I love to be home. It’s so rare that I get to enjoy the house, my wife, and kid. My time home is precious to me, so I sure as shit ain’t going to spend it with any assholes.
Ahmed Slitherian, one of Iranian P.F.E.’s is the complete asshole. Obnoxious and backstabbing when sober, he becomes even more arrogant, and abusive, whenever he drinks. Ahmed is unliked by everyone, including the “Iranian Mafia,” our contingent of Persian pilots and Professional Flight Engineers, all terrific guys.
During a Miami turn, Ahmed informs me that “We are neighbors, now.” He has moved his family to Daytona Beach, not far from my home, since his son is attending Sandler College in St. Augustine. Thrusting his phone number at me, he insists that we have to get together. “Shit,” I think, and throw his number away as soon as I can discretely do so.
Every few months, on the phone with Geri, she tells me that some guy called, with some funny sounding name, and he’s left his phone number.”
“Throw it away,” I tell her, with no explanation.
Months pass before I bump into Ahmed again, this time in JFK Flight Ops.
“Hi, Ahmed,” I say.
“Oh, you don’t like me!” he booms.
“Don’t like you?” all innocence, “Why wouldn’t I like you, Ahmed?”
“You never return my calls,” he says, invading my space. Ahmed is one of those people born with no sense of personal space. A close-talker.
“You called me, Ahmed? I never got any messages,” I lie. “I get home so infrequently that I just have enough time to pay my bills, do my laundry and re-introduce myself to my family.” This is no lie.
Years pass with no further attempts at home contact. When I do fly with Ahmed, every few months, we are always politely proper with each other, but I know that he knows, that I don’t like him, and that I don’t care that he knows.