Anticipation

I gripped the paper ticket in my hand. It was a warm day, and I had really booked it down to the train station after work. The sweat from my hand softened the cardstock of the one-way Green Line ticket.

I had woken up early that morning, so I could go to work early and leave early enough to drive home and walk down to the train station, about a mile and a half away. This elaborate scheme was so that I wouldn't have to leave my car at Hawthorne Airport, and also (apparently) so I could get some exercise in. He had raised some concerns about leaving my car at the airport after dark, and also it would be more convenient if we didn't have to stop on the way back to pick my car up on the way back to my place.

Plus I like public transportation, even if the train system in L.A. is woefully inadequate. And the airport is just right across the street from the station.

Man, where is that train? There must be three of them down at the Marine Station by now. What's holding them up?

A Raytheon employee had joined me in wondering what was holding the trains up. He had bowling league tonight, and a Tom Clancy book to finish. The Bear and the Dragon. He only had about 20 pages to finish, if that. If only my time weren't so valuable and I still had a long commute that I could make by train. I would get so much more reading done.

A train finally rolls in, about 15 minutes behind schedule. It had to be today, huh? Oh well. It's not like he's going to strand me at the airport. Plus he has to refuel and everything. I might still make it there before he does.

I tick off the stations as we come to them. Mariposa. Aviation. Hawthorne. The next one is Crenshaw. I glance at the airstrip and don't see his plane on the tarmac. I run down the wrong stairwell and end up on the opposite side of the street I want to be on. I cross Crenshaw, then Imperial Highway, impatient that the lights take so long to turn. All the while I'm glancing at the sky. I see a couple planes land; neither of which are his.

I run to the terminal. As I pass the runway I see his plane parked in front. He must have landed after I got off the train but before I reached the bottom of the stairwell.

The two guys who were working the desk last week are still there, and recognize me. I guess they don't have too many passengers fly out of Hawthorne. Or at least pilots who pick up their dates there.

Pretty soon he strolls into the terminal and we hug. We head to the pilot's lounge so he can call the briefer and check on the weather. Before I know it we're heading out onto the tarmac and he's telling me to get into the plane first. He does his pre-flight inspection, checking the flaps, making sure everything is good to go.

It's a beautiful day, but he cautions me that there is a lot of turbulence and take off would most likely be bumpy.

He climbs in, buckles up and we close the canopy. He rattles off the take-off checklist from memory (the first time he took me up he pulled it out and went over each step very methodically). "Cle-ar Prop!" he calls before he starts the engine. He contacts the tower and we get permission to take off.

He pushes the throttle forward and when we get enough speed he pulls up on the stick ever so delicately. And then we're airborne. Free.