New York Nights
Page 75
No matter the costs...
As the headline scrolled across the screen again, I felt my blood pressure rising. For most viewers, I was sure this was another business segment, another young interviewer’s big break on the airline industry and the American Dream, but to me, those words meant more than just the end of an era. They meant something I’d never forgive or forget.
Livid, I forced myself to walk away and returned to the shower. I turned the water on its highest setting, trying to focus on something else, anything else, but it was no use. That ugly headline was all I could see.
Fuck it. I’m not going downstairs until I feel like it.
***
Three hours later...
“Thank you so much for arriving on time, Mr. Weston.” Dr. Cox glared at me as she opened the door to the meeting room. “Did you purposely arrive here with only limited time to spare before your scheduled flight to Singapore, or is that just a coincidence?”
“A convenient coincidence.”
“I’m sure.” She groaned and led me inside the small room. “You can have a seat at that table over there.”
I stepped inside and noticed that they’d transformed the sparse space to look like an actual orientation session. There were Elite policy posters tacked onto the walls, a projector screen, and a stack of Federal Aviation law books stacked high in a lone chair. There were two large boxes marked “J. Weston” in the corner, and the table was littered with huge binders, notebooks, and pens.
As I took a seat, I spotted two glasses of water labeled “For Mr. Weston” dripping onto the table’s wood.
Dr. Cox sat across from me seconds later, and another Elite executive, a grey-haired man donning a familiar blue and white tie, took his place next to her.
“This is my colleague, Lance Owens,” she said, placing a digital recorder on the table. “Since you took your precious time getting down here today, my videographer left. So, I’ll have to record the audio of the interview and Mr. Owens will serve as a visual witness. Also, we managed to fill in most of what we were missing from your file as we waited, so this won’t take too long. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“None at all.”
“Good.” She hit the start button on her recorder. “This is the final interview for employee #67581, senior captain, Jake Weston. Mr. Weston, can you state your full name for the record please?”
“Jake C. Weston.”
“What does the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Mr. Weston...”
“It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just C.”
“Thank you.” She slid a blue file toward me. “Mr. Weston, can you confirm that the previous job listings in the file in front of you are correct?”
I flipped the file open and saw my professional career compiled into a sparse black list. United States Air Force. American Airways. Air-Asia. Air-France. Signature. No accidents, no infractions, not a single tardy.
“This is correct.” I closed the file and returned it to her.
“It says here that you’ve earned thirty awards in aviation since you graduated from flight school. Is that true?”
“No. It’s forty-six.”
“You know,” she said, reading from a sheet of paper. “Most pilots don’t earn these particular types of awards until they’re in their fifties and sixties, when they have at least twenty-five to thirty-five years of experience under their belt. You have almost twenty years of experience, if I count your high school aviation achievements, and you’re only weeks away from turning thirty-eight.”
I blinked.
“Are you going to say anything about what I just mentioned, Mr. Weston?”
“I was waiting for the question. There’s usually some inflection in your voice when you ask one. You only stated a list of facts.”
The witness at her side cracked a smile.
“Moving on.” She clicked her pen. “We’re having some problems verifying the people you listed as next of kin. The phone numbers that are listed for them go straight to payphones in Montreal. We need the updated information from you, okay? My ‘okay’ is a question, Mr. Weston.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s start with Christopher Weston, your biological father. What is his current place of employment and contact number?”
“He’s a magician. He disappears and reappears into my life every few years. I’ll try to catch him next time and ask for his number.”
“What about Evan Weston, your biological brother?”
“Also a magician. His talent is in erasing things, making things appear differently than they are.”
“No phone number?”
“No phone number.”
“Your mother?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your wife?”
“Ex-wife. I’m sure she’s still ruining lives wherever she is. Look up the number for Hell.”
She took off her reading glasses. “Every Elite employee is required to list at least four next of kin contacts. Every. Single. One.”
“Then I’ll be the first exception.”
“I don’t think so.” She looked at the witness. “Since Mr. Weston wants to play games, we’ll need to use our data team to find his family members. Make sure we tell the hiring board how uncooperative he was today when you do that.”
The witness nodded, but I said nothing. I simply picked up a glass of water and took a long sip, knowing there was no way in hell they’d find anyone outside of my ex-wife. It’d all been buried decades ago, and it would never come to the surface again.
“In the meantime,” she said, “surely you can order your next of kin in order of closeness so we know who to contact first in the event of an emergency?”
“Surely.”
“Okay, then. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the closest, how close are you to your biological father?”
“Negative eighty.”
Her brown eyes immediately met mine. “I’m sorry, what? What did you just say?”
“Negative eighty.” I enunciated every syllable. “Do you need to rewind the tape and play it back for yourself?”
She shook her head, and for a second she looked as if she regretted even asking, as if she was going to stop this line of questioning and move on to something else, but she didn’t.
“Mr. Weston, on the same scale, how close are you to your biological brother?”
“Negative sixty.”
“Your biological mother?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. Weston,” she said, her voice a little harsher. “Could you please answer the question in regards to your biological mother?”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“Mr. Weston—”
“It’s a no.”
“It’s not a yes or no question.” She raised her voice. “Every question today is mandatory, especially since you waited until the very last minute to deem us ‘worthy’ of your time. If you wish to continue flying after your final trips for Signature this weekend, you need to answer me. Otherwise, we can stop this session right now.”
As the headline scrolled across the screen again, I felt my blood pressure rising. For most viewers, I was sure this was another business segment, another young interviewer’s big break on the airline industry and the American Dream, but to me, those words meant more than just the end of an era. They meant something I’d never forgive or forget.
Livid, I forced myself to walk away and returned to the shower. I turned the water on its highest setting, trying to focus on something else, anything else, but it was no use. That ugly headline was all I could see.
Fuck it. I’m not going downstairs until I feel like it.
***
Three hours later...
“Thank you so much for arriving on time, Mr. Weston.” Dr. Cox glared at me as she opened the door to the meeting room. “Did you purposely arrive here with only limited time to spare before your scheduled flight to Singapore, or is that just a coincidence?”
“A convenient coincidence.”
“I’m sure.” She groaned and led me inside the small room. “You can have a seat at that table over there.”
I stepped inside and noticed that they’d transformed the sparse space to look like an actual orientation session. There were Elite policy posters tacked onto the walls, a projector screen, and a stack of Federal Aviation law books stacked high in a lone chair. There were two large boxes marked “J. Weston” in the corner, and the table was littered with huge binders, notebooks, and pens.
As I took a seat, I spotted two glasses of water labeled “For Mr. Weston” dripping onto the table’s wood.
Dr. Cox sat across from me seconds later, and another Elite executive, a grey-haired man donning a familiar blue and white tie, took his place next to her.
“This is my colleague, Lance Owens,” she said, placing a digital recorder on the table. “Since you took your precious time getting down here today, my videographer left. So, I’ll have to record the audio of the interview and Mr. Owens will serve as a visual witness. Also, we managed to fill in most of what we were missing from your file as we waited, so this won’t take too long. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“None at all.”
“Good.” She hit the start button on her recorder. “This is the final interview for employee #67581, senior captain, Jake Weston. Mr. Weston, can you state your full name for the record please?”
“Jake C. Weston.”
“What does the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Mr. Weston...”
“It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just C.”
“Thank you.” She slid a blue file toward me. “Mr. Weston, can you confirm that the previous job listings in the file in front of you are correct?”
I flipped the file open and saw my professional career compiled into a sparse black list. United States Air Force. American Airways. Air-Asia. Air-France. Signature. No accidents, no infractions, not a single tardy.
“This is correct.” I closed the file and returned it to her.
“It says here that you’ve earned thirty awards in aviation since you graduated from flight school. Is that true?”
“No. It’s forty-six.”
“You know,” she said, reading from a sheet of paper. “Most pilots don’t earn these particular types of awards until they’re in their fifties and sixties, when they have at least twenty-five to thirty-five years of experience under their belt. You have almost twenty years of experience, if I count your high school aviation achievements, and you’re only weeks away from turning thirty-eight.”
I blinked.
“Are you going to say anything about what I just mentioned, Mr. Weston?”
“I was waiting for the question. There’s usually some inflection in your voice when you ask one. You only stated a list of facts.”
The witness at her side cracked a smile.
“Moving on.” She clicked her pen. “We’re having some problems verifying the people you listed as next of kin. The phone numbers that are listed for them go straight to payphones in Montreal. We need the updated information from you, okay? My ‘okay’ is a question, Mr. Weston.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s start with Christopher Weston, your biological father. What is his current place of employment and contact number?”
“He’s a magician. He disappears and reappears into my life every few years. I’ll try to catch him next time and ask for his number.”
“What about Evan Weston, your biological brother?”
“Also a magician. His talent is in erasing things, making things appear differently than they are.”
“No phone number?”
“No phone number.”
“Your mother?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your wife?”
“Ex-wife. I’m sure she’s still ruining lives wherever she is. Look up the number for Hell.”
She took off her reading glasses. “Every Elite employee is required to list at least four next of kin contacts. Every. Single. One.”
“Then I’ll be the first exception.”
“I don’t think so.” She looked at the witness. “Since Mr. Weston wants to play games, we’ll need to use our data team to find his family members. Make sure we tell the hiring board how uncooperative he was today when you do that.”
The witness nodded, but I said nothing. I simply picked up a glass of water and took a long sip, knowing there was no way in hell they’d find anyone outside of my ex-wife. It’d all been buried decades ago, and it would never come to the surface again.
“In the meantime,” she said, “surely you can order your next of kin in order of closeness so we know who to contact first in the event of an emergency?”
“Surely.”
“Okay, then. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the closest, how close are you to your biological father?”
“Negative eighty.”
Her brown eyes immediately met mine. “I’m sorry, what? What did you just say?”
“Negative eighty.” I enunciated every syllable. “Do you need to rewind the tape and play it back for yourself?”
She shook her head, and for a second she looked as if she regretted even asking, as if she was going to stop this line of questioning and move on to something else, but she didn’t.
“Mr. Weston, on the same scale, how close are you to your biological brother?”
“Negative sixty.”
“Your biological mother?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. Weston,” she said, her voice a little harsher. “Could you please answer the question in regards to your biological mother?”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“Mr. Weston—”
“It’s a no.”
“It’s not a yes or no question.” She raised her voice. “Every question today is mandatory, especially since you waited until the very last minute to deem us ‘worthy’ of your time. If you wish to continue flying after your final trips for Signature this weekend, you need to answer me. Otherwise, we can stop this session right now.”
