Catch Me If You Can Page 0,17

unusual sailor. A policeman's blue symbolizes authority. A forest ranger's raiment evokes wilderness lore. Even a doorman's gaudy garb stirs vague thoughts of pomp and royalty.

I felt great in my Pan Am pilot's uniform as I walked into La Guardia Airport. I obviously was commanding respect and esteem. Men looked at me admiringly or enviously. Pretty women and girls smiled at me. Airport policemen nodded courteously. Pilots and stewardesses smiled, spoke to me or lifted a hand in greeting as they passed. Every man, woman and child who noticed me seemed warm and friendly.

It was heady stuff and I loved it. In fact, I became instantly addicted. During the next five years the uniform was my alter ego. I used it in the same manner a junkie shoots up on heroin. Whenever I felt lonely, depressed, rejected or doubtful of my own worth, I'd dress up in my pilot's uniform and seek out a crowd. The uniform bought me respect and dignity. Without it on, at times, I felt useless and dejected. With it on, during such times, I felt like I was wearing Fortunatus' cap and walking in seven-league boots.

I milled with the crowd in La Guardia 's lobby that morning, glorying in my make-believe status. I fully intended to bluff my way aboard a flight to a distant city and start operating my check swindles there, but I delayed implementing my decision. I was having too much fun luxuriating in the attention and deference I was receiving.

I became hungry. I stepped into one of the airport's many coffee shops, dropped onto a stool at the counter and ordered a sandwich and milk. I was almost finished eating when a TWA co-pilot sat down on a stool eater-cornered from me. He looked at me and nodded. He ordered coffee and a roll, then regarded me with mild curiosity.

"What's Pan Am doing here at La Guardia?" he asked casually. Apparently, Pan Am did not fly out of La Guardia.

"Oh, I just deadheaded in from Frisco on the first flight I could catch," I replied. "I'll catch a chopper to Kennedy."

"What kind of equipment you on?" he asked, biting into his roll.

My brains turned to ice cubes. I nearly freaked out. Equipment? What did he mean, equipment? Engines? Cockpit instruments? What? I couldn't recall having heard the word before in connection with commercial airlines. I frantically searched for an answer for it was obviously a normal question for him to ask. I mentally reread the reminiscences of the veteran Pan Am captain, a little book I'd really liked and which I'd virtually adopted as a manual. I couldn't recall his ever using the word "equipment."

It had to have some significance, however. The TWA airman was looking at me, awaiting my reply. "General Electric," I said hopefully. It was definitely not the right answer. His eyes went frosty and a guarded look crossed his features. "Oh," he said, the friendliness gone from his voice. He busied himself with his coffee and roll. ›

I gulped the rest of my milk and dropped three dollars on the counter, more than ample payment for my snack. I stood up and nodded to the TWA pilot. "So long," I said, and headed for the door.

"Fruzhumtu," he growled. I wasn't sure of his exact words, but they sounded suspiciously like something I couldn't actually do to myself.

Whatever, I knew I wasn't sufficiently prepared to attempt a deadheading venture, despite all my prior work and research. It was evident that I needed a better command of airline terminology, among other things. As I was leaving the terminal, I noticed a TWA stewardess struggling with a heavy bag. "Can I help you?" I asked, reaching for the luggage.

She relinquished it readily. "Thanks," she said with a grin. "That's our crew bus just outside there."

"Just get in?" I asked as we walked toward the bus.

She grimaced. "Yes, and I'm pooped. About half the people in our load were whiskey salesmen who'd been to a convention in Scotland, and you can imagine what that scene was like."

I could, and laughed. "What kind of equipment are you on?" I asked on impulse.

"Seven-o-sevens, and I love 'em," she said as I heaved her suitcase aboard the bus. She paused at the bus door and stuck out her hand. "Thanks much, friend. I needed your muscles."

"Glad I could help," I said, and meant it. She was slim and elegant, with pixie features and auburn hair. Really attractive. Under other circumstances I would have pressed