Kira asked if I had seen my schedule yet.
"No, why?"
"You've got Omega tomorrow."
"What's an Omega?"
"You have to fly with someone from the Omega Society. You're going to scatter ashes. You know, burial at sea, except from the air."
"Why me?"
"It always goes to the newest instructor, and you're it."
Kevin, another instructor, had finished with his last student and met with us that afternoon for schooners of beer across the street at a café.
"Both of our flights were different," Kira said. "Kevin was the first one to do it, so he had no idea what to expect. In his flight, well, you tell it."
"OK." Kevin looked at me through thick lenses. "The guy I flew with was the son of the guy in the urn. Both of us didn't know what to do, but what could be so difficult about letting ashes fly out of a plane? We only went up to two thousand, out over the ocean in a low wing plane, a Warrior. I slowed the plane and unlatched the door. He unlatched the urn. I reached across him and held the door open about a foot. He put the urn outside and wham! The top flew off and ashes went flying everywhere. I mean everywhere. I figure some made it to the ocean where they were supposed to land, but the rest swirled like a tornado all through the plane. I nearly lost my lunch on the spot. He was so surprised that he dropped the urn. It bounced off the wing, then hit the stabilator and fell into the ocean. Boom! Then, just like that it was over, except for landing. We were coughing and groaning. There was this fine, oily ash covering the windows. It was even in our hair.
"I used my handkerchief to clear the windshield. I opened all the vents and left the door ajar. After landing, I found the whole side of the plane covered in this silvery dust. There was a dent in the stabilator. All the electrical contacts needed cleaning and the gyros had to be rebuilt. I think the bill for the whole thing was over three grand.
"After that, the company put out a procedure manual on how to scatter ashes. Apparently, they haven't had the problem since."
Beer no longer tasted too good.
Kevin continued. "The poor guy was really despondent that it turned out that way. The urn was a family heirloom and the whole experience wasn't quite the peaceful, aesthetic moment he hoped for. I doubt we'll be seeing him again."
"Nor his father," I added.
"Actually, I didn't even bother to wash those clothes. I threw them away. So, I guess some of the guy is in the ocean, some of him is in a landfill."
I looked at Kira. "What happened to you?"
"Well, after that problem, the company got a bag of confetti, took it up and tried different ways of dumping it. So, by the time I started working there and it was my turn, the physical problems had mostly been ironed out. I flew a 172. Before you go up you unscrew the window strut so that the window can pivot on its top hinge up to the wing. At altitude, you slow down but leave the flaps up. At about sixty knots the pressure under the wing holds the window open so the pilot need only fly. The guy with the ashes takes the urn and lowers it out the window and turns it upside down. No problem. You're done."
"So, you had it easy," I said.
"Not quite. The manual didn't say anything about grieving relatives. On my flight, I had the guy from Omega in the front handling the ashes and a very old widow in the back. He released ashes at three thousand over the west end of Catalina but the widow wanted to go, too. She was all distraught and crying and trying to climb up to the front of the plane. She was so screwed up that she didn't even realize that her seat belt was still on. My problem was trying to convince the controllers on the way back that there was nothing seriously wrong onboard. Every time I keyed the mike they heard me and this god-awful wailing.
"After landing, the widow was whimpering, nothing more. I helped her out of the plane and she walked out the gate without saying a word. The Omega guy said goodbye and went off after her. I never saw either of them again."
"Nor the husband," I added.
The next day the chief flight instructor handed me the procedure manual and wished me luck. He said that as pilot-in-command I had the final say on who could go on the flight. If I thought there was an unstable person that might cause a problem, I could ask them to remain in the lobby. He also reminded me that cleaning the plane was my responsibility.
"If these flights are so much trouble, why do we continue to do them?" I asked.
"A lot of the contributors to the Omega Society are our best charter customers. So, we just grit our teeth and do our best."
While preparing the plane I wondered how best to approach this situation. I decided to be as cordial as possible and otherwise remain silent. I disconnected the window strut and tested the movement of the window. I returned to the lobby. It was time for the flight but I saw no one looking like they were about to remorsefully fling someone to the winds.
"Ah, sir?" The gruff voice came from behind me. I turned to see a short, heavy man, balding, with bags under his eyes. He was dressed as if he had come out of the nearby bowling alley.
"Yes."
"Name's Theodore Armand. I'm from the Omega Society. They tell me you'll be my pilot today."
"Yes, that's correct." I looked around the lobby for some other sign that this was the right guy. The receptionist nodded and grinned at me. I looked more closely at Mr. Armand. There wasn't a trace of solemnity in his expression.
"Well?" he said.
"Uh, yes, uh, is there anyone else we're waiting for?"
"Not me. What about you?"
"Uh, no sir." After a moment, "Well, is there anything else we need?" I was trying to locate some dead people at this point.
"Just an airplane."
"OK, right out here. It's the blue and white one right in front."
"Good, a 172. That's the best kind for this. I'll go out to my car, get our friends and I'll be right back. They're in the trunk."
Friends. In the trunk. "As good a place as any," I said. "I'll meet you at the plane."
I walked outside a bit more relaxed. At least I wasn't dealing with some guy in a tuxedo, or a screaming widow or distraught daughters. Maybe he kept those people quiet by keeping them in the trunk. Out at the plane I opened the passenger door and waited.
Theodore Armand came waddling out of the lobby toward the plane. He had a cardboard box under his arm. Was the victim, the soon-to-be-scattered, lying ungraciously in a cardboard box? Mr. Armand was aware of my bewilderment. He had a placid grin on his face as he walked under the wing without ducking, looked at me and winked. He plopped the cardboard box on the floor of the plane and climbed in.
"You've never done this before, have ya?" he said.
"Uh no sir, just a briefing. I take it you have?"
"Quite a few times. First time was for my wife about three years ago when I lived up north. Up until that time I had never been in a small plane. I kind of liked the sensation."
Of flying or dumping his wife? I walked around the plane and climbed into the pilot's seat. Mr. Armand continued. "She was a fine woman, bless her heart, but at times a little too much to handle. I'll never forget how free I felt watching her take flight like that. I let her go right over Mount St. Helens. About a month later there was one of those mini eruptions. I couldn't help but think that the gods of fire had had enough of her, too."
I began aligning myself with his demeanor.
"After that, I got involved with the Seattle chapter," he continued. "Tried helping out anyway I could. They gave me the duty and after a while I got to fly quite a bit. You're a lucky fella, being involved with airplanes and all. I hope you know what you've got."
"Yes sir. Um, do you have a particular destination in mind?"
"Well, normally we go out over the ocean, but there's a request associated with one of these to be left over the east side of Saddleback. So, I guess we can do them all there."
One of these. Them all. "Mr. Armand. I'm dying of curio...uh, excuse me, I'm curious. How many are in there?"
"I've got six today." He opened the box for me to see. He lifted out a pair of rubber gloves revealing a bunch of zip-lock baggies. Looking closer, I could see the ash was gray, what other color could ash be? But it was not uniform. There were different sized pieces and different shades. That was enough for me.
Theodore Armand sat quietly and watched me as I went through the departure process. As we rolled along the taxiway his attention alternated between the instrument panel in front of me and all the aviation activity outside. The box was in his lap now, his hands folded over the top. He was far more at peace than I was. It must have been the difference in our routines. I imagined a baggie full of Mr. Armand and a baggie full of me. I wondered what the people would be like who would release us.
We took off and headed northeast to Saddleback, a mountain of about 5000 feet. The 172 took a few minutes to climb and cross the peak. I wondered if the FAA would throw a violation at me for having eight people in a plane designed for four. During the climb I broke the silence. Hoping that they weren't the rest of his family that had died in some fiery car accident, I asked Mr. Armand who was in the box.
"Beats me."
I thought a moment longer, but he saw my confusion and tried to help. "Sometimes we bring 'em up in these very ornate, intricate urns. Maybe there is someone that wants to go along. Sometimes they want to read something or say something as I dump them out, sometimes they just watch. Sometimes they cry sometimes they don't. This batch, being in the bags and all, is probably a group of unrelated individuals left behind by society. Omega does them all at once to save some money. I really don't care who they are. I just like the plane ride."
As we crossed the peak I watched him put on his gloves. The flying was routine, in clear, smooth air. Mr. Armand kept looking down at the ground. I understood his fascination with the point of view. I, however, had difficulty relating that what I saw in the bags were once people with souls, agendas and desires. How did they die? Was one a murder victim? Maybe someone drowned. Maybe there was an old person in there, relieved from pain and loneliness. What if one was a kid?
"Look," he said, "this is no big deal. They're long since dead. There's nothing in there but ashes. Think of it as a six-pack of seal-a-meal bags."
Sure, freeze dried, just add water, and poof! instant person.
"This looks like a good place. Slow her down and we'll just circle here. Bank the plane to the left."
He picked a bag out of the box and looked at it for a moment. "Since no one knows who they are, you and I will come up with names for them. That way we'll give them a little dignity as we send them on their way. I'll name this one. You think of the next one."
He opened the window and let it rise to the wing. With both hands he placed the bag out the window. I couldn't see much of what he was doing because his round body was in the way.
"Goodbye, Senator Burnhart!" He pulled the empty bag back inside and looked at me, grinning. "Get it? Burn-hart? Who wouldn't want to do this to a politician? I figure this guy was up to his eyeballs in corruption."
"Yeah, I got it." As the plane continued circling I could see to my left a thin, gray cloud, the remains of Senator Burnhart, slowly sinking.
"See? Nothing too it. Your turn." He reached for another bag.
"Let me have a look at her," I said. He held up the bag. Out of the dust I created someone beautiful and tall who liked running on the beach but for some reason met an untimely demise. "Wow," I said, getting the hang of it. "Looks like she should have used a little more sun screen. Nice knowin' ya, Cindy Firestone." I kind of belched one of those laughs that release tension.
"Good one," he said. "I knew her. She had quite a fiery personality." He leaned out the window and set her free.
"Yep," I said, "long blonde hair, green eyes, legs up to her... well, OK, long legs."
He brought in the empty bag, flung it like a Frisbee to the floor and pulled another from the box. He held it up and looked at both sides of it. "Let's see who we have here. Rest in peace, Ashley..."
"Whiplash!" I spewed.
"Rest in peace, Ashley Whiplash!" he hooted. "That was some car crash. Your mama told you not to drink and drive. Did you listen to your mama? Dun look like it!" I was trying to hold back but there were laughing tears seeping from my eyes as Ashley took flight.
He looked down in his box. "OK, who's next here?"
"How about two at once?" I asked. "We could marry them out here once and for all!"
"I don't know son. Would you want to finally rest that close to a woman?"
"Maybe if she was Cindy Firestone."
"Well, if we can think of the appropriate names, we'll marry 'em up. You're captain of this here vessel, right?"
"Right." We thought for a minute.
"Ember," he said.
"She, with the flaming red hair," I added.
"Ember Baker!" he howled. He grabbed another bag. "Ember, meet Dusty. Dusty Fry."
I rocked the plane to the left. It was getting harder to focus on flying. "My, Dusty," I said, "you look dashing in that blazer."
"Ha ha! I think they'll be happy together." Mr. Armand was shaking all over. Facing out the window, he shouted back at me. "Never done two at once!"
I banked a little steeper to hurry the turn. I caught a glimpse of Ember and Dusty cascading to earth in marital bliss.
"I now pronounce you man and wife!" I shouted.
"That was great," he said. That deserves a toast!"
"Baker-Fry, party of two!" We watched for a few moments while the mist dissipated below us.
Mr. Armand spoke into the box. "Well, old fella, you're the last one today. With any luck you'll meet Dusty and Ember down there and party it up good. You got a name for him son?"
I thought for a moment. "Let's call him Mr. Charles Cook."
"Wow, best I ever heard. Son, you're damn good at this."
"Mr. Cook's used car lot was about to go bankrupt so he burned the building to collect insurance," I said. "He was having a party, a barbecue in his back yard. No wait, he was at a roast. They were roasting him when the authorities came to get him. He committed suicide in jail."
Mr. Armand sent Mr. Cook on his dearly departure. "There he goes!"
He gathered all the plastic bags and stuffed them into the box as I leveled the plane. He slowly removed his gloves put them on top. He closed the box, interlocking the four flaps and set the box on the floor. After Mr. Armand closed the window, I increased the speed of the plane and started a shallow turn in his direction. The laughter stopped as we circled and surveyed the burial site below. During a second, wide circle the shadow of the mountain began extending to the valley to the east. The sun was losing its brightness, the yellow fading to brown in the southern California haze. The trees were dark green, almost black. In all there wasn't much left to see, yet something below demanded our attention. I noticed that the air at our altitude had dried my tears to salt. After the fourth circle, as if coming to, I leveled the plane and headed back toward the airport. Mr. Armand and I had nothing to say.
After landing I taxied back to the flight school maintenance building. I shut everything down and walked over to his side.
"Looks like we brought a little of them home with us," he said, looking at some of the ashes that had stuck to the side of the plane. "That usually happens." He paused for a moment and shook his head. "Well, thanks for your help, son. I enjoyed the flight." With that, we shook hands. He turned and walked across the rows of planes toward the building, dropping the box with the empty bags and rubber gloves into the trash can before entering the lobby.
I grabbed the plane by the prop and dragged it over to the wash rack. I picked up the hose and turned on the water. I sat on my heels, leaning back against the wall, my butt not quite touching the ground. I stared at the water coming out of the hose. I leaned forward and took a drink. It was cool but had that garden hose taste. Musty. I reconciled the sadness that was sliding down my throat this way: we partied in their honor; no one else cared about them; that was a pretty good send off.
It was nearly dark. On the nearby taxiway, an arriving jet made its way toward the terminal, its engines leaving heat and soot dissipating in the twilight. Kira had finished with a student and saw me at the wash rack. Still crouching and leaning against the wall, I had my thumb over the hose, firing water at the side of the plane when she walked up.
"Watching Mrs. Smith's life go down the drain, are you?"
I allowed my eyes to follow a speck of ash as it flowed in a tiny river toward the drain. She looked at me waiting for some response to her joke.
"Smith?"