We’ve been months trapped in Jeddah on contract. I’m sitting in the dining room with Herr-Lippi and a flight attendant, and in walks Ahmed, in uniform. We all know that he’s connived a few days home (sucking up to the schedulers everyday), and that he is waiting for the hotel bus to take him to the airport.
Unable to resist rubbing my nose in it, he plunks down at our table, and says, “Steve, I will be home for a few days. Can I do anything for you, should I call on your wife, and tell her ‘hello’ for you?”
No Ahmed, thanks, that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh,” louder now, “so you don’t want me in your home when you’re not there.”
Leaning close, I hold his forearm now, look him in the eye, and say, “No, Ahmed, I don’t want you in my home even when I am there!”
I see the steam exploding from Ahmed’s ears as he jumps up from the table. Watching Ahmed storm from the room, Herr-Lippi shits himself. I grin. The flight attendant seated at our table, not attuned to cockpit politics, is non-plussed.
The tale of this confrontation spreads through our pilot pool with the speed of an Ebola virus in an Zaire infirmary. The story becomes a classic, and I am an instant hero. I’ve made a dangerous enemy, however, and I’m going to have to watch my back carefully, for some time.