My stick buddy in the basic instruments portion of flight school was in love. Actually he had three loves: Krispy Kreme donuts, Starbucks coffee, and (drum roll please) the girl who drove the golf cart to and from the cold refuel parking and the FBO at Florala Municipal Airfield. As far as the donuts and coffee go, I’ll say this: he was German. Sometimes cheerful, sometimes brooding, always handsome but always German. He was awesome at Instruments, hated it when a group of us would go to a restaurant together (we’d inform the waitress it was his birthday every time just to embarrass him), cracked out at the sight of a lit neon “hot” light on the Krispy Kreme sign, but his heart remained secretly attached to one girl, and only one girl: the Florala Cart Chick.
Every time he planned the first leg of our instrument flight, which was every other day, he would plan the last approach for Florala. This fact ensured two things: I would always have to execute a departure from Florala and have to deal with this conversation…
“Doctrinatrix?”
“Ja, Hans.”
“Vill you please go unt talk to her for me?”
“Nope. You go talk to her.”
“Please, I vill buy you dinner if you do.”
“If we go out for dinner, Hans, it’ll be for Mexican, and I’m telling the waitress it’s your birthday again. One word for you, my Teutonic teammate: sombrero. Actually, I have another word for you too: Polaroid.”
Then he would sulk, staring longingly at the pretty nineteen year old cart girl as she walked by, a throng of flight schoolers in her pretty and powerful wake. Another one bites the dust.
In her defense, the Florala Cart Chick has never aged. She’s the same girl she’s always been, whether ten years ago (when my stick buddy was racing to her side after tying down the rotor blade in aircraft parking) or yesterday (when she had a couple of Navy helicopter flight school students from Pensacola utterly entranced with her short shorts and apricot tank-top). She was sitting in the front of the golf cart, enthusiastically texting, artfully ignoring ev.er.y.one from behind her giant bug-eye sunglasses. She neither spoke to them, nor even acknowledged their existence, but they hung on her every deed and move.
Oh, Florala Cart Girl, you’ve been getting “mad flight schooler game” kicked at you since Florala opened its FBO, sitting strategically between Pensacola, Eglin, Tyndall and Mother Rucker. They come from far and wide to gaze upon you while you drive your golf cart, ring up their fuel purchase, restock the fridge with sodas, text and ignore them. We salute you, Florala Cart Girl, for fielding the inane pick-up lines, exhausting comments about the general awesomeness of flight schooler flying skills, and the creepy old, Vietnam-era URS contractors who secretly want to pinch your butt when you walk by. You’ve dealt with Air Force Special Ops guys from Hurlburt Field who stroll into your FBO, wearing a sidearm (why?), and an expression that pretty much screams “I’m special. Now remove your panties, and give them to me because I am THAT special.” Had I been in your shoes, I would have long since kicked someone in the testicles. Knowing my luck, he’d have been a Colonel.
Thank you, Florala Cart Chick, for picking me up at my aircraft, promptly ringing up my fuel purchase, and being effortlessly polite and friendly, despite the persistent efforts of your adoring legions who are trying to look down your shirt while you run their government credit card through the register. Oh, and my stick buddy would like to get your phone number, while you’re at it.
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