Flying Too Close to the Sun, George Jehn [freda ebook reader txt] 📗

bright and sunny on Saturday, perfect for Erik’s weekend flight instructing job at Republic Airport, located near his home on Long Island. He needed extra money and the flight school required an instructor, so by mutual agreement he was paid off the books. He and his heavyset student Joseph Jones, or JJ as he was called had just completed an hour of dual instruction in a single-engine Cessna 152. As JJ secured the plane Erik ambled back to the operations office adorned with black and white, framed photos of many military aircraft produced by the airport’s previous owner, Republic Aviation. Formerly called the Seversky Aircraft Company it was responsible for the design and production of many important US military planes of a bygone era, including the World War II P-47, and the F-105 Thunderchief fighter jet used in the Korean conflict. The company was long gone, along with thousands of jobs.

Erik went to the vending machine, put in four quarters, got a bottle of water and rechecked his appointments for the rest of the day. A first-timer named Sal Rodriguez was listed for the 4 PM session. It was just before two, so he had time for the quick ten-minute drive to his parent’s home where he was living until he finished his airline probationary period in just under a year. It was a hot day and the small planes weren’t air conditioned so a cooling shower was in order.

“I’ll be back for my four o’clock appointment,” he informed Andrea, the school desk clerk with so much dyed jet black hair piled on the top of her head she looked as though she was in danger of tipping over.

While driving, he passed neatly manicured lawns and row upon row of maple trees bordering the streets in the middle-class Farmingdale, Long Island community. The homes here were quickly put in place in the sixties and all the houses on the street were pretty much cut from the same mold, but a generation of additions and landscaping changed that with the community now mainly comprised of blue collar workers. The neighborhood almost screamed out, middle income only. No wealthy individuals allowed. People like his parents who couldn’t be classified as affluent, but perhaps comfortable. Only a short time ago this area, bordered roughly on the north by the Long Island Expressway, better known as the world’s largest parking lot and the Southern State Parkway to the south, was wall to wall potato farms. The roadways brought the people and as a result of the urban migration, Farmingdale was now a suburb of the suburbs, waiting while one caught up with the other, creating the same urban environment most had moved here to escape.

Pulling into the driveway Erik stepped back in time, his childhood all around him. But the memories going along with this starched tidiness weren’t pleasant. He knew every floorboard, just as he knew the incendiary feelings of hurt and anger toward his parents conveniently tucked away in a remote corner of his brain, only to ignite sporadically. Although he detested living with them this would be the best he could do until next year when he would make enough to begin paying off his debts and get his own place. There might be a quicker way to earn extra cash other than flight instructing, but flying was his only livelihood. Recalling how much money he owed, his stomach did flips and Erik felt like he was in a plane and spinning out of control.

Entering the house he shouted in German, “Guten Tag, Mutter. Ich bin hier,” but only stark silence returned his greeting. This wasn’t one of those massive ten-thousand square foot mansions dotting Long Island’s Gold Coast on the money drenched North Shore abutting Long Island Sound. Rather, the homes here were more in the neighborhood of two-thousand square feet or slightly smaller where you could hear someone drop a kitchen utensil from just about anywhere. Formerly called starter homes, they used to be occupied by newly married couples on their way up in the world or retirees on their way out, but many like this had morphed into lifelong residences.

Erik padded to the kitchen with the scrubbed white walls and shiny green ceramic tile floor, removed the sweating orange juice container from the refrigerator and took a long slug, careful not to spill any. Although this place was outwardly pristine and full of Old World antiques, he knew this amounted to shining fiction as the unspoiled interior was permanently stained by the angst running throughout, with distrust everywhere. His mother could buff the floor continually but never wash away her acts or the venomous words that came from his father’s mouth. He could still smell the cigarettes and booze on the old man’s foul breath and feel the pain from the wounding words. A place where senseless rage was Joe Preis’ answers for an unfaithful spouse; a time which turned what should have been a period of love into a hardened heart. To this day it remained cold and ugly, stripped of affection and joy, with an abundant supply of alcohol to temporarily wash away the sins of the past and present.

Erik trekked upstairs to his room, his lair, and saw the source of his current anxiety lying on the desk; a certified letter from the bank that had financed his flying lessons stating they had run out of patience and were demanding restitution commencing the following month. No matter where he went this followed him like a puppy yipping at his heels. With no clue where this money would come from, the letter went out of sight back into the drawer, but his dilemma remained in clear view.

After changing into a pair of cutoff jeans, he meandered bare-chested outside into the bright afternoon sunshine, dragged a lounge chair from the garage onto the sun-drenched driveway of the two-story colonial and turned his sinewy, going on twenty-five body and face toward the sun. Comforting sunlight shimmered off the