The rasping voice of the public address system announced the departure of my flight to Los Angeles.

I plodded wearily up to the gate and on to the plane.

I looked around and found that I was seated in three seats across that were unoccupied. That was a break I sorely needed. I pulled the armrests out of their holes and made a narrow bed with. two tiny TWA blankets and even tinier TWA pillows.

Who the hell did TWA think flew on their stupid airplanes? Midgets?

I had to scrunch around somewhat because the seat belt buckles cut into my kidneys. But by the time the plane was in the air, I was sound asleep, dreaming of softer beds and even softer ladies.

The party was wild Wall to wall females, as far as the eye could see. I felt like a kid in a candy store who has just been told he can have anything and everything. Free.

But there was too much there and I wanted to taste it all

Then I saw her.

Tall. And blonde. And stacked up to the ceiling.

She had one of those tiny, Irish noses that swept up, two of the most gorgeous breasts, pointing themselves directly at me.

Christ, what legs. They seemed to start from under her armpits.

And then she smiled.

Right at me.

I looked around to see ~perhaps it was some one else she was smiling at. But there was no one behind me.

I took one last drag on the cigarette I was smoking, put it out, and finished the drink before looking back at her.

She was still smiling.

1 could feel little fingers of excitement running up and down my spine.

And then I began to shake. To quiver.

Because those long, long, legs were unwinding from around the bar stool and making their way—in my direction.

She walked up to me and whispered...

“May I have your attention, please.” I jerked awake as though I’d been hit by a cattle prod. It was the captain rudely interrupting my dream (and yes that was the actual dream, no embellishments added).

“We are encountering a slight problem with our landing gear.”

I sat bolt upright.

A slight problem with our landing gear?

There is no such thing as a slight problem with landing gear. Landing gear either works or it doesn’t. The wheels go up and down or they don’t go up and down.

You have to be kidding me? I survive the Japanese Air Force, Hitler, the United States Navy, debts, doubts, heartache and broken dreams, and the whole thing is going to be blown on a faulty hydraulic system?

“We’re going to circle the airport and they’ll tell us whether or not our landing gear is down,” said the captain.

We waited, our collective hearts beating so hard I imagined the plane throbbing with fear.

The captain said, “I’m afraid that the landing gear is not down.”

“We may have to make an emergency landing.”

An emergency landing. That means with no wheels. (See above).

So this was it. The sum total of my existence was about to be added up and entered into the big ledger in the sky. Uh oh.

Well, at least I would get to rest. No more scuffling. No more hustling. No necessity of proving to anyone that I was really more than I appeared to be.

I wondered, Tom Sawyer style, if there would be a funeral. A big funeral.

“Did you hear about Bernie?”

“Bernie who?”

“Kalish. The guy who produced the Today Show.”

“Kalish? That was the guy killed in the plane crash?”

“Yes.”

“No!”

3.

“Now I’ll have to cancel that network meeting. Shit. See if you can reschedule it.”

“The funeral?”

“No, dummy. The meeting.”

I peeked around to see if the flight attendant was near and lit a cigarette. I had almost

forgotten how delicious a cigarette could taste. Was I ever glad I hadn’t quit. Screw the Reader ~

Digest and the American Cancer Society and the Surgeon General. They had never been in a

plane about to land without wheels.

A flight attendant appeared at the front of the cabin. She was quite obviously frightened.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, her voice shaking, “Would you please put your heads forward, in your laps.”

You’ve got to be kidding, I thought.

“In the fecal position.”

“That’s fetal. Fetal,” I muttered.

The flight attendant disappeared.

I looked out my window and I could see trucks laying foam along the strip of landing and emergency vehicles rushing to the scene. Christ, was I in trouble. We were all in trouble.

Behind me somebody had a rosary and was saying her beads. Across the aisle, a man and woman, their eyes closed were clutching one another.

The plane was getting lower and lower. Now I could see the fire trucks and hoses and dozens of little figures scurrying around… Two of the trucks had a line across a runway. A cable of some sort attached to the two trucks. Another truck was laying foam on the runway.

Foam.

A woman screamed. Some guy began to sob. The woman next to me fainted dead away.

It was like watching a bad B movie. Only I was in it.

It occurred to me that I ought say a prayer or something. But I couldn’t think of one for crash landings.

Maybe a hymn might be appropriate. That was it. A hymn.

But for the life of me, I couldn’t think of one.

Then, all of a sudden, I began to sing;

“When the Deep Purple falls,

Over sleepy garden walls,