Airfield, Chapter 2

*copyrighted material*

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    April 23rd, 1925. Ten years earlier. The calendar marked another day at Nooktown’s airport hangars, the date read on a huge chalkboard in fashionable handwriting with prettified curves and dents. Written down below were also the recorded flights to all parts of the country, the arrivals and departures—A.M or P.M. A colossal clock hanging above it showed the time with its nifty steel arms. Its immense and curly numbers had been crafted out of wood and painted with burnished black pigment. Now and then the bells rang, announcing the arrival of a new plane. It helped supervisors fill in their clipboard papers: the time and place of arrival, which hangar from A to K? From that selected letter, was it runway 1, 2, or 3? What type of airship is it? Model? Name of the pilot, license, and identification. What’s inside? Fuel? Vegetables? Animals? Check here, check there. That information would later fall into the hands of an assistant, their job consisted of getting the hang of the use of every single material before stamping the paperwork with a green ink seal with the word RECEIVED, in bold letters. Once done, the paperwork would be taken to the technician in charge of the said area. Technicians required assembled teams to unload or load the shipment from the aircraft as well as to provide technical support and engine check-ups.

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    If the matter consisted of a heavy warbird leaving the airport, it enforced the same procedure to let them go. If by any circumstances there were phony matters with the cargo, the plane, or the pilot’s identification, the airport was forced to stamp the paperwork with red ink seals with the word DENIED, activating an alert mechanism and putting it on the back burner all metrics and efficiency. Followed by a reboot of their ancient systematic procedure for such cases, forbidden to skip without a question by those in charge of the installations. Therefore, every day without an apparatus blackout was a blessed and jolly day for all supervisors and staff members, as their paychecks wouldn’t suffer the consequences. Right at the corner of the towering chalkboard was a smaller one that said: 6 days and 5 hours without an alert. Usually, they’d fill in the blank space where the number was mandatory for statistical measures. 

    Mt. Mowaki was the home of those luckless—one of many underived and sanctified grounds of the Renou natives, known as the Reindeer people within the country and also as the long lost children of the Saami Vikings of the North—as wicked and ruthless as raw ice fields themselves, or so said the blathers in town. The homestead of many who’d run far off North from all over the provinces to save their lives from the bloodshed. But the town was yet seduced by imminent misfortune, the plains of runways at the airport hangars would constantly claim lives due to the lack of resources. Those old, or even young.

    “Fine morning, Allegra! What have you got for this lassie today?” A foxy dame in her mid-twenties wearing a pair of glossy red heels, a parka coat, and an excess of cosmetic face powders chirped as she entered hangar J’s vestibule. Ahead and behind an exquisitely polished alabaster desk sat a wisplike old lady with unsettled opaline curls and heavy magnifying blinkers. Allegra looked up from her portholes and smiled. 

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   “Good morning Ms. Watts, here are the first few tonnage sheets of the day.” The senior reached out for a block of papers and straightened them against her desk before handing them over to her with quivering knuckles. “Also,” She began, “There’s a new group of shovelers ready for training. The patrons insisted that you introduce them to the day-to-day work, the system, and our installations like last spring.”

    Allegra’s co-worker clipped the forms to her clipboard and groused. She took out a thin stick of gum from her pocket dress and popped it into her mouth. She had found out it helped her whenever she felt overdone at her somewhat, pragmatic workplace. “New kiddos, you say? Know any of them?”

    “Most of them come from the local school or working part-time jobs at the trading market, sixteen and over. Most of them, except . . . ”

    “Except . . . ?”

    “Except one of them. He is . . . too young. I’m pretty sure this is not the kind of job for him . . . if any.” Allegra took out a thickish group of folders from her drawer and ferreted them out through the archive. It contained a sepia-toned picture of every kid, a curriculum rundown if possessed, their age, and residence plus their job application forms. All the data had been written with a typewriter assistant in the human resources department. 

    The old lady found the stack she wanted, two at the bottom of the pile, and pushed them toward the edge. “These are the Elsner brothers. The oldest one is Wyatt, he is sixteen years old.”

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    Ms. Watts opened the first file and thumbed through the report thoughtfully. In the portraiture she encountered a teenager with oatmeal skin; brown eyes and brownish-blonde hair—according to the data in her hands. “And the youngest? How old is he?”

    “His name is Calvin,” Allegra pushed her shades up her nose bridge. “He is five years old.”

    “Wait! Five years old? How . . . ” The woman scanned the pages with real consternation. The boy had a plumpish face, small nostrils, clear eyes, and hair. Grey and blonde. Immediately, she looked up the boy’s residence: The Lodge House. The once famously luxurious—now abandoned—hotel. And just to make sure there were no mistakes she looked up in the previous folder. Again. The Lodge House. “These kids . . . these kids just arrived in town. I’d never heard their names before. And if they are staying at The Lodge House it means . . . ”

    “It means they have nowhere to go.” Allegra nodded.

    “This is . . . ” Ms. Watts pressed her lips together. “Quite a story.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Are the kids here yet?”

    “All of them? They are in the waiting room, the one near the bathrooms. Room B.”

    “Okay. Allegra, could you bring me a cup of coffee? I desperately need one now.”

    “Sure.” The receptionist curled her lips and got to it, while her young co-worker rolled her shoulders and sighed. 

    “Okay. Easy there, Edna. Easy.” She told herself.

    “Ms. Watts? I mean . . . Edna?” Allegra looked at her with perky eyes.

     “Yes?”

    “Please be nice to these boys.”

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    She mimicked the receptionist’s good-natured smile but growled under her breath as she turned around and took off her coat. “Humiliating . . . ” She proceeded to roll up her sleeves, clipped her hair into a bun, and took out her fake, platinum pen used just to brag around the brats. A woman needed simple pleasures.

    Edna walked past the drinking fountain of the vast lobby, turning to a small corridor in the shape of an ‘L’, and through the office rooms’ hallway. She ended up in front of a blue door with a golden-plated letter ‘B’ on it. Inside room B she found twelve young men sitting across the room, tall and broad, more so that they look older than they were. Requirements of a well-built physique were common for employment, but not necessary if the candidate had improved stamina. They’d work with heavy shovels and ice choppers. Barrels full of salt and tailor-made winter spike grip boots. The use of heavy coats and winter garments was obvious, but the airport didn’t provide enough for every jobholder.

    The teenagers looked at her with snooping eyes. The oldest one, ghastly and freckled, stood up as he managed to recognize her as a staff member. He took off his cotton hat and urged one of his friends to stand as well. “It’s her!” He said, punching him on the shoulder. The other boys looked at each other and blasted her in a jiffy, babbling and begging all at the same time. They rang too loud for her ears.

    “Shut the hell up!” Everyone held their tongues fast. “You either prove to me you have what I need to exploit you or you don’t. No whining or bickering nonsense in my presence. I’m not your auntie and I know no sympathy for hysterical little monkeys like you!” The boys backed down with evident shame. A moment of stillness followed. Edna rocked on her coquettish pair of red heels, squeezing her eyes shut.

    At last, she relocated a hair strand at the back of her ear.

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    “Let’s cut to the chase, ” She began. “Each one of you will grab a shovel or an ice chopper from the depository. Once you’ve got a tool, we’ll reunite at hangar J, runway 2. If you are wondering where the depository is, it’s the last door to the left. Now, let’s move! If any of you are late to our meet-up, you can say bye-bye, no considerations on my part. You have five minutes. Have you all understood?”

    All teenagers had fallen under an immobilizing spell before they could briefly reply. “Yes, ma’am.” 

    The gang dissipated and two smaller figures came to the eye’s reach from the hall, coming from the bathroom. A pair of boys wearing oversized clothes for their very scrawny silhouettes. Patched trousers, stained jackets, winter hats, and ripped gloves. The tallest one wore brown leather rustic footwear with no laces and dark green socks to his knees. He was looking at her with disquieting eyes. While the baby boy at his side had wrapped his minuscule fist around his caretaker’s left thumb. Tears were streaming down his slightly reddish face. The boy of the green socks hushed him as he felt Edna’s distasteful gaze burning against his cheeks. But that did not stop the toddler. She pursed her lips and lifted one of her perfectly shaved eyebrows. To then kneel before the child.

    “What’s your name?” She asked in a mellow, but still irritated voice.

    The small boy looked up at his big brother, who swallowed hard and shook his head up and down. “Calvin.” The baby boy hummed. She glared at him for two hard and long seconds.

    “You must be Wyatt, correct?” She asked, looking up at the teen in the green socks.

    “Y-yes. Miss . . . eh, miss . . . ” 

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    She rolled her eyes. “Edna Watts will do, kids. Just Edna.” She chewed on her gum and patted Calvin, quite roughly, on the head. She then stood up and scribbled something on her clipboard. “Your age?”

    “I’m sixteen and Calvin is five,” Wyatt responded, taking an outdated model of a shovel with a crispy handle from beneath the chair he had been sitting on before she came in. He added, “A boy . . . someone . . . eh . . . said this would come in handy.”

   “Let me see . . .  ” She took the tool from his hands and inspected it closely. “If you are using this you better wear gloves every single day or you’ll hurt your hands badly. Happens frequently. Especially with the salt and rust. Take good care of your hands.”

    He smiled and showed a gloved hand. She tried a thin-lipped smile, “Good.” She scribbled again. “Wyatt, you surely can work here, there’s no problem. But I’m afraid Calvin is too young for this. If not, completely incompetent at his current . . . you know . . . ”

    “I—I know, Miss Wa—”

    “Edna.” She corrected him immediately.

    “Ah, yes. Edna.” Wyatt shuffled his feet. “You see, my brother and I just got to this town. I can’t pay for a nanny and I don’t know anybody that can take care of Calvin while I work.”

    She stared at him a bit too incredulously. “You are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting . . . right?”

    “It . . . it depends.” Wyatt choked with innocent eyes. “He won’t get in anybody’s way Edna, he is a good kid. The silent type, all he does is read. Hand him anything, a children's book . . . or the newspaper’s comics. Anything!”

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    “Didn’t you say he was five? I doubt he can read anything at all.”

    “Oh, no, you don’t know him. He is smart.” The teenager nudged his tiny brother’s shoulder. The toddler looked up at her with his grey eyes and sniffed. He opened his ginormous jacket and retrieved a booklet out of it. He raised his hand, handing it to her. Yellow and leather-bound with red laces. A winter sports picture book with skiing athletes' phrases.

    “Okay . . . Sure, that’s enough for now little egghead. He’ll stay with Allegra, the receptionist, she is good with kids. She’ll take care of him for now. But don’t you dare think this is a daycare! This is just temporary, when he is old enough to hold a shovel he’ll have to work. I’ll look for someone who can take care of him in town in the meantime.”

    “Thank you, Edna! I promise he’ll behave, he is good at that. I wish there was a way to pay you for this.”

    “Sure, there is! Sweat and tears, that’s what I’ll ask of you in this job. Hard work and loyalty are vital to me. You’ll feel sore all the time, but that won’t stop you. Do I make myself clear?” 

    Wyatt forced a grin, but he looked much rather frightened.

    “Magnifico! Follow me, we’ll wait for the others at the designated hangar.” Edna led the way back to the vestibule. Wyatt dragged Calvin by the hand as they admired their inordinate surroundings. Exorbitant and crowded. The aircraft seemed foreign to their eyes, the large moorlands on which the runways stretched far off along with slathers of snow and the distant pine trees that composed wildwoods all around the airfield. The woman retrieved her cup of coffee from Allegra’s desk with a thank you, to later expose the temporary babysitting measures to her friend. The old receptionist gladly took Calvin to the cafeteria in search of peanut butter cookies and lemongrass-flavored goat milk for a snack.

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    Edna took two quick sips from her silverish cup and gestured to Wyatt to come along, hurriedly arriving at the footgear and appliances vault where she traded her stunning red heels for a pair of sturdy silver sole boots, before setting foot outdoors.

    “Walk on the snow at the sides, not on the chilled pavement for now.” She ordered him. The other teenagers were already skidding on the spot. Even as residents of a wintry town, conditions out in the woods and into the mountain where no child's play. Starting with the density of the frost layers that formed over the flagstone ground. Wyatt did his best to catch up with her.

     Skipping formalities, she roared, “Now listen to me you little pests! This is how you do it: Before the beginning of a snowstorm, we cover the runways with rock salt to de-ice the pavement. We can also do this by simply plowing and scraping the snow off the pavement if the weather allows it. You are to do both tasks. When done correctly it can help us remove the snow easily and reduce the amount of salt to use. You see, here we require efficiency at all costs. We need a hundred percent of your attention, it’s that or we want none.” Edna proceeded to walk up to one of the boys and snatched his shovel with a piteous look on her face. She cleared her throat, “So, the salt comes to us in barrels. We use carts to take the barrels from the hangar to the runways and vice versa. Each cart can carry three barrels. This is a team’s work, so each cart equals six men. Two to move the cart and four to plow and scrap. Have you understood?”

    “Yes, ma’am!”

    “Good.” She snorted. “Come closer,” She waved a hand, changing her grip on the shovel and scooping a chunk of snow. “Plowed and tossed to the side. Plowed and tossed to the side.” She pointed out, throwing the snow away from the pavement. “Easy as cake, right? Your turn now buddies, let’s see what you got.”

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    The boys shuffled their feet in an attempt to move forward, but they came down while a few still fought for direction. It was a stimulating scene for those familiarized with the struggle. Shovelers, engineers, technicians. All veterans in the field. Wyatt was one of the last who stood still and focused. He did not possess inborn grace or technique, but he had two feet and a shovel. His fists closed around the shovel in a stiff grip. The tip of his tool gnawed the ice beneath him like an icebreaker. Edna could hardly contain the laughter. He was moving smoothly, not perfectly. He plowed while keeping a firm balance. He scooped once, twice, and then a third time until his legs gave way and he smacked the floor. The playful scene brought more cackles. Wyatt’s face turned brick-red. 

    Ms. Watts skimmed toward him and offered him a hand. She snickered, “Now that the introductory prank is done. Let’s try that again. Shall we?”

END OF CHAPTER #2