This story comes from my friends Colin and Ryne, and from me. They are responsible for the high quality of the tale. I am responsible for the low quality of the execution. Anyway, Storytime.
Dan Martinez had flown A-10 Warthogs on close air support against Saddam in 1991. Both his sons had been born in Brazil, when he was flying into remote mountain and jungle airports all over South America for TAM. His twin daughters were seniors at the Air Force academy. So when his Southwest co-pilot Bob Smith started to complain about the fog on the twilight approach to San Francisco International Airport, he just rolled his eyes and focused on the instrument panel.
Dan Martinez had flown A-10 Warthogs on close air support against Saddam in 1991. Both his sons had been born in Brazil, when he was flying into remote mountain and jungle airports all over South America for TAM. His twin daughters were seniors at the Air Force academy. So when his Southwest co-pilot Bob Smith started to complain about the fog on the twilight approach to San Francisco International Airport, he just rolled his eyes and focused on the instrument panel.
In the twelfth row, Devonte Best was asleep, perhaps dreaming of blonde California girls, perhaps computers, perhaps sea monsters grabbing sheep from farms and devouring them through mouths that were woodchippers. Jim Brightest was sitting next to him, doing a crossword.
The runway came up through the fog faster than Captain Martinez remembered. The passengers knew nothing yet. The Qantas A380 crossing the runway in front of them presented a double-decked target. Captain Martinez pulled back on the throttle as hard as he could. The photo that would run on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle the next morning was a still frame of an Instagram video filmed out a window of the second deck of the A380 by a Ghanaian diplomat. It showed the smaller plane’s underside and landing gear, and the larger plane’s wing, the rest was fog. The graphics reporter for the Chronicle had inserted a ruler between the wingtip and the left rear tire, measuring both of the inches that separated the planes from disaster.
Captain Martinez decided that instead of a go-around, he would land in Oakland. First Officer Smith would never again agree as wholeheartedly with the suggestion of a colleague.
On the specially-provided bus into San Francisco from Oakland, Devonte Best finally spoke. “My man, that was a bit of an inauspicious start.”
“Yeah, but now we have a story to tell,” laughed Jim.
“A fucking terrifying story about how we almost died.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Speaking of almost dying…” and Jim pointed up at a massive billboard draped over the back of a shopping mall. Next to a picture of a badge and a pair of handcuffs, it said MAKE MORE OF YOURSELF. OAKLAND POLICE NOW HIRING. GREAT SALARY AND BENEFITS.
Devonte laughed. “I hear Oakland is so gentrified I couldn’t try to drive through it anymore, or those new policemen would be all over me.”
“Hey hey hey. It was the train police that shot that guy that they made the movie about, not the real police. Remember? Damn, that was a good movie. I want to visit Fruitvale Station at some point. Come with me?”
“If my mother had seen that film, I wouldn’t be out here right now, and you know it."
As the bus crossed the Bay Bridge and ended up in San Francisco, (the San Mateo Bridge was closed for maintenance) Jim’s thoughts turned to Emperor Norton, the only emperor the United States had ever had. Willie Brown was a great mayor of San Francisco, and one of California’s most impressive political figures. But had he ever singlehandedly stopped a massive riot? Would fully fifteen percent of San Francisco’s population come to his funeral? Could he issue currency in his name that would be nearly universally accepted in the city? These were things he would learn visiting the Fillmore.
And then they were at SFO, and then they were getting on the train, and then they were getting off, walking past the all-night pupuseria on sixteenth street, turning around and splurging on pupusas. Then they were at the door, searching for the keys Jim had been mailed, walking upstairs, and they were home in a new city. It was only when Devonte turned on the lights in the living room that they both realized they had no furniture.
Devonte laughed. “I hear Oakland is so gentrified I couldn’t try to drive through it anymore, or those new policemen would be all over me.”
“Hey hey hey. It was the train police that shot that guy that they made the movie about, not the real police. Remember? Damn, that was a good movie. I want to visit Fruitvale Station at some point. Come with me?”
“If my mother had seen that film, I wouldn’t be out here right now, and you know it."
As the bus crossed the Bay Bridge and ended up in San Francisco, (the San Mateo Bridge was closed for maintenance) Jim’s thoughts turned to Emperor Norton, the only emperor the United States had ever had. Willie Brown was a great mayor of San Francisco, and one of California’s most impressive political figures. But had he ever singlehandedly stopped a massive riot? Would fully fifteen percent of San Francisco’s population come to his funeral? Could he issue currency in his name that would be nearly universally accepted in the city? These were things he would learn visiting the Fillmore.
And then they were at SFO, and then they were getting on the train, and then they were getting off, walking past the all-night pupuseria on sixteenth street, turning around and splurging on pupusas. Then they were at the door, searching for the keys Jim had been mailed, walking upstairs, and they were home in a new city. It was only when Devonte turned on the lights in the living room that they both realized they had no furniture.
No comments:
Post a Comment