Come Fly With Me

Navigate

Of course, along with Mitch's favorite pilots, there are also his unfavorites. Like this guy, an American Airlines captain who can never seem to grasp that the world doesn't revolve around him. Mitch privately refers to him as Douchey McDickface, which isn't a particularly creative nickname, but it's Esther-approved, so Mitch keeps it.

"Why didn't you just tell me to do that in the first place instead of making me taxi all the way out here?" Douchey whines. And okay, maybe it's not technically a whine, but that's what it translates to in Mitch's head.

And 'all the way out here' is literally 800 feet past where Mitch wants to return him to. It's sometimes a struggle not to turn this guy's nickname into his callsign, but Mitch has razor sharp focus when he needs to and not just for keeping everyone in the planes around him alive.

"Well, American 50 Heavy, my crystal ball failed to tell me the luck of the Irish would blow a tire in the middle of your assigned runway. So, if you're dead set on departing from 18 Right, you can sit there and wait while we find a tow for the damaged Aer Lingus, determine if it's safe to move, possibly deplane all its passengers right where it currently sits, figure out how we can move the plane, and then clean up all the resulting junk as well as the originally deceased tire shrapnel so the runway is once more pristine and safe to use. Or, and hear me out now, you can turn on Echo for Whiskey Golf and wait your turn for 18 Left like I asked. I figure that'll shave somewhere between two and six hours off your departure time, but it's completely up to you."

There's a moment of silence as Douchey no doubt digests this, and then: "American 50 Heavy, no need to be snippy. What a waste of time."

Mitch isn't sure if Douchey meant to key his mic off before that last sentence, but either way it has him biting back a response that would catch him a disciplinary hearing if he let it out.

Before he can formulate something more appropriate, the stuck Aer Lingus pilot responds. "Shamrock 5135 here. I do apologize for wasting your time, good sir." And wow, the lilt is about ten times stronger than it was five minutes ago when he first reported his problem. Mitch is kind of in love with how well it emphasizes his sarcasm. "I'm sure you've never flown an aircraft that's caused an inconvenience to anyone around you. Our dear ATC has her hands full expediting everyone around my mess, so try not to be a complete arse while she gets you on your way, yeah?"

"He can't even help it," an unknown voice with a thick New York accent adds. Mitch suspects it's the JetBlue A320 three planes back, but he's not sure. "Being a complete 'arse' comes naturally to him."

Mitch suppresses a laugh and tries to regain control of the situation. He does need to rework a shitton of planes around a closed runway, after all. It's going to be a long day. "Okay, thanks, peanut gallery. American 50 Heavy, state intentions. Traffic is building."

There's a brief pause, and then, to Mitch's surprise, a different and far more welcome voice comes on frequency. "Uh, American 50 Heavy. We're of course going to turn on Echo for Whiskey Golf and get in line for 18 Left. Thanks for your help."

Oh, it's Mitch's current favorite. Romeo, as YouTube has dubbed him, must be Douchey McDickface's first officer for the flight. Mitch lets his voice soften. "Okay, thank you, American 50 Heavy. Now then, Speedbird 1589 Heavy. You're up next for 18 Left. Contact Tower at 124.15."

"Speedbird 1589 Heavy, changing to 24.15," says the British pilot. "Good luck with the arse."

Mitch isn't sure if Speedbird meant to bestow that luck on him, Aer Lingus, or Romeo, but in any case, "Appreciated."

***

Scott makes the mistake of laughing at Speedbird's comment and Mitch's dry response, which is very much not appreciated by his asshole of a captain, and thus his flight from DFW to Heathrow that day is the longest nine hours of his life.