adverse weather conditions - the high winds, the poor visibility and the soaking wet road - we were in good humor. We had been invited to the board meeting at the Hilton as honorary guests to speak about our sales strategy.
Bill and I, Vice Presidents of Sales and Marketing, had succeeded in the last year in doubling the production and increasing sales revenue by 40%, a significant achievement after five years of stagnant business. Our success was primarily due to our teamwork, an obscene word in the world of individuals out for themselves.
We did not like the corporate atmosphere, nor did we like our colleagues, but we did our job well.
We made many enemies. They called us scornfully ‘the team’, or ‘the couple’. The other Vice Presidents were jealous and hated us. The C.E.O., Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, came under a lot of pressure to break up our alliance and reduce our power and influence. The rumors were the Board would vote to promote us to a position abroad, thus keeping us away from headquarters. We did not know whether to be joyful or upset, but we were pleased with the fat Christmas bonus promised us. We did not think about the future. Our immediate goal was to succeed in our presentation. We planned to show our successes were not an accident; we had no thoughts of being nice to our fellow vice presidents. But first we had to get to the Hilton.
After an hour of slow driving, we hit a traffic tie-up. The radio informed us that a multi-car accident on the New York state throughway had jammed it completely. We inched forward covering about a mile in two hours until we reached an exit which we took. We cruised along an endless street with many motels, all advertising 'No Vacancies.' The last motel on the street, just before the re-entry to the highway, and across the street from a state police station, had a single vacancy.
It was a typical interstate motel with its musty smell, flimsy plastic cups, and two squares of soap the size and thickness of an “After Eight” chocolate wafer. The towels were transparent, and slightly larger than a washrag.
“If anyone hears about this it’s the end of our career,” said Bill.
“We won't use the company credit card. We'll pay in cash,” said I.
“Agreed,” said he.
We slept well. The next morning at 07:45, we were ready to move. We had on our fancy, dark, one-thousand-dollar suits. We looked out of place in this crummy motel. We could only joke about our misfortune.
“We did not meet the Members of the Board,” I said “did not share a drink with them, and had to settle for a Big Mack for dinner,” I said it a bit loud Bill was in the bathroom finishing adjusting his tie.
As we were talking, our next-door neighbor started banging on the wall and screaming: “Stop that noise and be quiet you schmuks. ” He continued with more words of which I was not sure I knew the spelling.
“This man is calling us names,” said Bill.
“He must be crazy,” I said.
“We have to teach him a lesson,” said Bill. “No one, who stays in a dump like this may talk to me without permission.”
“Maybe we should give him a flat tire,” I said in an undertone.
“A very good idea, but unfortunately, illegal.”
“It’s almost eight. The people who spent the night must already be gone. This is not a Club Med resort. He should be in a strait-jacket.”
We were about to retaliate with advice to the man to go multiply with his mother when we heard him getting into the shower.
“Let’s play a little game,” I said. “The showers, ours and his, have a common wall and that gives me an idea.”
Bill looked at me expectantly.
“On my command,” I said to Bill, “you open the cold water tap to the maximum. When the idiot adjusts the water to a comfortable temperature, then I'll signal you to close the tap and open the hot. While you do it with the sink taps, I will do it with the shower. We'll have to put our ears on the wall, as the noise of the running water will prevent us from hearing his shouts when he freezes. We’ll repeat the cycle as many times as we please, or as long as he stays in the shower.”
After the second crescendo of yells, the man started abusing the world. The noise more than disturbed our peaceful stay in the motel, so we informed the person behind the wall, at the top of our lungs and accompanied with vigorous bangs on the wall, that we were not amused. “Watch your language, idiot. This is a respectable motel.”
We stopped banging when we heard the man screaming on the phone. The man’s debate with the hotel manager was about the shower. He yelled at the manager for five minutes non-stop before hanging up.
It was the right time for Bill to telephone the manager: “Look sir," he said in an offended tone, "it’s none of my business, but I think the man in room 16 has gone berserk. He is yelling and screaming and I believe he is breaking the furniture.”
Since our college days, we had not had so much fun.
Two and a half minutes later, we heard the siren from across the street. We took our bags and started to move towards our car.
Two officers came out of the patrol car both with their hands on their holsters. One moved close to the door, while the other called through a megaphone: “You, in room 16, come out with your hands up.”
A bare-footed man, bold, about sixty years old, came out wearing a white tee shirt barely covering his belly and blue striped underpants revealing thin white legs.
He held his hand up and trembled violently. The scene was grotesque.
“Place your hands on the wall and spread your legs wide.”
While the man turned slowly to the wall, he looked at us. with that short but very meaningful look we realizes, We were staring incredulously into the wigless face of Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, Chairman of the Board and active C.E.O. Bill and I felt like garden slugs sprinkled with salt, slowly shrinking and disappearing into a puddle of ooze.
The officer prepared to frisk Cornelius Jr. Without turning to us, he said brusquely: “You, with the fancy suits, get in your car and buzz off.”
The other officer went into the room with the owner of the motel and returned very quickly.
“Do you want to press charges?” asked the officer.
“No, no, nothing happened, no charges,” said the motel owner.
Cornelius Jr. was now escorted into the room. We started the engine and drove away. The air smelled of ‘disaster’. Our future seemed very murky.
At the entrance to the conference room, Cornelius’ secretary approached us and said: “Mr. Cornelius had to attend an unexpected affair and will be late. The Board meeting has been rescheduled. You will not be giving your presentation. The banquet is now only for Board members and their spouses and a few members of the press. Your names have been removed from the list.”
We were not surprised!
“Let’s go home before they confiscate our car,” I said to Bill.
“Do you think he knows we did the water trick?"
“Absolutely.”
“So in two weeks at the end of the year party, everybody will get an envelope. Ours will be with pink slips.”
“You can bet on it.”
“Let's resign first thing in the morning. It will stop any activity against us. We’ll tell him we decided, after a lot of thinking, to found our own consulting company. We will tell him what a pleasure it was working for him.” .…
The next morning we stepped into Cornelius office with our letters in hand. Cornelius opened them and read them expressionless.
“Next time you practice ‘teamwork’, make sure to document it with a photo,” said Cornelius.
We looked at each other baffled by what he meant. “You see,” he continued with his sphinx-like expression, had you shown me a photo of me in my striped under pants, imagine how you could have persuaded me to keep you here forever.”
Bill and I were driving the company’s Town-Car towards Albany NY from our main office in Fort Lee NJ. Despite the adverse weather conditions - the high winds, the poor visibility and the soaking wet road - we were in good humor. We had been invited to the board meeting at the Hilton as honorary guests to speak about our sales strategy.
Bill and I, Vice Presidents of Sales and Marketing, had succeeded in the last year in doubling the production and increasing sales revenue by 40%, a significant achievement after five years of stagnant business. Our success was primarily due to our teamwork, an obscene word in the world of individuals out for themselves.
We did not like the corporate atmosphere, nor did we like our colleagues, but we did our job well.
We made many enemies. They called us scornfully ‘the team’, or ‘the couple’. The other Vice Presidents were jealous and hated us. The C.E.O., Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, came under a lot of pressure to break up our alliance and reduce our power and influence. The rumors were the Board would vote to promote us to a position abroad, thus keeping us away from headquarters. We did not know whether to be joyful or upset, but we were pleased with the fat Christmas bonus promised us. We did not think about the future. Our immediate goal was to succeed in our presentation. We planned to show our successes were not an accident; we had no thoughts of being nice to our fellow vice presidents. But first we had to get to the Hilton.
After an hour of slow driving, we hit a traffic tie-up. The radio informed us that a multi-car accident on the New York state throughway had jammed it completely. We inched forward covering about a mile in two hours until we reached an exit which we took. We cruised along an endless street with many motels, all advertising 'No Vacancies.' The last motel on the street, just before the re-entry to the highway, and across the street from a state police station, had a single vacancy.
It was a typical interstate motel with its musty smell, flimsy plastic cups, and two squares of soap the size and thickness of an “After Eight” chocolate wafer. The towels were transparent, and slightly larger than a washrag.
“If anyone hears about this it’s the end of our career,” said Bill.
“We won't use the company credit card. We'll pay in cash,” said I.
“Agreed,” said he.
We slept well. The next morning at 07:45, we were ready to move. We had on our fancy, dark, one-thousand-dollar suits. We looked out of place in this crummy motel. We could only joke about our misfortune.
“We did not meet the Members of the Board,” I said “did not share a drink with them, and had to settle for a Big Mack for dinner,” I said it a bit loud Bill was in the bathroom finishing adjusting his tie.
As we were talking, our next-door neighbor started banging on the wall and screaming: “Stop that noise and be quiet you schmuks. ” He continued with more words of which I was not sure I knew the spelling.
“This man is calling us names,” said Bill.
“He must be crazy,” I said.
“We have to teach him a lesson,” said Bill. “No one, who stays in a dump like this may talk to me without permission.”
“Maybe we should give him a flat tire,” I said in an undertone.
“A very good idea, but unfortunately, illegal.”
“It’s almost eight. The people who spent the night must already be gone. This is not a Club Med resort. He should be in a strait-jacket.”
We were about to retaliate with advice to the man to go multiply with his mother when we heard him getting into the shower.
“Let’s play a little game,” I said. “The showers, ours and his, have a common wall and that gives me an idea.”
Bill looked at me expectantly.
“On my command,” I said to Bill, “you open the cold water tap to the maximum. When the idiot adjusts the water to a comfortable temperature, then I'll signal you to close the tap and open the hot. While you do it with the sink taps, I will do it with the shower. We'll have to put our ears on the wall, as the noise of the running water will prevent us from hearing his shouts when he freezes. We’ll repeat the cycle as many times as we please, or as long as he stays in the shower.”
After the second crescendo of yells, the man started abusing the world. The noise more than disturbed our peaceful stay in the motel, so we informed the person behind the wall, at the top of our lungs and accompanied with vigorous bangs on the wall, that we were not amused. “Watch your language, idiot. This is a respectable motel.”
We stopped banging when we heard the man screaming on the phone. The man’s debate with the hotel manager was about the shower. He yelled at the manager for five minutes non-stop before hanging up.
It was the right time for Bill to telephone the manager: “Look sir," he said in an offended tone, "it’s none of my business, but I think the man in room 16 has gone berserk. He is yelling and screaming and I believe he is breaking the furniture.”
Since our college days, we had not had so much fun.
Two and a half minutes later, we heard the siren from across the street. We took our bags and started to move towards our car.
Two officers came out of the patrol car both with their hands on their holsters. One moved close to the door, while the other called through a megaphone: “You, in room 16, come out with your hands up.”
A bare-footed man, bold, about sixty years old, came out wearing a white tee shirt barely covering his belly and blue striped underpants revealing thin white legs.
He held his hand up and trembled violently. The scene was grotesque.
“Place your hands on the wall and spread your legs wide.”
While the man turned slowly to the wall, he looked at us. with that short but very meaningful look we realizes, We were staring incredulously into the wigless face of Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, Chairman of the Board and active C.E.O. Bill and I felt like garden slugs sprinkled with salt, slowly shrinking and disappearing into a puddle of ooze.
The officer prepared to frisk Cornelius Jr. Without turning to us, he said brusquely: “You, with the fancy suits, get in your car and buzz off.”
The other officer went into the room with the owner of the motel and returned very quickly.
“Do you want to press charges?” asked the officer.
“No, no, nothing happened, no charges,” said the motel owner.
Cornelius Jr. was now escorted into the room. We started the engine and drove away. The air smelled of ‘disaster’. Our future seemed very murky.
At the entrance to the conference room, Cornelius’ secretary approached us and said: “Mr. Cornelius had to attend an unexpected affair and will be late. The Board meeting has been rescheduled. You will not be giving your presentation. The banquet is now only for Board members and their spouses and a few members of the press. Your names have been removed from the list.”
We were not surprised!
“Let’s go home before they confiscate our car,” I said to Bill.
“Do you think he knows we did the water trick?"
“Absolutely.”
“So in two weeks at the end of the year party, everybody will get an envelope. Ours will be with pink slips.”
“You can bet on it.”
“Let's resign first thing in the morning. It will stop any activity against us. We’ll tell him we decided, after a lot of thinking, to found our own consulting company. We will tell him what a pleasure it was working for him.” .…
The next morning we stepped into Cornelius office with our letters in hand. Cornelius opened them and read them expressionless.
“Next time you practice ‘teamwork’, make sure to document it with a photo,” said Cornelius.
We looked at each other baffled by what he meant. “You see,” he continued with his sphinx-like expression, had you shown me a photo of me in my striped under pants, imagine how you could have persuaded me to keep you here forever.”
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Nice ride
Nice Ride
Hagai Cohen
Captain Isaac, First officer Sam, and I flew a night cargo flight from Chicago to Amsterdam. It was 7:00 am when we arrived and we were tired. Our station manager met us at the foot of the steps as we disembarked.
"You are booked at the Okura hotel," he told us.
"It is the new crew hotel which had its grand opening last night. It belongs to a Japanese chain. It is the tallest building in Amsterdam. All the rooms have a view of the city".
He was shooting all the information he could remember.
"The rest is on your crew-briefing sheet".
“Who cares now how fancy the hotel is?” I was thinking, All I wanted is to get to bed as soon as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, we were at the hotel.
The station manager was right: The hotel building looked very impressive; the lobby was magnificent but our minds were on the beds.
There was a special check-in counter for crew members. Japan's airline crew was ahead at the counter. They were done with the checking in, but they all remained clustered together like children on a school trip waiting for instructions.
When we were done with checking in we started walking towards the elevator. Three Japanese women who left the group were also walking towards the same elevator.
“This is odd”, said Sam
“looks as if the ladies waited for us to press the buttons before they started moving.”
The women walked with tiny steps, as their dresses were long and tight.
“With those dresses,” said Isaac
“They could make a maximum of one mile per hour.”
“How can they move fast enough and get five hundred passengers to the slides, in case of evacuation”? I asked.
“Don’t you know?” said Isaac, “It is all in their cabin safety manual, they get undressed in an emergency.”
One of the women wore a colorful silk dress with an odd-looking parcel attached to the back. This lady exuded dignity and authority in her deportment. We let the ladies get into the elevator ahead of us.
All crew members of Japan Airlines have mandatory behavior codes even when not on duty. They are not allowed to use bellboys service but have to carry their own suitcases which take up a lot of space in the elevator, so only three people were allowed to ride in one elevator. Well, six of us crowded in the hotel elevator, three Japanese ladies with three identical suitcases, three identical matching pocketbooks, and the three of us with our flight bags. We pressed the relevant buttons; the door of the elevator closed and we started the ascent towards our final destination; the beds.
Two seconds after the initial movement, the elevator came to an abrupt standstill. The bright light went off and so did the fan. A tiny emergency light came on. Isaac, our captain, was the first to recover from the surprise. He picked up the elevator emergency phone while saying to us,
"Let’s hope it is not a fire and only an electrical problem. A fire through an elevator shaft could be very incinerating."
The operator was polite:
"I’ll call engineering and get back to you,” she said.
She called us shortly to tell us that engineering had called the elevator company, and that the emergency crew had been summoned.
"They are fifteen minutes away." She assured us.
The assistant manager broke into the conversation:
"You will be out in five minutes”.
We did have some difficulty with the operator’s fifteen minutes and the assistant manager’s five. Of course, we expressed our disrespect to the Japanese management, as Isaac explained about the light and the shrinking of time was Einstein's theory, and we are probably witnessing it now.
Isaac was known throughout the airline for his sense of humor and his ability to give long explanations about nothing. Isaac’s remarks did not change the fact that we were stuck between the second and the third floor, and that inside the box, the temperature and the humidity were rising rapidly.
“It is going to take a while, definitely more than fifteen minutes,” I said.
Sam the first officer was a cheerful person that never panicked. He was the right person to be trapped within a defective elevator. Sam however had one small problem, he was a pathological gambler. Sam would bet on anything.
Even the stalled elevator could not cure Sam’s bad habit.
"I bet you my bottle of vodka that we’ll be out of here in ten minutes" said Sam.
"My bottle of scotch against your vodka". I said in response.
Ten minutes later, like a good gambler who always pays his debts, Sam opened his bag and handed me the bottle of vodka. Of course, I had to check the merchandise so I opened the seal and sniffed at it. It did not have any smell, a little sip and again it did not have any taste. Another good sign. I must say it had the smoothness that only good vodka can have and Sam knew his vodkas.
"Let me buy you a drink," I said to Sam and handed him the bottle. Sam took a gulp.
“What about my commission as a witness and the timekeeper," said Isaac taking the bottle from Sam.
Of course we had to have a good excuse for drinking at eight o’clock in the morning; we were simply evaluating the quality of the vodka. We assessed it for smoothness, dryness, and the after taste; we found it benevolent, but impish. We checked how fast one becomes thirsty after a gulp of vodka; we studied "the rate of absorption" and more. Already we were a few rounds up when I remembered that we were not alone in the elevator. The three Japanese girls stood behind the suitcases without saying a word and inscrutable.
As a polite gesture, I raised the bottle and moved towards the direction of the lady with the colorful silk dress and the backpack. She was ready for it. She raised her index finger and said, in a high musical voice
"NO, NO Japanese lady no drink".
I passed the bottle to Isaac, looked at her, and raised my finger the way she did and said, with a good imitation of her voice: "NO, NO Jewish gentleman no tell". We were already “high” and in good mood. My stupid little joke was the trigger that made us laugh, almost to tears, the Japanese girls remained expressionless.
The joke, unfortunately, caught Isaac at a bad moment. He was guzzling the vodka and as he heard my comment. He choked and laughed simultaneously and splattered vodka through his nostrils.
It took a split second for the Japanese lady, the one with the pillow, to place herself behind Isaac. She put her arms around his stomach and gave him the Heimlich maneuver. It seemed to work in Isaac’s case quite well. Isaac stopped choking and stopped laughing. Isaac was gasping for air. With the help of some more Vodka, Isaac recovered.
This incident caused the Japanese ladies to loosen a little. Now they seemed to be suffering from ‘
Acute Gastro Giggelitis’ a known Japanese syndrome. I raised my index finger as before and said
"NO! NO! Japanese ladies no laugh.” It was the snowball that started the avalanche. The ladies began to laugh and this laughter was most certainly against regulations.
All of a sudden a small hand gesture from the backpack lady and the laughter stopped. She summoned the girls to the corner of the elevator and conducted a brief conference. I had no idea why they were whispering, we would not have understood a single word, even if they had used a megaphone.
The conference was over; the three ladies opened their suitcases and got out some clothes. The backpack lady approached us and said:
"Jewish gentlemen turn now, Jewish gentlemen no look". By now this form of speech had become a joke between us, the ladies spoke relatively good English and this was their way to break the ice. Five minutes later she said:
“Jewish Gentlemen now look". We could hardly wait, and what we saw were three ladies in shorts and T-shirts. My immediate comment was:
"Japanese lady can now run fast, Jewish gentleman no catch." Then asked:
"Japanese lady now drink?" We offered the bottle and they didn’t refuse. Starting with the backpack lady, they all took a drink. The suitcases were now flat on the floor, forming an L shape and we sat down on them with a measure of comfort. The only problem was the heat. We learned from the rescue team, that they could not free us unless the elevator is on the top floor.
"There has been a complete failure of the electronic system.
“We are afraid to connect the power". They told us. “Without the power”, the electrician explained we have to crank the elevator manually. It will take a while”.
"I bet you my bottle of scotch,” I said to Sam
“ We are out of here before we finish the vodka and I am willing to take an IOU,"
“You are going to lose,” said Sam
“I will get your scotch and it will remain closed. I do not drink scotch without ice.”
"Is that so!" exclaimed Isaac
"That can be fixed."
He picked up the phone.
"Get me the general manager.” He said to the operator.
The man was immediately online.
"Look sir!" said Isaac.
"We are sweating we are thirsty and we are hungry. Get a long rope, attach a bucket to the rope make sure it is attached to the end of the rope. Put ice and soda inside the bucket and pass it to us through the hatch in the ceiling. In another bucket send some baguettes and cheeses.”
It definitely made the proper impression. The buckets appeared like magic. But it was difficult to get the bucket into the hatch with a nine-floor-long rope. The bucket people started to swing the heavy bucket, the bucket banged against the shaft walls while missing the hatch.
Isaac found it amusing He cried OL’e and clapped his hands every time the bucket missed the hatch. Soon we joined in the Japanese girls too and we all gave encouragement to the bucket-crew.
Finely when I felt that I’d had enough of it, I stood a suitcase against the wall I climbed on it while Sam supported me from the back. Thus with my hands through the hatch, I managed to grab the bucket and direct it downwards. The bucket was now in, but it had collected a lot of greases that transferred itself to my hands. The only way to clean my hands was to rub them on the new floor rug. With my dirty hands extended I looked around for approval. They looked at me silently.
“what the heck"! I said "This is not dirt, its elevator lubricant” and cleaned my hands on the rug. The second bucket with the baguette and the fine selection of French cheeses came in easy.
As the level of the spirit in the bottle dropped, our spirits rose. We were having a lot of fun. We taught the girls some Hebrew songs and we learned Japanese songs. They made us practice and practice; they were intolerable to mistakes. We learned one Japanese song fairly well.
“Il Sestetto Di Alto Spirito” could be heard all over the elevator shaft. We learned from the ladies that the women in Japan are not allowed to drink in public; a special Jell-O made out of beer was invented so they could eat the beer with a spoon. We covered many topics. We also got to discuss Japanese ladies' bathrooms. It was revealed that in women’s toilets in Japan there is a button that makes the flushing noise without real flushing; to cover for inadvertent noises.
The hatch in the ceiling gave us some relief from the heat but not much. It was Isaac again that gave cause for laughter. "This box is probably the "mixed sauna" that they advertise in the hotel brochure." He said.
The rescue team worked hard. Two people were cranking us up very slowly. An hour and fifty minutes had passed since the initial movement of the elevator. our salvation was near. They talked to us non-stop but we gave them less and less attention. As we got more and more drunk, we no longer gave a damn about the rescue team or anything else.
Five minutes later, the door opened and we were blinded by the very bright light.
The general manager came to greet the survivors in person. What he saw left him to stop open-mouthed. Six people on the elevator floor, among empty liqueur bottles, a pile of jackets, shirts, ties, a messy carpet with baguette crumbs all over it, and of course buckets with the leftovers of the emergency supplies. The general manager apologized but we gestured him to go. He did not seem to understand so Sam had to spell it out, "Go away, and just leave us”.
The general manager instead of leaving us alone whispered something in the ear of the house detective, who whispered in the ears of some more security people.
The able-bodied gorillas went into action and dragged us out, They held me under my arms and pulled me backward on my heels which plowed the carpet, with my hands I held the sleeves of the gorillas and My fingerprints left a very good impression on their shirts. Behind me, Isaac was dragged out in the same manner. Behind Isaac, the general manager walked in precession.
All of a sudden Isaac managed to get on his feet walking backward while still being dragged. He eyed the general manager and with a heavily intoxicated tongue said: "Japanese general manager, HARAKIRI NOW! You party crasher!”
He remained inscrutable.
the end
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Fancy cars
By Hagai Cohen
Mao Tse Tung said once that even a trip of a thousands miles starts with one step. Well maybe it is true but, in modern aviation, this proverb should be paraphrased: Even a trip of one mile starts with a thousand steps.
There are many people involved in the process of making an airplane fly, and although I have forty years of flying experience, an airplane in flight to me is still a miracle. There are so many reasons why an airplane should not fly that, every time it does, I am surprised.
We were assigned to fly a Boeing cargo 747 from London to Amsterdam. The average flight time is about 40 minutes. Yet, for the crew it is a full five hours work.
A short flight by itself is always a challenge to a competent crew. The takeoff and the departure procedures overlap the approach and landing in a very hectic manner. Multiple tasks are performed simultaneously the crew proficiency should be of the highest.
Upon arriving at our operations Office in London, we were handed the flight papers. The cargo consisted of only three pallets weighing togather about six and a half tons. “There is more cargo waiting for you in Amsterdam for delivery to New-York and Los-Angeles,” they told us.
Checking cargo before a flight is extremely important and is usually done very thoroughly. On a flight as light as this one, we pay even more attention, as the cargo could shift in flight which could cause a dangerous lack of control
Our cargo consisted of three fancy vintage sports cars on the way to an old car show and auction in Los-Angeles. The cars were Masseratti 1947, 1948, and 1949 models. The cargo papers said that each car was insured for 1.2 million U.S. Dollars. The cars looked as if a comics’ book illustrator designed them: two-seater convertibles. The seats were about seven inches from the road and the total height of the car was the height of a bathtub. The thing looked more like a hovercraft than a car. The engine took up the front half of the car. The seat and the fuel tank took up the rear half.
We all got into the driver seat ‘just to feel the sensation’ and realized you do not get into this car, you just put it on. With the deep bucket seat, it was impossible to see the road - not to mention the difficulty of getting out of the car.
The age of the cars engendered a lot of nostalgia. If only we had had a car like this when we were younger, it would have made a big change in our social status.
“With such a sexy car, even Quasimodo or Linda Trip could find a date” I said.
We were in a good mood when we climbed into our cockpit to prepare for the departure.
The cargo was so light, the takeoff run did not last more than twenty seconds. We made the usual five thousand feet per minute at an angle of 17 degrees. A piece of cake! We all relaxed.
As we put our plane into that steep climb, I smelled a faint scent. I was not sure what it was. It made me feel good. It reminded me of a perfume of some kind. The scent brought back old memories of my days as a young man in the airforce and reminded me of the old propeller airplanes and piston engines. "The old good times, when sex was safe and flying was dangerous."
The smell was getting stronger and becoming unpleasant.
“Gee,” I said, “this is a Gasoline smell - the ‘aromatic’ fuel that was used for piston engine aircraft. The purple gasoline. 115/135 octane, highly leaded for turbo supercharged engines. The cars, it must be the cars. Post war, high performance engines. They must be using aviation fuel.”
The first officer went to check the main cabin. As he opened the door at the top of the stairs, a blast of the gasoline fumes hit him. He almost lost his balance and instantly became nauseous. He closed the door and went to his oxygen mask. “Oxygen mask and regulators” he cried. We put on our masks and discussed the situation through the interphone on the masks.
The empty, pressurized hull was now full of the combustible mixture. It felt like being inside the combustion chamber of an engine, waiting for the spark plug to set it off. Anything could do it. A synthetic T-shirt, a plastic garbage bag, electrical relays, switches, light bulbs or flying into clouds. A tiny spark could blow us into pieces and with the help of gravity send us to the bottom of the North Sea.
My assessment was that, when we made our sharp-angled climb, the fuel leaked through the filling neck of the cars which was very low.
Instinctively, we wanted to declare an emergency and to land immediately, but on second thoughts, it was decided to climb to an altitude where a flame could not be sustained and the volatile fumes could be ventilated.
We all agreed it was better to stay high, delay our landing and land with a ventilated hull.
We continued our climb at a very shallow angle to 23000’ in which a flame cannot ignite, depressurized the airplane and stayed on oxygen.
Half an hour later, I went down to the cabin to assess the situation. This time I took the portable oxygen bottle and was very happy to discover that only a slight smell was left and all the gasoline had evaporated. We decided then to come out of the holding pattern and to commence our approach.
Of course, we landed safely but very angry. We made sure that no crew took the cars until the investigation. Someone whose responsibility was to drain the fuel before loading the cars did not do his job. Then there was someone responsible for disconnecting the car batteries, someone responsible to supervise and so on. The result of the investigation was typical. It was found that twenty people were involved and no one was guilty.
The mechanic said he came to drain the fuel but the gauges showed zero. He did not know the battery was already disconnected. The electrician said that he can identify a negative electron from a positive one but he does not know the difference between water and gasoline. The conclusion at the end of the investigation was that it was the crew’s responsibility to ensure that the work was done.
I felt during the investigation that many were trying to cover their negligence. I did not feel comfortable with that and decided to make an investigation of my own.
In an old-cars’ catalog, I found a car that uses the same kind of fuel. I wrote down all the details and called the auction company in Los-Angeles.
“I have this 1948 Alfa Romeo convertible with turbo supercharged six liter engine in mint condition and I want you to run an auction for me,” I said to the manager.
“Look, sir, I am ready to do it for you, but I want you to know that the market is very low here in California. You cannot drive a car like that around. The fuel is not legal and the highway patrol has this portable emission test probe. If they catch any car with high leaded fuel, the fine is hundreds of dollars.”
“Can you get me enough fuel to show the car around?” I asked.
“No sir, we are unable to do it for you. You must bring the car with enough fuel to show it around. Also you will have to pay for the insurance while the car is with us and for any tickets the police hand out.”
I notified the ‘flight safety officer’ of my findings and he had conducted his own investigation. The person who was paid to smuggle the illegal fuel on board was never found.
Like a wise person, I learned from experience. Since that incident, whenever I fly fancy old cars to Los-Angeles, I do not sit in the cockpit. I sit next to the black box and hold it tight just in case my aircraft ‘disappears from the radar screen.’ I will make sure to tell them that, this time, it was not ‘pilot’s error.’ And since the black box is what they will be looking for, I can be sure they will find me too!
Flight is a calculated risk: some people do the calculations, others take the risk!
The end
By Hagai Cohen
Mao Tse Tung said once that even a trip of a thousands miles starts with one step. Well maybe it is true but, in modern aviation, this proverb should be paraphrased: Even a trip of one mile starts with a thousand steps.
There are many people involved in the process of making an airplane fly, and although I have forty years of flying experience, an airplane in flight to me is still a miracle. There are so many reasons why an airplane should not fly that, every time it does, I am surprised.
We were assigned to fly a Boeing cargo 747 from London to Amsterdam. The average flight time is about 40 minutes. Yet, for the crew it is a full five hours work.
A short flight by itself is always a challenge to a competent crew. The takeoff and the departure procedures overlap the approach and landing in a very hectic manner. Multiple tasks are performed simultaneously the crew proficiency should be of the highest.
Upon arriving at our operations Office in London, we were handed the flight papers. The cargo consisted of only three pallets weighing togather about six and a half tons. “There is more cargo waiting for you in Amsterdam for delivery to New-York and Los-Angeles,” they told us.
Checking cargo before a flight is extremely important and is usually done very thoroughly. On a flight as light as this one, we pay even more attention, as the cargo could shift in flight which could cause a dangerous lack of control
Our cargo consisted of three fancy vintage sports cars on the way to an old car show and auction in Los-Angeles. The cars were Masseratti 1947, 1948, and 1949 models. The cargo papers said that each car was insured for 1.2 million U.S. Dollars. The cars looked as if a comics’ book illustrator designed them: two-seater convertibles. The seats were about seven inches from the road and the total height of the car was the height of a bathtub. The thing looked more like a hovercraft than a car. The engine took up the front half of the car. The seat and the fuel tank took up the rear half.
We all got into the driver seat ‘just to feel the sensation’ and realized you do not get into this car, you just put it on. With the deep bucket seat, it was impossible to see the road - not to mention the difficulty of getting out of the car.
The age of the cars engendered a lot of nostalgia. If only we had had a car like this when we were younger, it would have made a big change in our social status.
“With such a sexy car, even Quasimodo or Linda Trip could find a date” I said.
We were in a good mood when we climbed into our cockpit to prepare for the departure.
The cargo was so light, the takeoff run did not last more than twenty seconds. We made the usual five thousand feet per minute at an angle of 17 degrees. A piece of cake! We all relaxed.
As we put our plane into that steep climb, I smelled a faint scent. I was not sure what it was. It made me feel good. It reminded me of a perfume of some kind. The scent brought back old memories of my days as a young man in the airforce and reminded me of the old propeller airplanes and piston engines. "The old good times, when sex was safe and flying was dangerous."
The smell was getting stronger and becoming unpleasant.
“Gee,” I said, “this is a Gasoline smell - the ‘aromatic’ fuel that was used for piston engine aircraft. The purple gasoline. 115/135 octane, highly leaded for turbo supercharged engines. The cars, it must be the cars. Post war, high performance engines. They must be using aviation fuel.”
The first officer went to check the main cabin. As he opened the door at the top of the stairs, a blast of the gasoline fumes hit him. He almost lost his balance and instantly became nauseous. He closed the door and went to his oxygen mask. “Oxygen mask and regulators” he cried. We put on our masks and discussed the situation through the interphone on the masks.
The empty, pressurized hull was now full of the combustible mixture. It felt like being inside the combustion chamber of an engine, waiting for the spark plug to set it off. Anything could do it. A synthetic T-shirt, a plastic garbage bag, electrical relays, switches, light bulbs or flying into clouds. A tiny spark could blow us into pieces and with the help of gravity send us to the bottom of the North Sea.
My assessment was that, when we made our sharp-angled climb, the fuel leaked through the filling neck of the cars which was very low.
Instinctively, we wanted to declare an emergency and to land immediately, but on second thoughts, it was decided to climb to an altitude where a flame could not be sustained and the volatile fumes could be ventilated.
We all agreed it was better to stay high, delay our landing and land with a ventilated hull.
We continued our climb at a very shallow angle to 23000’ in which a flame cannot ignite, depressurized the airplane and stayed on oxygen.
Half an hour later, I went down to the cabin to assess the situation. This time I took the portable oxygen bottle and was very happy to discover that only a slight smell was left and all the gasoline had evaporated. We decided then to come out of the holding pattern and to commence our approach.
Of course, we landed safely but very angry. We made sure that no crew took the cars until the investigation. Someone whose responsibility was to drain the fuel before loading the cars did not do his job. Then there was someone responsible for disconnecting the car batteries, someone responsible to supervise and so on. The result of the investigation was typical. It was found that twenty people were involved and no one was guilty.
The mechanic said he came to drain the fuel but the gauges showed zero. He did not know the battery was already disconnected. The electrician said that he can identify a negative electron from a positive one but he does not know the difference between water and gasoline. The conclusion at the end of the investigation was that it was the crew’s responsibility to ensure that the work was done.
I felt during the investigation that many were trying to cover their negligence. I did not feel comfortable with that and decided to make an investigation of my own.
In an old-cars’ catalog, I found a car that uses the same kind of fuel. I wrote down all the details and called the auction company in Los-Angeles.
“I have this 1948 Alfa Romeo convertible with turbo supercharged six liter engine in mint condition and I want you to run an auction for me,” I said to the manager.
“Look, sir, I am ready to do it for you, but I want you to know that the market is very low here in California. You cannot drive a car like that around. The fuel is not legal and the highway patrol has this portable emission test probe. If they catch any car with high leaded fuel, the fine is hundreds of dollars.”
“Can you get me enough fuel to show the car around?” I asked.
“No sir, we are unable to do it for you. You must bring the car with enough fuel to show it around. Also you will have to pay for the insurance while the car is with us and for any tickets the police hand out.”
I notified the ‘flight safety officer’ of my findings and he had conducted his own investigation. The person who was paid to smuggle the illegal fuel on board was never found.
Like a wise person, I learned from experience. Since that incident, whenever I fly fancy old cars to Los-Angeles, I do not sit in the cockpit. I sit next to the black box and hold it tight just in case my aircraft ‘disappears from the radar screen.’ I will make sure to tell them that, this time, it was not ‘pilot’s error.’ And since the black box is what they will be looking for, I can be sure they will find me too!
Flight is a calculated risk: some people do the calculations, others take the risk!
The end
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)