Читать книгу Sunsets of Tulum - Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett - Страница 8

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In the Chopper

As Reed Haflinger shivered near the door in the Beverley airport lobby, he promised himself he would never let Dan talk him into this again. The early morning shift. No damn way. Global warming can’t happen soon enough, he thought, trying to warm his fingers by wrapping them around the tiny cup of bitter, tepid coffee he’d gotten from the machine in the lobby. Where the hell was Booker?

When the pilot arrived—a full twenty minutes late—it was not Booker, the ex-Afghanistan Marine, but some kid Reed had never seen before. Dan had given him what looked like a teenager: some idiot kid wearing a hoodie and skinny jeans, probably just out of flight school. Someone who wouldn’t inspire confidence even if he was behind the wheel of a Schwinn ten speed, let alone a news helicopter.

“I’m Rabbit,” the boy said, extending his right hand. Reed hoped the bike messenger bag over his shoulder had flight plans in it.

“You’re twenty minutes late. We’ve got a story to cover.” For a moment he debated just letting the poor kid sit there, but then relented. “I’m Reed,” he said, shaking hands. “You’re going to freeze your ass off in that copter. Every bit of wind is going to go right through you.”

“It’s okay,” said Rabbit. Was that his real name? What kind of parent names their child after an animal that most of the world wants to eat for lunch? “I’ve got a silk thermal layer on underneath. I’ll be fine.”

Silk thermal layer?

Haflinger wanted to laugh.

An hour and a half later, as the sun finally began its laborious climb out of the Atlantic, the chopper hung high over Boston as if it were an insect-collection dragonfly pinned to the perfect blue sky. In all the years he’d been in the news copter, he’d never gotten tired of that feeling of being weightless, above everything, as close as possible to being birds as man would ever be. That was about all he loved though. Mostly he was the camera for traffic snarls and fender benders, not the stuff he’d dreamed about in journalism class, where idealism eclipsed practicality. Back then he’d imagined being a war reporter or investigative journalist. Then life had happened, and suddenly fifteen years slipped by. For such a piss cold day, not much had been going on traffic-wise. A rollover on I-95 had closed two lanes out of three, traffic barely inching by. A mattress had flown off a truck north of the city. But that was it so far. He wondered what Laurel was up to, trying to remember the last time they’d had dinner together or gone out somewhere.

Then Channel 7 News requested something from over the Fenway Park stadium. Haflinger flicked the intercom.

“Rabbit, bring us over the ballpark. Need a shot with the sunrise for 7 News.”

“Sure thing,” the kid replied, banking the bird. Reed worked the camera controller panel in front of him, getting a last all-channel traffic angle before switching his attention to the upcoming task.

“Bring her in from the southeast. I’ll need a couple good feeds there, then swing her around so I can get a view from the north.”

“Sure.”

The helicopter’s nose dipped and the machine picked up speed, heading towards the iconic Citgo triangle, just barely visible out of the thatch of brownstones and university buildings that crowded the edge of the Charles River. Soon the stadium was visible, and Haflinger readied his position on the controls. The biggest challenge of being the helicopter cameraman was timing: arrive even a second too late and there’d be black fuzz on the TV screen when the anchor cut to a view from the chopper. It was one of the last arenas where television was still live.

Reed hit the intercom. “That’s good. Hold it right here. Let’s wait for the cue.”

“Roger.”

Haflinger turned on the camera and focused in on Fenway Park. Without zooming in, the baseball field looked like a little green bathmat. Yet with the push of a button Reed could see the numbers on individual seats in the stand. He’d been doing this for almost a decade and still felt lucky every time he got to fly. Even if the rest of the day sucked, he’d done something incredible for part of it.

A light on the controller panel turned from amber to red: the signal was live. Any poor slob who was up at 6 a.m. with their television on was seeing a few seconds of Fenway Park splashed by morning sunshine. All courtesy of Reed Haflinger and the rest of the Saber Traffic Team.

The light went from red to amber. The shot was complete.

Reed pushed the intercom.

“Got it. Now let’s try a shot from the north.”

“Roger,” said the kid.

But instead of the usual dip into a new direction, the chopper’s nose dropped like an elevator with the cable cut, descending so quickly that the heavy control panel in Reed’s lap flew up and smashed him in the forehead. His cup of coffee splashed on the roof, and anything not bolted down was suddenly floating: pens, candy wrappers, the flashlight, papers. All of it suspended in the cabin, the chaos of an uncontrolled descent.

At the same time, instead of holding tight to the northeast compass point where it should have been, the nose of the copter turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, stopped, reversed and did another full three-sixty. Instead of seeing Fenway Park below him through the bottom-mounted camera, Reed Haflinger was staring at it directly through the cockpit window.

Is this how it happens? was what came into his mind. Is this how it happens? Instinctively, he hit the intercom.

“We okay?!”

Nothing but the hiss of a live microphone feed.

“Rabbit?”

This is how it happens.

Reed could see the kid through the Plexiglas fighting with the controls. He saw Boston. What a beautiful city. He wondered if he and Laurel could have made it work out somehow. He thought about whether she’d put him in his folks’ plot or somewhere else. He saw the sunlight scintillating over the mouth of the Charles and wished he’d found a way to let Laurel teach him how to swim. The kid they’d almost had; the kids they’d never had since. The rut they’d been in. Everything he’d let slip by thinking there’d always be time. Things popped into his head faster than he could process them. Not sadness but just an overpowering sense that everything had happened too fast.

Then: “I got this!” Rabbit’s tone, a note or two below sheer panic, made it clear that even Rabbit remained unconvinced. “I got this! I got this!”

The helicopter’s rotors howled as they struggled to gain purchase against gravity, and slowly, slowly, the trajectory of the chopper shifted away from vertical. The heavy control panel slammed down again onto Reed’s thighs. He saw the readout. Only a few seconds had passed.

“We’re good,” Rabbit yelled again, as they began to rise, so close to the rooftops that Reed saw laundry strung on clotheslines and newspaper pages curled into rain gutters and a collared calico cat that hadn’t thought to look up quite yet. He rubbed the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and saw it was covered in blood.

Another news request came in and the nose of the helicopter dipped, they veered, and headed off to get the next live shot for Saber Traffic network.

* * *

When they landed back in Beverly, Reed stood on the tarmac long after the rotors had wound down and stopped, pressing a piece of oily rag onto the gash on his forehead and watching Rabbit walk all the way back towards the terminal, cinching up his hoodie against the cold. Just a kid, he thought. Just a poor fucking kid.

The sun hadn’t burnt off any of the cold, but Haflinger allowed himself to shiver, relishing the sting of the cold air. Winter on its way. These sensations. Being alive.

Finally, inside, still shaking, Reed took out his cellphone.

“Reed,” Dan said, answering before it even rang. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m taking some time off.”

“What do you mean? When?”

“Now. Next two weeks. Hell, maybe three.”

“You can’t do that. Saber Traffic needs you.”

“We had a goddamn tail rotor malfunction. Almost died. We were so close to the rooftops the pigeons were getting out of the way.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You’re still here.”

“I mean it, Dan. And I’m not flying if I’m not with someone who’s dealt with a couple crash landings under enemy fire in some Asian desert somewhere.”

“Rabbit’s green, but he’s got potential. He was top of his class.”

“At Acme Flight School? I want to see his log.”

“Give him a chance.”

“Rabbit almost turned us into stew.”

Then a spontaneous call to Laurel. Voice mail. Which could mean anything: she was still sleeping, she was on the T, she was avoiding him, anything. Which wouldn’t matter any other day, but something depressed him about leaving a message. He kept it short.

“Laur, call me back.” He waited, willing words to come. “Something happened today and it gave me a crazy idea. Let’s get away for a couple weeks. I know you’re busy and there’s a zillion things that you need to do but don’t think it to death this time. Just say ‘yes.’ Pretend it’s old times.”

He hung up, staring out the plate glass at the brown leaves scampering across the asphalt. Even the Cessnas, wrapped in tarps and chocks on their wheels, looked cold.

Moments later, he redialed.

“I’m thinking Mexico.”

Sunsets of Tulum

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