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Looking daggers at John – who’s stifling a huge grin – I let Evelyn hustle me into the chief pilot’s office.
The interview couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, and was the worst one I’ve ever experienced. However, I did spot my employment package on Capt. Tan’s desk - which he periodically perused and asked questions about – that contained my application, resume, plus copies of letters from previous employers, my entire pilot’s licenses, medical and passport.
So this Chinese gentleman had the whole enchilada on me, dear reader, but by his manner and general attitude Capt. Tan wasn’t the least impressed by it. He scowled throughout the interview, and whenever I answered a questioned, he’d wrinkle his nose as if I’d farted! By all indications, I was failing this interview miserably.
Then I asked myself, “Do I really care?” I’ve already discovered “paradise,” where I intend to spend the rest of my life. So why jump through my asshole for another shitty flying job? At that moment, I leaned back in my chair, relaxed, and let this disastrous interview run its course.
The chief pilot’s last question to me was this, “What amount of lead time will you require to relocate here?”
Since Phuket was only an hour-forty up the road by air, I replied, “Oh...I-I think I’ll need three days.”
Even that didn’t please him; he screwed his face up in a tight knot, and exploded, “Hah! That’s nothing!”
Then I was dismissed without a word of thanks for coming in, or any other friendly encouragement.
Upon returning to Phuket, I wrote the interview off as a bust, and entirely forgot the unpleasant episode; continuing to move ahead and fully enjoy my life in “paradise.”
So back to the annoying phone call, dear reader; no doubt that speed-demon, prankster, John Schottenheimer.
Upon reaching reception, Khun Fah handed me the receiver.
“Hello...” I said.
“Mister Chisholm, Mister Chisholm, Mister Chisholm?” A very excited female voice machine gunned me over the phone!
“Y-Yes...this is Mister Chisholm,” I replied.
“You must confirm reservation, you must confirm reservation, you must confirm reservation!” The excited lady exclaimed.
I have to admit, dear reader, this was far more than my hammered, hung-over brain could handle; causing me worry. Nothing computed. Had I actually made a reservation in my inebriated state?
So I asked the excited lady, politely, “W-Where are you calling from?”
To which she replied, “Bangkok, Bangkok, Bangkok!”
Then I asked, “And where am I-I supposed to be going?”
“Singapore, Singapore, Singapore!” She snapped impatiently, as though I were an idiot.
By this time, dear reader, I had determined this lady was not Thai. Why? Because Singaporeans, when excited, have the annoying habit of repeating everything in triplicate. This prompted me to take a shot in the dark.
As calmly as I could, I then asked her, “W-Who made this reservation?”
She screamed back at me, making me fear she was on the verge of having a stroke, “Airline House, Airline House, Airline House!”
“PING!”
“Okay...I’ll tell ya what,” I replied, “l-let me call Singapore and check something out. I promise I’ll call you r-right back.”
“You must confirm reservation today, you must confirm reservation today, you must confirm reservation today!” The excited lady exclaimed again.
“I will, I will, I will!” I exclaimed.
Dammit. Now she’s got me repeating myself.
Handing the receiver back to Khun Fah, I went to my room, retrieved a phone number and returned to reception. Giving the number to Khun Fah, I had her place an overseas call to Singapore Airlines’ Airline House.
After I had my disastrous interview at Airline House, dear reader, I was introduced to Mr. Dudley Lester, a Chinese gentleman and clerk, who handled all the paperwork for Singapore Airlines’ pilot applicants and new hires. He had given me his business card. Perhaps he could clear up this reservation mystery.
On the third ring Dudley picked up, and after I introduced myself, I filled him in as regards to this strange phone call I had received from Bangkok.
To which Dudley asked, “Did you receive our telegram?”
“No...n-not as yet,” I answered.
“Can you start ground school next Monday on the 15th?” Dudley inquired. “We’re offering you a three-year contract on the 747 as first officer.”
Blown away by this turn of events, I stammered, ”Y-Yes...I-I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll book you at the Plaza Hotel on Sunday the 14th. The company will pay for the first week, after that you’ll have to make your own accommodation arrangements,” Dudley elaborated.
“That sounds f-fine, Dudley,” I agreed.
“Excellent. Report to my office Monday morning at nine A.M., so we can begin your paperwork and clearances,” Dudley added.
“I-I’ll be there at nine sharp on M-Monday,” I confirmed.
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I then called the excitable lady in Bangkok, confirmed my reservation on Singapore Airlines, and had her book me on a connecting Thai flight from Phuket to Bangkok – all on SIA’s nickel.
So I was all set, dear reader. In three days I’d bid “paradise” farewell, zip up to Bangkok, then down to Singapore and check in at the Plaza. It’s strange how ones’ life can be turned up-side-down by the telephone; stick around – it got even stranger.
After my chat with the lady at Bangkok, I handed the receiver back to Khun Fah, when I spied a motorbike pull up to the front gate. It was an older, beat up, 100 cc Honda Dream. What caught my attention though was the worn-out, dusty, outsized leather saddlebags slung over the rear wheel. Only Thai postmen used these saddlebags.
The Thai gentleman that dismounted from this bike wore khaki-colored pith helmet, shirt and shorts, with flip-flops on his feet. He had another large leather bag, hanging from a strap on one shoulder. Fascinated by this gentleman’s sudden appearance, as if on cue, I studied his leisurely approach. After strolling in the garden, then past the pool, he ended his journey at the front desk where I patiently waited.
Reaching inside his leather bag, he retrieved a small, yellow envelope, and, with a smile, handed it to Khun Fah; then turned and departed for his bike.
She studied the envelope a moment, then looked up and handed it to me. It was my telegram from Singapore Airlines.
May I explain why I’m making such a big deal concerning this, dear reader; no doubt boring the socks off of you.
In the States whenever a major airline hired a pilot, they’d send a telegram. It was the pilot’s “golden ticket.” This is what struggling, ragged-assed pilots dreamt of. For years I jumped through my asshole, attempting to get hired by the airlines, and receive one of these “golden tickets.” I was obsessed with this “status symbol” for success. Naturally, I never got one. Even the fucking, cheapo, five airlines I went to work for in the States never sent a telegram. I was always hired by telephone. Shit!
So here I stand - at last holding my telegram - a “golden ticket” to a major international airline. A job I didn’t particularly want or jumped through my asshole for.
Honest to God, dear reader, there’s some type of weird, twisted moral lesson here, regarding “trying too hard”; except I’ll be damned if I can get a solid handle on it.
Screw it! I don’t care if it is too early. I’m getting a double Bourbon with a beer chaser and celebrate! A real aviator’s breakfast!
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