Every once in a while life intrudes on this love affair I have with airplanes, and I feel like that bewildered soldier at Little Big Horn: “Mr. Custer, what are we doing here?” How often did I gaze out the window of some FAA office (when they were still on airports), angry, frustrated or scared because I was in trouble again. “But all I ever wanted to do was fly airplanes.” Life and I have been cruising in pretty smooth air, lately, but there are always occasional patches of chop.
Saturday, I headed downtown to get my card punched at the fastest Mass in town and with a stop at the jail first to visit the son of an old airport friend. Yeah, he acted like such a jerk his family and friends have mostly bailed. Now he’s stuck in this awful limbo between lawyers and jurisdictions. I’m not too sure why I go — it’s pretty grim — but I think it’s about, “There, but for the grace … .” Parking is a challenge in this neighborhood unless you do alleys and risk losing your car, if not your life. I skidded to a halt when I saw I’d just passed the perfect spot, threw the Beemer in reverse and backed up … into a police car occupied by one irate cop. Surely he just pulled out of the Justice Center garage … probably without looking. Some time later, clutching my $104 ticket for a moving violation (no, I didn’t even try “but you pulled out without look- …”), I got to the jail, still, thankfully, as a visitor.
