“…..going to Montreal with you…….laying over in Ottawa……..which leg do you want……..”
Just like the laws of the wild, chaps.
When the other potential mates think you are paired up already, they will flock to the more available looking partners. With this hanger-on stationed in front of me, there was no way I was going to get any action! 
I struggled to keep the look of desperation out of my face as I nearly pulled an ocular muscle trying to obtain eye contact with a passing blonde. No joy. Quick pelvic thrusts directed at a nearby seated brunette yielded nothing. Blazing finger gun shots and rapid clicking from the side of my mouth failed to draw in more than a single look of adoration from the clerk at the Hudson News adjacent to the gate. Zut Alors! 
Exasperated now, I turned to look at the constant source of chatter before me. Pleased that she had my attention, she actually stopped talking and took in the sight in front of her. Take your time, Cherie.
Starting at the recently polished cowboy boots, she clucked her tongue—in awe— as she drank in the snug polyester dress pants held firmly in place by the powerful lower body of a French-Canadian not afraid of a little gym time for his hammys and glutes. The Fleur de lis emblem on the belt buckle gleamed and winked at my new fan as her eyes ran over the gentle convex curve of my ab before taking in the pencil thin mustache adorning my upper lip. An impressive coating of stubble on my cheeks (about the consistency of 80 grit sandpaper) scored me huge points for ruggedness. Why shave, gents? Show them you mean business and have the testosterone to back it up! 
The diameter of her eyes noticeably changed as the piece du resistance flowed into her view. The mullet up until now had been waiting patiently, crouched on my neckline before being called into action to seal a potential mate. Other than the odd curious curl peeking out to survey the crowded airport, it had been largely dormant. Now, however, it caught the scent of pursuit, and with a quick whip of my neck it sprang forth like an excited child at Christmas. My standard issue airline hat groaned under the pressure, and then conceded as it was pushed north, making my already impressive 5’6” frame seem positively enormous in the perfect backlit effect I had positioned myself in. Allowing my audience time to absorb it all, I studied my nails as one of my immaculate boots rose from the floor and came to rest on my flight bag. Taking a page from the cool pilot book, my case was covered with every kind of sticker you can imagined, from Celine Dion to Rocky Balboa.
Rotate that bag, fellows, and study all the aircraft stickers. The entire family of Cessna singles are represented, the 182 encircled with gold stars. The Mighty DHC-8 lives on top, just near the handle on which I fasten my steely grip. Message? I have flown lots of airplanes. Impressive? You bet!
I had been politely waiting for her inspection to be complete before opening my eyes and nodding slowly and removing my elevated boot from my bag. Beaming. Spreading my arms. Waiting for the praise to be heaped upon me.
I waited. And waited.
The praise was taking some time to get to me.
The source of the voice was now standing quietly, and had folded her arms while my eyes had been closed. “Did you hear me?” she said. Was that a tapping foot? What was going on here?
“Of course not, Cherie. Please say again.” I responded. On the outside I was exuding pure calm, but on the inside I was starting to feel confused. Nervous. A brief wave of fear bubbled up. It quickly passed through my Louis Vittons and the polyester. It sounded like a far-off Vuvuzela and smelt like camenbert. A nostril twitched in an act of betrayal.
She sighed. It sounded like….exasperation. How could this be? Did she not see the epaulettes? The hair? The barndoor lats? How could she resist?
“We are flying together….” She began slowly.
Aha! That’s who this little vixen was! A flight attendant! Of course. I casually wafted a masculine hand to push the scent of the Axe body spray her way. ‘Phoenix’ is my odor of choice, men. Never fails. Line in the water! I waited for her to bite.
“…and I am Captain Wilson.” The sentence was finished, but I couldn’t comprehend it. This……..female creature was claiming to warm the left seat of the Mighty 8? I had her pegged for a cookie tosser, but now I saw the folly in my assumption. I had seen what had looked like four bars when she sauntered in, but just assumed we were getting a really qualified in-charge. It was only now that I noticed the telltale signs of the professional pilot—the same ones I “accidently” forget to take off before hitting le discotheque: the hat, the pen-in-pocket, the glinting wings….Ray Bans swinging from the lanyard, flight crew ID clipped to the shirt. Could this be true? I had heard about lady pilots before, but kind of assumed they were a mystical creature—like a unicorn—and didn’t really exist.
Could she resist me? Not likely. Time for the secret weapon. Impromptu Dancing with the Stars audition coming up!
The only foreshadowing of the treat about to be bestowed was a slight bend in the knees before I sprung skyward into a tight double axel. The mullet bowed to the laws of centrifugal force and obediently arced out in a graceful semi-circle of golden happiness. I caught sight of myself in the window at the top of climb; with my clenched buns and pirouetted toes I looked like Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Sweet!
The landing was classic two point, and I quickly unfolded my arms from my chest, my breathing noticeably quicker now. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the nasally roar of the loudspeaker: “Gate change, flight 347 to Ottawa will now be departing from Gate 56.”
I looked at her.
“That’s us.”
My eyes narrowed to slits and the signature toothpick appeared out of nowhere to set up camp on my lower lip. My hand flexed on the handle of the rolly bag.
She stared back.
“Yes. It is.”
Her eyes also narrowed, and she put a stick of gum into her mouth. Slowly. Her jaw started to move as she stared at me like a fighter in the ring. Yikes!
We stood there for a long four seconds before exploding into action. My quads pumped furiously with the pedigree of a sprinter as I departed for Gate 56. The Lady Captain had pulled out in front, and I lost precious seconds trying to sabotage her start efforts by trying to kick her one foot behind the other. (It worked like a charm in Grade 9, chaps. I did that to that bully Pascal St. Jermaine-de-Mer back in the day, and he went down like a ton of bricks in the cafeteria as the roar of approval from my peers rang loud in my ears. I did some time with le Principal after that little episode, but the damage was done and old Pascal never pulled on the mullet again. Prenez votre medicine, Pascal!)
My technique did not work this time though, folks. Lady Captain had a boat-length on me now. She was freakishly fast. I desperately searched for something to throw at her, but nothing presented itself. The Tim Horton’s double-double sloshed painfully behind the muscular wall of my ab as I forced the rolly-bag’s wheels to spool far in excess of their certified design speed. I could smell the burning of the bearings as we rounded the first corner. My calves and glutes squealed in protest—after all, they were accustomed to moving staggering amounts of weight in the gym in Trois Rivieries, not support an all-out cardio effort like this. In contrast, the Lady Captain looked like she could bang off 10k any day of the week, and barely looked like she was breathing heavy. That wasn’t the case in my camp, chappies. Without warning, the #2 wheel packed it in, and smoke started to pour freely from beneath the rolly. The toothpick fell from my mouth in a receeding trail of drool, and the Balboa sticker bobbed and weaved in encouragement as my flight bag bounced over the terrain of the lounge. Gate 56 was now in view, but all I was focused on was the retreating head of the Lady Captain as she pulled further away. She had a smooth motion to her running, almost gliding back and forth like a speed skater. This was unfolding like a Road . cartoon, and I was playing the hapless coyote!
-to be continued
