Leaving on a Jet Plane
The small jet sat on a private runway in a major European city. Its side was painted with letters twelve feet high that read “Apogee.” Over the final “e” a huge pair of red lips kissed the air. The inside of the jet was dominated by a large bar ringed with overstuffed reclining seats. There were five of these seats with plenty of room around each of them. Crammed into small spaces in the front and rear of the plane were several standard airplane seats. The overhead compartments were specially fitted as guitar racks. The sound system incorporated amplifiers worthy of a large theater. The cockpit was exceedingly small and there was no galley other than the fully outfitted bar.
This was the flying den of the super-group Apogee, who were setting out on their first world tour since their original bassist was cured of agoraphobia and rejoined the band. Now the original members numbered four, their first lead guitarist having been ousted from the band early in their legendary career. Shortly after his dismissal the unlucky would-be guitar god was incarcerated in a state run asylum where he was found dead within weeks. His death was ruled a suicide and the band continued on for thirty years with his replacement.
The copilot entered the tiny cockpit and gave a surprised look to the man sitting in the pilot’s seat; this was not Bernie, the band’s usual pilot. “So, who are you, then?” he asked.
“Replacement,” the man murmured. “Seems Bernie had a late night with your lads at the farewell party last night.”
Mac, the copilot, nodded; he knew of Bernie’s tendencies. He glanced down at the name tag on the front of the new pilot’s uniform. It read “B. Smith” but Mac didn’t attach any meaning to the name.
“Brought you a coffee,” the new pilot said and Mac drank it down gratefully as they waited for the band’s handlers to round up the band members and load them into the plane. Soon Mac was in a deep slumber, strapped into his seat behind the locked door of the cockpit.
Once the band was loaded into their recliners and some hair of the dog administered to them, the plane took off and started its route over the North Pole to Canada. Somewhere over the Arctic circle, the pilot left his seat. He emerged through the locked cockpit door and walked to the bar. He poured himself a large measure of whiskey as his astonished one-time bandmates stared in terror. “Here’s to the end of the line, mates,” he saluted them and downed the whiskey. Then he turned to mist and vanished through the top of the jet plane.
Two months later an expedition funded by the band’s more rabid fans located the jet’s remains on top of the world.