Weaving his way through the noise and confusion of planes and careening cargo-laden forklifts, John jogged his way over towards the rusty, pale green hanger that for so many years was his childhood home away from home. Inside was a tired 1948 Aero Commander that always seemed to smell of leaking diesel no matter how many repairs were made and how many thunderstorms had washed it. Emblazoned on the side was a bright red, hand painted "Miss Edna" whose story to this day remains a well-kept secret. Running his hand along its underbelly, John hoped that maybe this trip a hint of that story would be revealed.
"I was bloody well gettin' ready to leave without you!" boomed Aiden.
Aiden was, as John's friends portrayed- 60ish, unkempt, spikey greying hair, face like the inside of an old worn catcher's mitt and an accent that drifted somewhere between Cockney English and Crocodile Dundee Australian. He was reminiscent of Keith Richards- only without the advantages that the Stones' entire body blood transfusions and money would have given him.
"Not a chance and you know it," John replied.
"What makes you so cock-sure?"
"The airport lounge doesn't close for another two hours," John said with a smirk.
"Oh, no!" Aiden corrected him. "I gave all that up a while ago- come to find out it's not good for you ya' know.
"Well how long has that been?" asked John.
"Ooof...gotta' be... well over an hour now." A wry smile formed on his face. "Which reminds me... it's time to take my vitamins."
Aiden reached into his flight bag and threw back a couple of pills and proceeded to wash it down with what looked like cough medicine.
"Don't they usually have labels on those bottles?" asked John. Aiden winked at him.
Some things never changed. But there they were, together again, piloting Miss Edna's rattling parts through the first cloud layer. John wasn't worried. He never was on the many trips of the past and this was just more of the happy same. He somehow knew things would be fine. They always were with Aiden and it was oddly peaceful to him. The headphones reduced the engine roar to a manageable din and gave him the feeling that it was just he and Aiden in their exclusive, private world having another one of their wonderfully private conversations. To the curious teenage John, Aiden had always been the crass Uncle that would fill him in on the real story after the adults had finished spinning their age-appropriate BS.
The second cloud bank produced a sizable series of bumps and rattles that managed to dislodge an old photo from the visor. It looked like one of those old black and white photos of Emilia Earhart's search party- a group of squinty-eyed white people in khakis and pith helmets with a group of curious, half-naked, smiling villagers in the background. John picked it up and looked to Aiden to explain.
"Oh! There's a bit a' your family history there, mate. The four of you...and the handsome one there? Yours truly."
"It's Wharton!" John shouted. "Was his hair ever not grey?"
He continued to study it when he was startled as the radio crackled with a random, indiscernible voice.
"Ya' got that thing turned up loud enough?", asked John.
"What?"
John just shook his head and smiled.
Aiden turned to John. "Say, does your father know what you lads are up to?"
"You mean Uncle," John corrected.
"Uncle, father, parental unit. The man raised you for pity's sake. Mind you, I'm no fan of that cheese-eating surrender monkey nor he of me but-"
YOU ARE READING
John Frum The Reluctant Messiah
AdventureThere were always people watching. Even as a child he could feel it. Everyone knew he was special. Everyone except him that is. Now, through a series of fateful events, John finds himself alone, hanging upside down from the crumpled mess that was hi...
