adjusting for refraction, part II

This is what I'd secretly hoped would happen all along, you know?

I'd be flying out of a quiet, run-down, pleasant sort of backwater airport filled with interesting people: savants, a few young guns like myself, wise old sages, colorful internationals, jokesters, ace pilots, acrobats, war veterans, lots of beat-up airplanes, and maybe a lethargic dog or cat.

And that's exactly what I'm doing.

Let me tell you a bit about M_____ Aviation, where my bosses rent their spare Mooney (known as 95W, or Nine-Five Whiskey). The building is a hangar, to which a couple of carpeted, fluorescently-lit rooms have been tacked on. It's just west of 18, right on the taxiway, and in the exact center of the runway; what's known as "midfield" in aviation lingo. There are about thirty or so airplanes of every description parked nearby, tied down against the omnipresent desert breeze.

Inside the hangar, three small aircraft sit in various states of dissection. The radio is always on, and the booming voices of talk show hosts carom off the metal walls and rebound through the empty space. Workbenches, carts, trolleys, and shelves, all packed with oilcans and all kinds of tools, are scattered throughout. The extra rooms comprise the office, bathrooms, and classroom of M_____ Aviation. The classroom is about the size of a dining room, and has a couple of long tables and a mismatched selection of rickety chairs. There's a whiteboard, which almost always has some basic principle of aviation demonstrated upon it in fading marker: the different kinds of airspace, accepted methods for stall recovery. The walls of the classroom are plastered with old white T-shirts and assorted bits of cloth; upon these, also in marker, have been scrawled the names of students, the dates of their first solo flights, and some encouraging remarks like "It was a piece of cake!" or "Three Perfect Landings!" Some artistic souls have also drawn pictures of their airplane coming in on Runway 18.

Light shines feebly in through the opaque glass of the windows. There's a microwave in one corner of the classroom, with an ancient Cup o' Noodles sitting on it. The tables are covered with piles of aviation magazines, textbooks, and instructional pamphlets. The computer in the opposite corner sits and whirs idly.

The main office is a long room, about thirty feet. It smells heavily of secondhand smoke. The southernmost end has a couple of soft, sagging couches, more aviation magazines, toys, mugs, headsets, and all manner of bumper stickers and license plate holders, all for sale. Aviation comics from the 1930s and photographs of F-86s and B-25s are tacked up on the stained, yellowing walls. The coffee machine next to the bathroom door is well-supplied with creamer, sugar, and Styrofoam cups—even little brown straws. On the north side of the room, toward the classroom, is the reception desk. It is impossible to discern what kind of wood it's made of, or even if it's made of wood at all. There is such an amazing pile of textbooks, documents, newspapers, paperweights, cigarette lighters and coffee cups on it that its surface is utterly obscured. The desk faces the two big glass doors and the two floor-length plate-glass windows on either side of them; but for the eucalyptus tree out in front of the office, there'd be a rather good view of Runway 18. (There are also some shrubs and a metal barbecue, filled with cigarette butts, outside.)

Just inside the glass door is another sagging couch...absurdly comfortable, conforming immediately to one's backside. To the right of the desk, as you walk in, is the classroom; to the left, there's a long, low glass counter, filled with textbooks and merchandise (and further down, bumper stickers). Payments are transacted here. Up against the east wall, where the doors are, there's a sort of shelving unit which separates the north and south sides of the room. On this shelf are tiny flight jackets (for those toddlers aspiring to be aviators) and other aviation apparel. There is also a large, smooth, two-bladed wooden propeller leaning up against this shelf, all of a piece. Pete says the propeller was carved out of a single block of wood by a local woman with a chainsaw. I don't know if that's true, but Pete has no cause to lie about it.

Ah-ha!

Now that I've finished populating this flight school with inanimate objects, I must relate to you something of its organic denizens. Enter Anna, the Dutch matron who runs the place, and Pete, the soft-spoken genius mechanic. Anna is short, thickset, and brown-haired, with twinkling brown eyes that shine out of a weather-beaten face. She smokes unashamedly and plays solitaire on the computer at light-speed. I took a liking to her almost immediately. She always has some incisive observation to make, and she knows aviation through and through. I'll bet she's forgotten more about flying than I'll ever learn.

Anna has aviation in her blood. She learned to fly in her native Holland, oh-so-many years ago, as she says. She flew in Holland, in Belgium, in Germany, and then finally came over here and started up this flight school in 1978. She's a fun person, always giving you a big hello. She pronounces her R's like W's, and her Th's like D's, but dat's all wight with me. Anna always arrives first, about ten minutes before seven, unlocking and opening the gate and starting the coffee. She makes good coffee. That's quite something, coming from me. I don't even like coffee. But hers is quite palatable.
"In Holland," she told me when I complimented her, "dey make it twice as stwong."
Oh goodie. Now I have another entry for my already monumental list of places to visit and things to do.

And then there's Pete. Pete rolls up about five minutes after Anna, in a gray Toyota stained black with tar. It looks as though a tarry monster slimed and oozed its way out of his truck bed, down the side panel and onto the ground. Anna told us it was from the work they'd done earlier re-tarring the ramp area. They'd done it themselves. It's not surprising. Pete is handy guy. He's the resident aviation mechanic, and rather proficient by all appearances.

What appearances, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Maybe I'm a sentimentalist, or set too much store by appearances. But regardless, there are certain visual criteria I use to determine if somebody is a quote-unquote "good" mechanic. The first thing I really noticed about Pete was his hands. For a man as short and skinny as he is, his hands are disproportionate. The fingers are large, thick, and stubby, covered with nicks and coated with the grayish vestiges of yesterday's engine oil. It's under his nails, down his cuticles, embedded in the creases of his knuckles. That spells "good mechanic" to me. I figure his fingers didn't start out thick and stubby like that. They got that way from years of poking around inside aircraft engines, nicking them on sharp metal corners, scraping them on unforgiving cylinder heads and cowlings, fumbling with nuts and rivets, tweaking, tuning and tinkering, often in freezing temperatures or other harsh conditions. The oil tells me he's not afraid to get his hands dirty, nor leave them that way for a while. Pete's all fix and no fuss, in other words. I admire men like that. I don't mind getting coated with engine oil or working on anything mechanical, but I have a set of beater clothes for that. Pete just dives right in.

The rest of him bears out that impression. The only part of Pete that ever changes is the color of his button-down shirt. The rest of him stays the same. Bespectacled, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and sideburns, flyaway brown hair poking out from beneath his cap, Pete just looks like a stereotypical aviation mechanic. He smokes as much as Anna, if not more. He's soft-spoken, and quietly whistles his consonants. He never opens his mouth wide when he's talking; and his mustache acts like a shield for his teeth and gums. But eventually I was able to determine that Pete is missing one of his front teeth. Whenever he's investigating an engine, peering under the cowling with a flashlight in his hand, Pete whistles breezily through this gap in his dentition. The knees of his jeans are eternally oil-stained. His feet fit snugly into comfortably beaten tennis shoes. He wears a plain black jacket with a pocket on the sleeve, and reaches unhesitatingly into whatever aperture or opening on an engine he can find.

That's his first and most trusted diagnostic: reach in and feel around for the trouble. As we attempted to remedy the inoperative governor yesterday, I saw Pete employ this method to great effect. He reached in and fumbled around a while, whistling airily, his arm embedded in the engine up to the shoulder. Then he pulled his hand back out. An incriminating drop of oil slid down his index finger like blood. Pete's got some funny stories to tell, too. And it's a delight to hear somebody tell him their mechanical problems. You can just see the wheels turning in Pete's head. He'll muse for a bit, and then ask a few salient questions: "What was the oil pressure doing?" or "Was it sustained at 2200 RPM?" Then he'll grab his screwdriver and head out to the hangar to do battle with the Gods of Disrepair.

Like I said, he seems to be a good mechanic.

Pete doesn't commute to the airport alone. He carpools. Zeke always comes with him. Zeke has four legs, a wet snout, amber eyes, and fur as soft and abundant as a chinchilla. He's a German shepherd cross, and Pete's constant companion. After relieving himself outside on the taxiway somewhere, Zeke comes inside and lays down in the middle of the floor, right in front of the reception desk. He barked at Mr. Mooney and me a few times, but got used to us eventually. Indeed, once he figured out I was good for free pets, I became his new best friend. Airplanes don't faze him; firing engines don't bother him in the slightest. He's a shockproof, biscuit-mad, pet-crazy old airport dog, that's all.

Scan is the name I give to M_____ Aviation's last noteworthy resident. Mr. Mooney and I were rolling 95 Whiskey back into place when I spotted a cat sitting on the asphalt just ten feet away. He was dark gray, with a black back and stripes. Pete noticed my surprise.

"Want a Cat Scan?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" I answered shakily, not sure I'd heard him right.

"He gives Cat Scans," Pete answered, nodding at the cat, an undercut smile on his face. "He'll climb inside your engine and tell you what's wrong with it."

I, in my usual blockhead mode, still didn't understand.

"He charges 75 bucks, though," Pete went on, still smiling. "And he doesn't diagnose much apart from mice."

Finally, I caught on.

"Yeah," I grinned back. " 'Everything's good in there, man, but you've got some birds in the air intakes!' "

Both of us chuckled.

Scan doesn't really have a name so far as I'm aware. If he does, I've never heard anyone call him by it. Scan seems to suit perfectly well.

And now, before I let you go, I will tell you about refraction. As we discussed yesterday, refraction is chiefly the change in direction of a ray of light, sound, or heat, in passing obliquely from one medium to another.

I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a ray of light, but I have passed obliquely from one medium to another: unemployment to employment, stagnation to participation, earth to air. And I think I feel a change in the wind. This new job is not the paltry part-time noncommittal thing I imagined it would be. It's the real deal. There's some potential for advancement within this company. They're expanding, growing, pushing out, taking on new contracts. I'm getting some flight time in the right seat and also furthering my writing career in my off-hours. The pay is good, and there's the possibility that it may increase.

But more importantly, I'm enjoying the work. I stand to both (a) save up a lot of money, and (b) "grow as an aviator," as Mr. Mooney put it. Long story short...this might turn out to be a lengthier gig than I imagined. I think I might stick around for a year or three and see how things turn out. Who knows what'll happen? I might make great strides in obtaining my commercial pilot's license, at the very least. At most...well, I'm not given to wild speculation.

Tentatively, it's safe to say that I have been refracted. My direction has changed. I have passed from one medium to another, and ricocheted off in a new and exciting direction. I'm content to settle in for a spell and see where it takes me. If I don't to Australia or Japan this year or the next...so be it. They're not going anywhere.

But I am.

how to register a car in Southern California

Let us discuss certain first principles regarding car ownership in the sunny, smoggy, scummy state of California. I will introduce some terminology to start:

• smog: a portmanteau of "smoke" and "fog," referring to aerosol pollutants (industrial waste, car exhaust, and so on) mixing with airborne water droplets (like fog) to form a filmy, unhealthy haze.
• smogging: in certain states like California, drivers are required by law to have their car "smogged"; that is, tested to ensure that they are keeping noxious exhaust emissions low, which in turn ensures that smog levels are minimized. Before a car can be registered, it must be smogged.
• title: in reference to automobiles, this is a legal certificate of ownership issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles. Also known as a "pink slip."
• license: everybody knows what this is, but I thought I'd mention it here just to make this list longer. This is the little piece of plastic, obtained after you complete your driver's test, that says you're allowed to drive a certain class of vehicle. It has your picture, your birthday, and some other miscellaneous crap on it.
• registration: bureaucracy these days being what it is, it's no longer enough to simply own a vehicle. You now must register it with your state of residence. You tell them you have a car and they issue you with license plates that you bolt onto said car. Makes it easier for the cops to identify you, and a whole bunch of other stuff.
• registration stickers: as if registering a vehicle wasn't enough, the registration expires after a few years. So you have to occasionally renew your registration. These stickers, applied directly to your license plates, keep track of your registration currency.

Are we clear? To own and operate a car in this state, you need four, count 'em, four things: title, registration, license, and a smog check.

I'm writing this because I went in to get a smog check today, in preparation for obtaining registration for my 1995 Jeep Cherokee, and thereby being able to drive my car in California legally. I just got back. It took almost seven hours. That's Southern California for you.

First, I got up at 7:00 a.m. to get to A-Action Automotive (the ones who did the checkup on the Jeep right before I purchased it) by eight. I did, and got it inspected. At nine, owner Steve Coultas came out to give me the verdict. The Jeep barely passed the smog check, but it failed on the fuel system evaluation. There was a leak in the fuel system somewhere. The smog check had already cost me $60, but I went ahead and approved the $80 fuel system inspection. That took a further hour or two. I went down to Starbucks on the corner of Hesperia Road and Bear Valley and had some passion fruit lemonade tea (for $2.80), then went across the street to Walgreen's and read some magazines: guns, video games, even the latest issue of Time. It was the "brain" issue, all about the human brain and its vagaries.

Somewhere between 10:30 and 11:00 I returned to the shop and heard the new verdict: both the filler hose and the vent hose, connected to the fuel tank, were leaking. To repair it, the custom bumper on the Jeep and the fuel tank would both have to be "dropped" (unscrewed, lowered and removed). Total repairs, including parts and labor, came to just over $450. The day had already been going badly before I heard this. I'd ripped my pants on the rabbit-wire on my way out of the backyard gate, and I'd had to get up early. Now I was going to spend two weeks' pay on these repairs. Not that I would've cared, mind you. But compounded with the rest of what happened today...well, read on.

So I went ahead and approved this latest round of repairs, too. Steve checked and told me that his shop had the hoses in stock, so they wouldn't need to be ordered. Good, because it meant the Jeep could be repaired that same day. And I needed to have it repaired as soon as possible. On Monday I'd be getting up early again to head up to Barstow and the office of the Department of Motor Vehicles to get the Jeep registered. Steve printed me out an cost estimate and told me the Jeep should be finished by this afternoon. (I'd just like to point out here that, despite how it sounds, I'm not blaming A-Action Automotive or any of its employees for this. I understand that parts and labor cost a lot. I'm just deploring the fact that I have to spend that much money on repairs. I'm not complaining that A-Action is charging me that much for them. They run a splendid repair shop and I'd recommend them to anybody. This was just some bad news on top of a soon-to-be stinky day...but read on.)

My dad had called me earlier and told me he and Mom were coming into town to go shopping. Once he heard that the Jeep was going in for new repairs, Dad said he'd pick me up and we'd all go together while the repairs were going on. I plunked myself down on the sidewalk outside the repair shop and awaited their coming, shaded from the blasphemous sun by the A-Action sign out front. Mom and Dad came shortly before noon, and we headed off: first to try to find a mattress store in Oak Hills (which we didn't; it wasn't even there) and then to Tom's Burgers to get lunch (yum!).

Then (this was about 1:00) we went back to A-Action. The Jeep was sitting outside in the parking lot...a good sign? Perhaps it was finished already. I went into the small front office. Steve said that the parts that they'd thought they had weren't correct; the hoses were intended for a Jeep Wrangler, not a Jeep Cherokee. He'd order up the parts and I could bring the Jeep back in on Monday to have it repaired. Awesome.

Fortunately I didn't have to pay anything right then and there. Steve nicely said, "We'll square up when you come in on Monday." I walked out of the office feeling slightly let down. Five hours and nothing had been fixed, only diagnosed. The Jeep hadn't even passed its smog check thanks to those blasted leaks in the fuel system (which the DMV would never let pass). I'd have to get it re-checked on Monday after repairs were concluded. Damn it and blast it.

Thereafter, Mom, Dad, and I stopped by Harbor Freight (a hardware store) to get some more stuff for my emergency automotive kit: a hydraulic jack and a towing cable, replete with large steel hooks (cool!). Then we split up. Mom and Dad went home, and I went to Eagle Motors, the car dealership where I'd originally bought the Jeep (I should just think up a name for the Jeep so I wouldn't have to keep blandly referring to it as "the Jeep," shouldn't I?). I had an errand in mind. I didn't have a title for the Jeep. I had a lot of other paperwork that had been given to me when I'd bought the car, but no title. I didn't know why. Normally they give you the title when you buy the car. But I didn't have it. So I went in to get it. Carl was still there, his wrinkled, spotty, sandal-clad foot resting on the desktop. I told him, politely, that I hadn't received a title. After leafing slowly through the paperwork I set before him and clicking around on the computer for a couple minutes (whistling tunelessly over the blaring television), he pronounced that, as far as he knew, my title was still being processed by the DMV. They'd mail it to me when they were finished. I asked how long he thought it'd be. He said he didn't know. He told me to give him a call about 2:30 (it was about 1:45 right then), when Sal, the owner, would come back and dig up the paperwork.

I sighed, thanked him, and left. I got some gas. I drove almost all the way home, then pulled over and called Eagle Motors precisely at 2:30. Carl said that he'd confirmed with Sal that Eagle Motors didn't have the Jeep's title. The DMV was working on it, and would mail it to me. However, the reason I hadn't received my registration paperwork is that Eagle Motors had mailed it to me, but it had returned undeliverable. I almost banged my head against my steering wheel when I heard this. I'd given them my street address instead of my mailing address. We don't receive mail at our street address. I quoted him the mailing address and requested (biting back my self-disgust) that he send my registration paperwork to me again.

I should explain here, now, that the reason I haven't received my title is because I haven't registered my vehicle with the state, and the reason that I haven't registered my vehicle with the state is because I don't have any registration paperwork, and the reason I don't have any registration paperwork is because I gave Eagle Motors my physical address instead of my mailing address that day long ago when I bought the car. So in the meantime, my parents and I have been wondering and worrying and wailing about how my registration paperwork hasn't shown up yet and how I don't yet have my car registered with the state and in the meantime the fuzz could pull me over and ticket me for driving around without registration. Sheesh.

After getting home at a quarter to three, having left the house precisely seven hours earlier, I collapsed onto my bed and considered going into hibernation ahead of schedule. An entire day shot. Blown. Down the drain. As if being informed that I'd be shelling out $450 on car repairs wasn't enough, I had then been notified that I'd made a stupid mistake, and had been wondering and wailing and waiting for absolutely nothing this entire time. And it took seven hours and an unholy amount of driving around in triple-digit heat to figure it all out.

This is how you register a car in Southern California. Phase One, anyway.