Chapter 2.
Dennis, death, deserts, destiny, desperation and deliverance.
Today would be one of his least numbing. Once a month, the Coordination and Integration Committee convened. Officers of his level would attend. Glitches in the existing paper and IT systems would be ironed out, and plans made to implement improvements. These were the eddies-at-the-bottom created by the dynamism-at-the-top.
Apart from the sheer relief from routine, Trevor looked forward to these two-hour meetings because his old mucker, Dennis, would be there. Dennis would be chairing; he was a high flyer, he networked his way to the top, but he and Trevor had been at the bottom together, they had shared the golden years of their youth before Trevor had married. Although they lived completely separate lives outside work, Dennis would always seek him out during the twenty minute break for refreshment to talk chummily about the old days and catch up.
"I don't want to spend the fucking break talking about paper chains," he had told Trevor.
Recently, Dennis had been confiding his retirement plans. Trevor was thrilled to hear them, and envious.
"I really can't wait to be shot of this place. I should've gone when Richie and Dave bailed out, but it was the pension, I wanted the pension. Now, I've gone as high as I'll go; I'm bored shit-less and trapped. I go home and plan my retirement. Melanie gives me stick. I'm always calculating my savings and planning adventures. Her pension kicks-in next year, she's sixty in March. She wants me to jump ship now and we can live on her pension 'til I'm sixty-five. I may. But I do want the full pension. I've got to do forty years."
"What's the current plan?" Trevor had asked the previous month.
"Sell the house and downsize to a cheap flat near the kids. Buy a small place in the South of France with the balance ... and a yacht. We want to enjoy the grand-kids, so we can babysit them in the winter and take them on sunshine holidays in the summer. We can sail around the Mediterranean. Tight ... but do-able on a full pension."
Trevor was certain Dennis would pull it off, and was pleased for him. Dennis was sure-footed, and it was the sort of graceful retirement to which Trevor had once himself aspired. However, even his Christmas cards to his grandchildren now drew no response.
At five-to-two, Trevor arrived in the conference room and found his place. At two, Alice Purbright took the head of the table and brought the meeting to order.
She introduced herself. "Unhappily I will be chairing today because, this morning on his way to work, Mr Tremaine collapsed. Sadly, by the time he reached hospital he was dead. It was probably a heart attack."
Trevor was instantly wracked by turbulent emotions. He had experienced something similar fifteen years before, when his eldest son, Dan, poisoned by his mother's contempt for his natural father, had told him he preferred him not to visit. The debilitating shock deprived him of the power of speech or action. Other attendees eventually declared him unwell and a volunteer led him back to his office where he was committed to the care of a deferential young girl by the name of Beattie. Beattie did not know what to do with him. Phone calls were made and a kind lady from human resources turned up, led him to a side room, elicited his story, commiserated, and arranged for him to go home immediately.
Sitting in his living room, Trevor's emotions remained in turmoil. He raged on behalf of his friend.
'All the shit and none of the icing. Why? Why him? He did all the right things, he deserved the rewards, but they're suddenly whipped away. Fate is arbitrary and cruel?'
A glass of wine steadied his mood; the ability to choose his thoughts started to return. The wine brought emotional numbness, so he drained his glass -- several times - and anger on behalf of his friend lapsed into self-pity.
'Should I die tomorrow there's no one to lament my misfortune. And no fortune I would have missed. No one would be bothered to be distressed for me. Even I can't be distressed at the prospect. Dennis has been robbed: I'd be robbed of nothing. My death would put me out of my misery and spare the taxpayer the cost of preserving a pointless life.'
He crystallised his dreadful condition:
'I have nothing that makes life worth living. I expect nothing to make my life worth continuing, no plans, no expectations. No one would think me cheated by a life cut short. Why should they? '
He recoiled from the thought. His chest tightened and panic rose at the prospect of existing, but not living. He gulped down another glass of wine, just enough alcohol to tip him out of his condition of learned helplessness into a condition where he could react, drunkenly aspire, and absurdly dare to live. He resolved that things would change from that moment. He would make himself a future. He would seize his share of life. He would make a plan. For an hour he was purposeful, but as the alcohol subsided so did his resolve, his emotions returned to rest and he fell into an intoxicated sleep.
Next morning the alarm clock could not penetrate his alcogenic slumber, and by mid-morning he had rung the office to call in sick. They were understanding. Aspirin and coffee took the edge off his hangover, and he climbed back into bed and ruminated.
By early afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper before him, and wrote a heading. The mood of resolve, driven by last night's anger and despair had dissipated, but the anguish of a wasted life lingered. Now, a fearful Trevor, spurred to action by his dreadful insight, wrote a heading:
My future life.
He sat in silence for a long time, staring at this heading, unable to write more, until it occurred to him that if he wrote nothing, that was what the rest of his life would be - an empty sheet. Deterred by self-derision at the notion of change, with courage born purely of desperation, he entered that dark room at the bottom of his soul where all his youthful aspirations were locked away like disused lumber, and turned on the light. Instantly, he recognized what he sought, but still hesitated, knowing that when those aspirations were set down on that page they would cease to be fantasies, his foolish dreams; they would become ambitions, targets, objectives requiring action, like the relentless memos he penned at work - and become the object of ridicule. His hand moved reluctantly; this act, a difficult, shameful admission of what he was, and what he had been, and the same words appeared on paper:
More love.
More sex.
More excitement.
Once written down the words could not be unwritten; they were burned on his soul and would glow behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes. He now had no hiding place. No excuses. No more papering over the truth. He wanted to live his life again. He wanted a second chance.
The admission was painful. He began to sob.
'You get no second go. If you chase dreams, you end up an undignified, old fool, a laughingstock, the fodder for satire, like those in Filipina Dreamgirls.'
Yet a fragment from an old adage drifted into his head,
- greater fools look on wishing they could do the same.
He had looked on and laughed, but secretly had envied them and wished he could do the same. In this instance, he now saw he was the greater fool.
'One way or another I'm the fool. Must I be a greater fool?'
Simple choice. The next line he wrote on the paper was:
A lesser fool - let them look and laugh.
His life to date had been characterized by conformity, adherence to rules and procedures. All he knew was how to be the greater fool. He understood immediately that to be a lesser fool he must free himself from the invisible strings manipulated by unascertained persons, with the authority of an ill-defined 'society' that had controlled him like a puppet. He must stray from the secure-and-certain path 'society' had lain before him, leading into his future and up to his death. He must now beat his own path towards a dream and accept the hazards of the journey; he must brave his self-derision and the derision of others.
This was how Trevor's journey began; by admitting to himself what he wanted from life, and recognizing that the reassuring embrace of 'society' came at a very high cost - a cost he no longer wanted to pay.
An action plan was required, the steps towards his goals. He cast about for possibilities.
Small-adds would elicit responses from ladies of similar vintage to himself, to provide companionship and homeliness; but that would not be enough, their affection would not be satisfying. He craved the intense physical passion that only a young body can provide. Liaisons with prostitutes might compliment a relationship with an older woman, but would be an unsatisfactory compromise. Affection and physical fulfilment bundled in the same body, to be enjoyed together as a package, at the same time, in the same place, was his goal. As he pondered, the catchy title of his previous evening's entertainment came back to him. Bracketing items one and two on his list, he wrote:
???A Filipina Dream-Girl???
Item three, more excitement, was equally problematic. A hobby maybe? Dangerous sports would provide an adrenalin rush, but he doubted his body, at his age, could sustain the rigour of rock climbing, bungee jumping, or scuba diving. It must be a sport with limited physical demands, a powered sport. Dennis planned to sail. That was a possibility, or some form of car racing, or flying.
'Flying ... Yes.'
He would do more than rise from his knees; he would soar above the earth.
Next to the third item he wrote:
???Sailing??? or???Flying???
When he re-read the sheet he was so embarrassed by his impertinence that he left it on the table, went into his living room, dropped onto the sofa, flicked on the TV, and within moments fell asleep.
Next morning Trevor returned to his normal self and on re-reading the ridiculous, private admissions precipitated by extreme and unfamiliar emotion, blushed. His first thought was to screw up the sheet and throw it in the bin, but recognizing the truth in the ridiculous, he placed it on the sideboard for less hurried consideration.
That evening, he again blushed on seeing it, and, unwilling to consign it to the bin yet unable yet to endure its ridicule, he slid it into a drawer where it would remain for several days
The weekend came. Trevor's weekends were characterized by the absence of work rather than the presence of joyful recreation. The tedium of the working-week was broken by a different type of tedium, one of his own choosing, a routine of lying-in until late, shopping, watching TV, reading newspapers, cooking himself an ambitious meal, and indulging in fine wine and beers. What it lacked was people.
Outside the house he was genial with neighbors and shop staff, but once he closed his door behind him he was cozy, and alone. By Sunday evening he was again warmed by good food and good wine, and in reflective mood. The ridiculous sheet was taken from the drawer and placed back on the table. He sat before it and submitted to the ridicule, ready to accept the truth and finally take his heart's desires seriously.
Fetching the newspapers, he began to trawl through the classifieds. Amongst the 'Personals' he found several agencies offering introductions to beautiful young Filipinas. He wrote half a dozen letters of enquiry, for dispatch next day to the indicated PO Boxes. Elsewhere he found adverts for sailing holidays, but clearly aimed at children. There was nothing related to flying.
On Monday he went out for lunch, posted the letters, and picked up an aviation magazine from the newsagents. There were scores to choose from. It seemed many people shared a fascination with flying, so he picked by cover, and took one with a cover-shot of the sort of light aircraft he would like to fly.
Travelling home on the tube he looked inside. Reading the articles infected him with the bug, a fascination with specifications, with views of earth taken from a few thousand feet, and sights of places inaccessible at ground level. After dinner, he settled in front of the TV and began to flick through the small-adds. Sure enough, there were adverts from flying schools seeking would be aviators, and these were definitely not aimed at children. It was noticeable that many were situated in the USA, and those seemed the most affordable, offering all-inclusive courses, quite expensive, but affordable.
By Thursday, when he returned from work there were responses from the introduction agencies in his letterbox. On reading each carefully, he was surprised at the indifference to age claimed by even teenage girls in the specimen bios. Many were very pretty, but all seemed from their profiles, to be impossibly humble and domestic. The agency that appealed, offered to effect introductions in Manila, and since little could be ascertained through an artificial correspondence, he determined on this one. The agency also offered to arrange inexpensive flights and budget accommodation.
He called.
"Good Morning, Mabuhay Travel. Imelda speaking. How can I help you?"
Trevor re-checked the number.
"Errr ... Good Morning. I was hoping to speak with Filipina Dreambrides."
"Sir, that is us also. Are you our new customer?"
"Yes. I'm making any enquiry about your service."
"Sir, we arrange introductions for marriage-minded gentlemen with our Filipina ladies. Sir, with our agency there is no correspondence; we believe the best match is made by meeting with the ladies and talking your plans together. To make this happen, we will arrange all travel and hotels for you to have an enjoyable holiday in the Philippines, and to meet our lady clients in our Manila facility."
"And who will these ladies be, exactly?"
"We have many ladies on our book, many hundred at any one time. They are of all ages, backgrounds and occupations, but most of our ladies are eighteen to twenty-six years old, of good character and are marriage and family-minded."
"Quite young then. I'm fifty-nine, Do you have special arrangements for older gentlemen like myself?"
Imelda laughed. "Sir, fifty-nine is not old. Most of our ladies prefer the older man because he is more settled. Your age will not be a problem at all; our ladies will want to meet you."
"And how are the introductions arranged?"
"When you arrive in Manila, we will give you our current catalogue, with photographs and bios. You can choose ladies from our catalogue?"
"How many ladies will you have on your books? You said hundreds?"
"Maybe a thousand, a little bit more sometimes, a little bit less sometimes."
"That sounds good. I have in mind late January, early February. Will that be a problem."
"No, Sir. Just bear in mind that the longer our notice, the greater the chance that there will be flights and hotels that suit your requirement and meet your budget."
"And how much will this cost?"
"It depend on your flight, your standard of accommodation, how long you stay, but we recommend two weeks minimum to get to know our ladies. We also have our agency fee for the introductions."
"And if I were to book three weeks from late January, economy flights and budget accommodation, about how much would that cost."
"We specialize in budget travel, Sir. There will be no visa necessary for less than twenty-one days. One minute, and I can give you approximate."
She soon came back with a figure Trevor found reasonable.
"I need to actually book my leave from work. I'll revert to you when I have dates."
"No problem, Sir. Just ask for Imelda when you call."
Trevor's first thought was to plan his new life to begin symbolically on his sixtieth birthday - 5th February 2001. The calendar showed that he needed to book leave for the weeks beginning 21st and 28th of January and 4th of February. A trip to the library netted him three travel guides containing useful information. By midday on Sunday he had concluded that Manila was not an ideal tourist destination and was wondering how he could fill twenty-one days with entertainment. Maybe, he thought, if there should be a convenient and affordable flying school he could take some flying lessons.
Monday's lunch hour he spent in the newsagents leafing through the aviation magazines, scouring the small-adds. Eventually he came across what he was looking for - Angeles City Flying Club -- 70 km north of Manila. He bought the magazine. Allowing for the time difference, early the following morning he called. An American voice took his call. It was all remarkably casual.
"Angeles Flying Club."
"Hi. I'm going to be in Manila in January, and I'd like to take some flying lessons. I'm wondering how to arrange it."
"Sure. Have you done any flying before?"
"No. It's just an ambition in my old age."
"No problem. You're never too old to fly. We'll need confirmation from a doctor that you're fit to fly. You can go to your own doctor, or we can refer you a guy we use. He'll charge 1000p. If you're fit, you fly."
"OK. How do I go about booking."
"Our program is very flexible. You know we use micro-lights?"
"Yes."
"Well, we have a selection of craft, and a team of instructors. Once you've got your medical, when you want to fly, give us a call, book your craft, book your instructor, and we arrange a time."
"How much notice do you need?"
"A couple of hours. Check the weather is flyable, but it always is in January. Even if you turn up at the field we'll probably be able to accommodate you. We always have someone available to take up the joy-riders."
"That is flexible. And what is the qualification you give?"
"It's a club certificate permitting you to fly solo in our craft. Many other clubs recognize it. It covers only micro-lights, and you can fly only in club airspace. But, it gets you in the air solo, in control, so you need to learn the full range of flying skills. It's a good grounding for moving on to light aircraft, but you'll never get a greater buzz from flying any other type of aircraft. It's pure, seat-of-the-pants flying."
"Sounds good. I'm going to do it."
"What's your name?"
"Trevor White."
"OK Trevor, I'm Gary, I run the show. Look forward to seeing you soon. Get in touch if you have any more questions."
On Tuesday morning he booked his leave. On Tuesday evening he called the agency and gave the dates. Within thirty minutes he had agreed his flight itinerary. That night, he retired to bed nonplussed that it was all so easy. He was, at last, off his knees, and stretching his legs.
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