There is a special airplane out there called the Bomdardier Dash 8, and it lives by a single motto:
Memento Mori
It has taken it upon itself to assist you in this task by flying from Point A to Point B in the most noisy and horrendously violent manner possible, moving through the sky like a sloppy drunk who has spotted a hundred dollar bill across a busy street. But then the drunk would try to avoid traffic, whereas the Dash 8 seeks out clouds, birds, flying demons, Quidditch players, volcano plumes and winged zombies (it could happen!) into or through which it may try to insert itself.
Sometimes, it even does all this while flying right-side-up.
In addition to being an uncomfortable plane on a macro level, it is also an uncomfortable plane on a micro level. One might as well pick up his seat and hold it on his lap. The only feasible way to use the restroom is to be relatively short, thin to the point of anorexia, missing several limbs, and on a different plane altogether. And should you manage to actually fit into the lavatory, you do so in direct non-compliance with the Geneva Convention.
I survived this uniquely horrid experience this past Monday by strategically having a perfectly lousy night’s sleep the night before. My neighbors, who go out of their way to assist me in this task on a weekly basis, are artists who are doing some pretty new and creative things in the field of domestic arguing. Adding to the fun is the fact that they own a pet parrot (or other talking bird), who lives a life of utter hell and gets so worked up by their arguments that he begins to shriek and squawk the single cryptic word “Time!” loud enough to hear from miles away, let alone through our anti-privacy walls.
Given this nonsense, the lighthearted prospect of a several-mile plunge to Earth in a vibrating tin can is but a soft and sacred lullaby, and I fell asleep about twenty minutes in to the Dash 8’s airborne ballet, waking up only at the very end of the flight when we appeared not to be landing at Port Columbus International Airport, but Omaha Beach.
That night in my hotel, disturbed by the impersonal silence of the room, I had occasion to think not only of the neighbors’ parrot, but of the other noisy horrors that have staked out their positions on all sides of my apartment.
This used to not be the case. It used to be that one side of my apartment was happy, protected and quiet.
It is true that, since the very day I moved in four years ago, my attic has been the province of squirrels who are entirely invisible when you go up and search for them, and then, five minutes after you go back downstairs, break out pairs of pewter boots and a VHS copy of Sweatin’ to the Oldies.
And it is true that, in the warmer months, every feral cat that sneaks, stalks and stares its way through my neighborhood makes a point of getting into a vicious, long, loud and inconclusive fight at precisely 10:30 PM with some unseen non-cat creature who lives in the shrubs beneath my living room window.
But my bedroom, quite ironically the one room in the apartment that faces the street, has generally been the vanguard of all that is good and holy about the quiet of the night. It is a dark and solemn place, with no television or computer to contribute any dust or useless whirring noises, and no excessive lights to tempt me to use it for reading as well. It is the ultimate utilitarian temple of each evening’s rest, even if I carry a massive sleep debt from a combination of general insomnia and absurd work hours.
I resolved to work off some of this sleep debt this past weekend, before my delightful Dash 8 plane trip to Columbus. I had kept my schedule entirely clear and decided that if I woke up before 10 AM, I would simply force myself to stay in bed and go back to sleep. Naturally, I woke up roundabout 5:30 AM - something I could not pay to do during the week when it would come in handy - but in the hours to follow I clung to my methodology, and quickly I entered that special, special place.
I mean, of course, that railway station of the mind that forms a link between the unconscious and the conscious. It is a place where any old memory, or figment of your imagination, or external real-world stimulus, can bump into any other such thing, with the result being a strange medley of dream and deep thought that ranges from zombie to Zen and ultimately leaves one feeling like one has been hit by a tranquilizer gun.
It was in such a state that my new nemesis chose to reveal himself. I thought I was thinking about my career, but in fact was dreaming slightly, when all of a sudden I became aware of the odd sensation that someone close at hand had a Geiger Counter. As my mind and body began to trace this noise to its source, I began to slip madly towards the waking world, only realizing just then how asleep I had truly been, and soon enough I had been mentally dumped into entire consciousness, and left to reckon with alive reality, which included the existence of the noise.
Tktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktk.
Tktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktk.
Oh. A downy woodpecker.
It wasn’t a Geiger Counter after all.
I stretched my limbs gracelessly about in bed and lay there with a contented smile on my face. Here I was, in my own apartment – not in some silly hotel room in an uncaring city, but in my apartment, in my bed, in the one tiny place on this Earth where I carry some manner of sovereign power – and I was laying in my bed on a late sunny weekend morning, listening to a downy woodpecker repeatedly bash its head against a tree. Soon it would fly away, and I would have to get up and face the day, and then get on a plane and face yet another city, and all the peace and relaxation would fade away. I should enjoy this moment. I should enjoy this downy woodpecker while he makes his fleeting visit to my tree.
Three hours later, I decided he was the Antichrist.
My tree contained a seemingly infinite number of insects, and the woodpecker wanted them all. His persistence was amazing when you consider that, what with the amount of sheer head trauma at play, it can be reasonably figured that he was losing brain power by the minute, all the while maintaining his astonishing power to be loud. And naturally, as he went on banging his head, he was accompanied by a variety of other birds blurting out their obnoxious anthems. It began to feel rather like an audition for The Rain Man Meets Ethel Merman.
And so, at last, all sides of my apartment were surrounded by horrors. The heavy-footed squirrels. The mystery creature and his battle against the feral cats. The cryptic parrot. The eternal woodpecker. It was enough to give me the wind that I needed to go about my packing and prepare for the next day's flight.
And soon enough I was walking out of an elevator in Columbus and onto the 7th floor, and there, directly across the hall, as if pointed at the elevator bank, was my room. With a slight smile on my face, I knew it would be a good night’s sleep.
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Comments: 13
Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity to get away from yet another pallet load of bricks, and I worked on that project for the next three-and-a-half years. In the process, I visited the Bombardier production facility in Toronto where they were pumping out Dash 8's at a prodigious rate.
I never flew in a Dash 8, nor did I ever fly in a Global Express. The joke in the office was that NONE of us would ever fly in THAT plane. We knew the people who did the software!
I can identify with the squirrels. After 34 years we had to replace our cedar shake roof because the red squirrels ate the old one. Our entire house is western red cedar so the downy's, harrys and red bellies hammer on our house, not just the trees. No parrot but years ago we lived within a mile of peacocks and they might as well have been in our yard.
Flying used to be fun. One time I was in Chicago and the announcements kept reporting: "Pan Am flight ### is cancelled. Capitol Airlines flight ### is cancelled. TWA flight ### is cancelled. North Centra Airlines flight ### to Green Bay is now boarding...."
North Central flew DC3's. Army and Air Force veterans will remember that airframe as the C47, Navy personnel the R4D or "Gooney Bird". Two engines, conventional landing gear so you had to walk uphill to move forward in the aircraft. The main gear retract only partially.
We boarded and taxied and took off into the stormy night. Flying just above the treetops, we had lightning on all sides. We landed smoothly in Green Bay and as we descended the AirStair door we were handed large black umbrellas as we ran through the pounding, ice cold raindrops. North Central had the highest safety record in the country.
Thanks.
The weird plane for me was the Short Brothers. Almost square. Very safe plane but pretty bumpy in bad weather. Once I flew my Cessna from Boston to White Plains, NY with a colleague. The other two colleagues flew commercial on the Short.
We had a good flight, little bumpy, not bad. When the Short taxied in my two colleagues got off, literally green-faced.
We have feral cats that run loose here at work inside the darkened pits of abandoned machinery. Their lives seem to revolve around internal struggles, and the sheer volume of their arguments is probably measurable enough that ear protection is required when venturing into their domain. The arguments themselves, though, are usually quite short-lived as cats, by their very nature, are easily distracted by anything that moves and in that pit...oooh...boy...does stuff ever move.
A long-time city girl, I once roused my hubby out of a deep sleep with breathless whispers of the woman "screaming outside our window". Hubby opened one eye, heard the "scream", looked at me with a mixture of amusement and annoyance before proclaiming..."it's a screech owl, dear"...and falling back to sleep.
Yet another bird that became a bane was the confused rooster that lived in our neighborhood when we first bought our house some 12 yrs. ago. In this otherwise normal suburban subdivision farm animals had long been grandfathered in when they had been banned elsewhere. The neighbor directly across the street had a rooster. Said rooster NEVER crowed at dawn. Instead, he seemed to prefer the 10PM - 2AM crow-shift and he took his job seriously. One night I didn't hear him, and thought he had finally departed this life. No, his owner said, they had just taken him to the farm to retire in luxury. He was soon replaced with many, many baby goats. Ever hear a bunch of upset baby goats? I began to miss the rooster...