From “The Best of On Final” April 2009
The cool thing about flying for over 40 years is that some interesting things happen to you. The hard part is remembering them. But one stands out. It’s a true story about beer and aviation.
In the early eighties, my company owned a Beech Duke. And yes, it was so sexy that you walked away from it backwards so you could keep looking at those great big Lycoming engines. I even memorized the engine type. TIO 541 E1C4. Some things you just never forget.
I flew the Duke around the country to visit customers, and one of my favorites was Mark Pousson (pronounced Mock Poo Son) of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Mark was a gregarious six-foot-three inch, two hundred-and-sixty-pound Cajun. Larger than life, his thick accent and raucous laugh made him a local favorite. And he loved his Miller beer. On an average day, at least three 6 packs. Even more on special occasions.
Mark once took me to his favorite local hideout for lunch, the Cotton Club. Located across the street from the police substation, it was a dimly lit bar attached to a liquor store that offered sandwiches if you really needed them. It was so hard to find that virtually no strangers ever came in. But everybody knew Mark. So, when I entered, numerous heads turned. The silence was deafening. I could feel them staring and thinking, “Who is dis young kid with Mark? What da hell is he doin’ here?”
Mark and I sat down with our Millers on the red vinyl-covered bar stools. About thirty seconds later, the beer drinker next to me says, “Who da hell ah you?” Not wanting to disappoint my host, I thought it would be appropriate to say something humorous. “I’m Mark’s parole officer.” No one said a word. You could hear a pin drop. Uncomfortably, we finished our beers and left.
As we drove away, Mark asked if I had any idea who I was talking to. “No, who was it?” I said. “Dat was the district court judge,” came the reply. I blamed it on the beer, but it was my first lesson in Louisiana etiquette. The second was even more embarrassing.
In addition to Miller beer, Mark was passionate about the Dallas Cowboys. As a thank you for his business, I picked him up in the Duke one Sunday and took him to a home game. I made sure to pack plenty of liquids. After consuming most of the beverages on our return flight, Mark was pretty well lubricated. We landed and taxied up to the FBO. It quickly became obvious that Mark was going to have difficulty exiting the Duke. And he was not going to let go of his Millers, one in each hand.
After some discussion, I managed to persuade Mark to hand me one beer and back out of the door. Holding the can, I propped him up as we walked into the FBO. He slid into a large chair and began snoring. Without thinking, I walked up to the service desk, sat the Miller on the counter and said, “Top off the Duke, I’m going right back to Dallas.”
Try to visualize the facial expressions of the three employees standing behind the desk. In front of them, one drunken passenger and one pilot audacious enough to set his beer down while he ordered fuel for his Duke!
It was an out-of-body experience. In slow motion, I realized what the scene looked like. I came up with embarrassing phrases like, “It’s not mine,” and “I bet you think this is MY beer,” and finally, in desperation, “Look, it’s almost full.” I’m not sure anything worked, and I prayed that the folks at the FBO wouldn’t call the police, the FAA or both. Apologizing profusely, I backed up right out of the waiting area and all the way to my airplane, where I waited quietly for the fuel.
I got out of Dodge as quickly as possible, looking over my shoulder all the way back to Dallas for federal marshals in Blackhawk helicopters.
My friend Mark passed away a few years ago, but I have a feeling he is watching over us with a cold one in each hand.
Fly safe.
