Under-qualified

Should I tell them I’m not actually a trained pilot?

My friend Dave applies for all kinds of jobs. He’s cool like that. He gets interviews, too. He’s currently working as a financial advisor in The Big Smoke, with absolutely no previous experience in financial advising. He couldn’t advise two cents. Dave has certainly cracked the employment nut, though. The method: straight-up lie on your CV. And if you get an interview? Pretend you’re going for an acting job, and act well. Magnum Opus that thing. Bafta, Oscar, Cannes Film Fest. I don’t know. 

Alas, through Dave’s flawless guidance, I’m here, floating above the beautiful British countryside, in a huge metal container with wings, carrying roughly one-hundred passengers, with my hands on the… what’s that called? Joystick? The thing that steers the plane. 

Usually there’s a co-pilot, but she’s very recently developed late onset narcolepsy. Over a pre-flight coffee this morning, she told me that she had her first experience of narcolepsy just yesterday, actually, and almost didn’t come to work today. Dave loves wordplay, so he’d probably say “her head’s in the clouds” or “the land of nod my problem." I don’t know. I’m not as good as Dave. Today’s my first day, by the way.

Oh yes, my experience as a pilot? Well, when I was younger, I was known to play a Star Wars flight simulator on the family PC. There was a level where you pilot a Snowspeeder, which is a re-purposed T-47 Airspeeder aircraft, modified to withstand the extreme conditions on the planet Hoth, and I was pretty good at flying it. That’s basically it. In reality, flying a commercial jet should be easier than flying a Snowspeeder, because commercial jets don’t have two forward-facing laser cannons or a rear-facing harpoon gun fitted with a heavy-duty tow cable.

Hoth is a world of snow and ice; the sixth planet in the remote system of the same name, and was the site of the Rebel Alliance's Echo Base. I look out the big front visor thing (is it just called a window?), and we couldn’t be further from Hoth. It’s all sunshine up here. 

‘This isn’t a simulation.’ I remind myself, aloud for some reason.

Ding. Oh, a red light! Well, I’ve already got my seat belt on, so that can’t be it… I look over at my co-pilot. Her name’s Candy, which is a name you really don’t hear often. “Sweet name”, Dave would say. “Crushed it”, he’d add. We have little golden badges pinned onto our blue and white uniforms. Mine reads Robert Cough, which isn’t my actual name. Dave said it’s better to use a pen name, in case things ever turn sour. I went with Robert because it hurts to get robbed, and cough because I had a cold at the time.

Ding. Hmm. I consider the vast array of buttons, dials, notches, levers, handles, switches, bulbs and screens at my disposal. If only I knew what they all did. The red flashing bulb is actually rather hypnotic. They should make them less hypnotic. 

Moments pass, spent staring into the mesmerising void. Knock! Knock! 

‘Come in!’ I instinctively respond.

A member of cabin crew enters the cockpit, adjusting her fetching hat as she closes the door behind her. Her badge reads Wendy. Dave would probably crack a joke like “A bit Wendy up here, isn’t it!” Except it would be ten times more funny.

“Hi, we’ve just hit the two-hour mark, which is when Jason would usually update the passengers on flight progress.” Wendy turns her attention to Candy’s unconscious body slumped over the desk. 

‘Is she… OK?’ Wendy prods, with finger and words. 

‘Thanks! She has narcolepsy. All good.’ I reassure Wendy. 

‘Ok, just buzz if you need a coffee or anything.’ Wendy withdraws through the door, looking a little distracted by the flashing red bulb on my dashboard. Is it a dashboard? Is that just for cars? Maybe I should look at the manual. Oh, first, the passengers. I lift a wired walkie talkie to my lips and make something up. 

‘Beautiful day here, look at that sunshine. We’re on track for our destination, no hiccups. This is my first ever flight, everyone! Have a… safe… flight.’ I drop the mic and wipe a bead of sweat from my head. Are we actually on a safe flight? Where are we going? I guess we’ll know when we get there. 

Dave is quite good at advertising. He’d probably rebrand the modern aeroplane as a “Memory Vessel” and he’d create a campaign for the leading airline, with the tag line “A dream is only a dream until you fly there.” Or something to that effect. As I mentioned, Dave is much better than me at this sort of stuff.

My wheelhouse is… Oh, wait. What am I good at? My calling is about as clear to me as a the scene in Titanic with the hand on the glass. That’s a confusing analogy, actually. The glass isn’t very clean. I don’t know. What is my purpose? Are these questions acceptable in this circumstance? Is there a philosopher inside every one of us? Did I leave the handbrake on my car? I think I parked on a hill.

Ding. Oh, yes. The bulb. It’s got an icon underneath it; it’s a family. That’s right, two adults and three children. Why is there a family icon on this plane? I reach for the manual, and hunt down the icon chapter. I flick through the dusty, sad pages and land on page 737.

‘Dave…’ a voice whispers into my ear, with no whisperer in sight.

‘Huh?’ I propel my head into a fast upward tilt.

When I look forward again, I see trees and rails. A glass screen, and through it; the world shifting by in green, blue and grey. I tense up.

‘You ok there, Dave? You were absent for a moment there, pal. Daydreaming and train driving are a dangerous coupling.’ He pats my shoulder and tuts.

In the reflection of the glass pane, I see myself. In this same moment, I realise I don’t know myself at all. 

Now, what do all these levers do?