The Feet of God

57 - AND AWAY WE WENT

Hell, I’ve siphoned gas before, who hasn’t?  But I’ll admit, it’s been awhile.  I mistakenly over-sucked to get the job done and spit out a mouthful of fuel.  As I hacked and coughed, Yeller Tom continued streaming gas into the can.

Once I could speak again I asked, “How come you’re called Yeller Tom?  That’s sorta unusual for a name.”

“Maman tells me mon père was named Thomas, and that he wanted to name me en l’honneur de mon grand-père who was also named Thomas.  So that’s the Tom part.  When mon grand-père saw me, he told maman, ‘Sure ‘nuff’s a yeller.  Looks like we got another Yeller Tom in the family.’  The name stuck.”

I commented, “My mother said I was something of a yeller when I was born, too.”

He didn’t respond.

The last drops of fuel begun to dribble off the end of the hose, then Yeller Tom gave it a shake and he walked toward his little blue biplane.  After screwing a nozzle onto the opening of the gas tank he poured in gasoline from the can.

“Does regular gas work in an airplane?  I thought you needed jet fuel or somethin’.”

Yeller Tom ignored me.  He silently finished refueling his plane and stashed the empty gas can and tube away.  Then he climbed onto the wing and got in the open cockpit area.  I scrambled up into the open seat close behind.

I’d only been in one other airplane in my life, and it weren’t nothing like this dinky thing.  I squirmed and squeezed myself down into the tiny seat.  Except for the wing overhead, we was both pretty much exposed to the elements outside.  It was clear there wasn’t gonna be no frills like in-flight meals or cocktail service on this cut-rate airline.

Yeller Tom tossed me a tattered piece of rope, “This is your seat belt, oui?  Tie yourself in.”  I did.  “I am the captain, so don’t ask unnecessary questions during the flight, oui?”  I nodded.  “In the case of an emergency, there is no parachute, so you’re basically on your own.  Oui?”  I continued nodding.  “Please, no smoking.  There is an open gas can right behind you.”  I kept nodding as Yeller Tom talked, but I was too exhausted to pay him much attention.  The effects of dope and demon alcohol really kicked in, and in the induced haze I commenced to nod off.

I caught myself starting to doze when I was startled awake to realize the final instructional portion of the flight had concluded.  I saw Yeller Tom facing forward as he begun to fiddle with dials and knobs, occasionally mumbling under his breath, then the engine suddenly discharged a blast of choking smoke, and the single propeller popped to life.  His hands kept pushing levers, tapping a gauge here and there, flipping switches and pulling on a control stick, as things started to shake and rattle and we begun to roll forward.

The speed of the plane increased.  Yeller Tom shouted over the noise, “There are some bars of chocolat in that pouch pocket on the side if you would like a snack.”

I rummaged around and found some chocolate candy bars, which helped get rid of the taste of gasoline still lingering in my mouth, but I really could’a gone for a fried egg sandwich instead.

While I ate a candy bar Yeller Tom got his plane moving faster an’ faster till things was just whooshing by.  He bounced in his seat and sang some French song as loud as he could over the noise of the engine which sounded like a dozen lawn mowers inside an oil drum in a steel factory.  Suddenly Yeller Tom pulled back on the control stick and the plane’s nose tipped upward and we started to lift off the ground.

I looked around.  You never realize how lighted even the smallest towns are until you get into a little tin box and go hurtling off into the night sky when it’s pitch black outside.  I noticed the pale instrument lights gave Yeller Tom an even warmer tone of yellow-brown.  At the ends of the wings a red light and a green light flashed on and off.  And underneath us was street lamps and some buildings and moving cars and the rest of the world.

Just then my feet hit up against something solid under my seat.  I checked and it was a small cage of some kind.  And something was in it.  Naturally, I felt a little concerned so I tapped Yeller Tom on the shoulder and shouted, “Hey, what’s in the cage under my seat?”

“Oh, that is Gertrude.”

“Gertrude?” 

“She is my homing pigeon.”

“Homing pigeon?  Whattaya need a homing pigeon for?”

“That is because this aircraft is not equipped with a radio.”

I decided not to pursue the matter any further, and soothed myself binging on chocolate.

Under the moonless night we rumbled and reverberated over crop fields and roads and farms, which all begun to pass by in a hypnotizing blur of indistinguishable sameness.  The cold wind continued to slap at my face as I sat in the open passenger seat, but I didn’t care anymore, I was so dead tired.