It's a boy, Mrs. Walker, it's a boy!I've been flying airliners a very long time and had always expected my co-pilots to be able to quote movie lines back to me on most occasions, but this is the first time a co-pilot was able, or willing, to quote 40-year-old rock-opera lyrics back to me. Laurie, I said, if you have a bass boat, I think God wants us to get married and breed the perfect race of cool pilots. "Nope," she said. "I'm married to Chet. You may remember him: You flew with him last week. Also, I have a policy of not dating out of my home century." Ouch. "Anyway, you're married too, right?" I wish you hadn't brought that up, Laurie, I said, trying to look very sad. We're separated. "I'm so sorry!" That's right. She's in Atlanta and I'm in the skies over Seattle. I got a Jepp binder to the head for that one. Laurie and I decided to "just be friends," or, using her words when I kiddingly suggested another arrangement, "Gross! No way!" We made the approach, went to the Stouffer's Inn in downtown Seattle and settled in for yet another domestic evening of drinks, bar food and idle chitchat. We were joined by Gus, our senior flight attendant. In other words, we had the traditional, old-airline-world mix of genders present; they were just in different, non-traditional roles. Co-pilot instead of flight attendant, and flight attendant instead of co-pilot.
A son! A son! A son!
Hear the joyful celebrations in the street!
It's a boy born on this first day of peace!
We've won! A son! We've won!
I'm the Gypsy, and I'm guaranteedGus took our musical interlude as a cue and quietly left as we started singing "Tommy's Holiday Camp." Maybe tomorrow I'll see if Laurie knows "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights" by Meatloaf.
To mend his aching heart.
Give us a room, close the door.
Leave us for a while.
Your boy won't be a boy no more;
Young, but not a child!
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