New Horizons – Part Two
A Smooth Start
Things at my parents’ home started out relatively well. Mom seemed to be impressed with Kaz, constantly praising her beauty and courteous demeanor and going out of her way to compliment her on the way she dressed—especially her minimal use of makeup.
Dad was uncommonly jovial and conveyed his pleasure with our visit by constantly telling and re-telling his token racial and oft-repeated silly jokes, and recounting stories of some of the goofy things I’d done when I was growing up.
That one week I spent with my parents prior to leaving to go to Oklahoma City for my ATC Initial Training, was probably one when I felt closest to them. The one subject they managed to stay away from was that of Sharon and the boys. Although I’d explained that Kaz knew all about my ex-wife and the issues that had occurred during my first year on Okinawa, it seemed that my parents were still a bit uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Before I knew it, it was time for me to depart and begin the long drive to the FAA’s Aeronautical Center (also called “the academy) at Wiley Post Airport, in Oklahoma City to begin my initial air traffic control training. The night before I left we took Mom and Dad out to dinner at a nearby Mexican Restaurant and everyone seemed to truly enjoy the evening. After returning back home I spent a couple of hours packing my little car with clothing and essentials that I thought I’d need for the next nine weeks I was to be assigned at the Aeronautical Center.
Very early the following morning as I pulled out of the driveway—my parents and Kaz all standing on the little porch waving goodbye—I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety as I recalled the terrible clash of personalities that had occurred between my mother and Sharon those many years ago. On the long drive north I replayed those appalling, stress-filled moments when, while serving on my remote assignment in Alaska, I read letters from my wife complaining about my mother’s dreadful temperament towards her, right after having received similar missives from my mother severely criticizing Sharon and complaining about her laziness and disrespect towards her maternal authority.
Those unpleasant recollections were profoundly unsettling, but I held out hope that Kaz’s pleasing and forgiving personality would effectively smooth over any misunderstandings that may arise between them during my absence. And besides, I thought, because Mom seemed so enthralled with Kaz, surely that should go a long way in maintaining a harmonious relationship—at least for the next nine weeks.
Oh, if only it had been so….
ATC Training—The Beginning
I thought learning to fly had been tough. Turns out, it was a piece of cake compared to ATC training, and I would soon find out that this was the hardest thing I would ever do in my entire life.
I drove into Oklahoma City late Friday afternoon and decided to check into a local Holiday Inn for the weekend. During my two-day orientation at the Houston Air Route Traffic Control Center (ZHU ARTCC) I, and the rest of the fifteen ATC candidates from Houston, had been given a couple of lists containing names and addresses of hotels, motels, FAA approved apartment complexes, recommended restaurants, and a map of the local area with the Aeronautical Center highlighted. We had also been issued a government per-diem check supplying each of us with an appropriate amount of funds which were to be applied towards any travel and lodging expenses. Subsequent checks would be issued monthly, in addition to our regular pay, until we concluded our training in Oklahoma.
We had been briefed that we were to report to the Aeronautical Center on Monday, and that it would be best if we checked into a local hotel over the weekend, waiting until Monday afternoon, after our orientation, to check out approved apartment complexes for more permanent lodging. Besides, we were told, during that first day of orientation we were going to pick, or be assigned, a roommate with whom we were to share a two-bedroom apartment during our training. I didn’t particularly like that idea as I thought I’d be living by myself for nine weeks.
Before leaving Houston, I had selected several hotels which I thought would be convenient, and the first on the list was the Holiday Inn where I was presently headed. I checked in, unloaded what I thought I’d need for the next couple of days, and headed out to find a good steak restaurant.
After dinner I returned to my room and decided to call Kaz. Since these were the days before cell phones, I used my room phone to call my parents’ number collect. Before leaving I had assured my folks that I would reimburse them for any phone calls that I made since all my calls had to be made collect.
My mother answered the phone and seemed overjoyed to hear that I had arrived in good shape. She wanted to know what Oklahoma looked like and I explained that aside from the red clay dirt that I began seeing on the sides of the highway as soon as I crossed the state line, it didn’t look a lot different from any other city that I’d been to. Besides, I explained, I was presently in a part of the city that was predominantly full of restaurants, gas stations and hotels, so it sure didn’t look too much different from Houston.
Before I was allowed to speak to my wife my Dad took the phone from my Mom. His interest centered mostly on how much time it took me to get from Houston to Oklahoma City (7 hours), and how many times I had to stop refill my gas tank (once, just north of Dallas—and I really didn’t need gas, just a pit stop). Finally, after a few more questions on “…how that little buggy…” of mine drove (just fine), I got to talk to Kaz.
Since I knew that Mom and Dad were still in the room, I kept the conversation as neutral as possible—mainly telling Kaz that I was already starting to miss her. Since our marriage this was going to be the first time we’d been apart for more than a few hours.
I told her I’d do my very best at the “academy” (commonly referred to instead of the FAA Aeronautical Center), and that I would see her in early June when I returned home. She asked me to call her often and I promised I would. Before I knew it we were saying our goodbyes.
After I hung up I regretted that I was not able to properly caution her about my Mom’s tendency towards territorialism—that is, her habit of wanting to be in charge and insisting that people living in her house do things her way. I remembered how she and Sharon had butted heads on how to take care of the boys when they were babies, and how they disagreed on the manner in which certain household chores were to be performed. As I got ready for bed I decided that as smart as Kaz was she probably would be able to work her way around my mother’s quirks. At least I hoped so.
***
After a restful, but lonely, weekend, early Monday morning I drove to the Aeronautical Center to begin the first of three days of orientation. As I pulled up to the guarded entrance to the Center I noticed that there was a special lane for “Visitors”, so since I had no idea what building the orientation was to be held in I thought maybe this was a good lane for me to get into. My decision was seconded by the armed guard stationed by a guard shack who, after glancing at my front bumper and windshield and noting that I had no decal displayed, motioned me to drive into the “Visitors” lane of traffic.
The lane led to a large parking lot with a small wooden building situated on one corner on which a large sign displayed the word, “Check-In”. I noticed a short line of people formed at the stairs leading to a lone access door, so I thought maybe I should join them. Before I got out of the car I made sure I had my newly-issued orders from my home facility and the large envelope containing instructions and maps of the Aeronautical Center’s buildings and grounds.
As I walked to the Check-In Building, I saw a wide variety of states represented by the license plates on many of the parked cars. From as far as California and New York, to as close as Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas, I realized for the first time that my fellow ATC students hailed from all parts of the United States.
Once inside, I was asked by an Oklahoma State Highway patrolman to show my orders and two forms of identification. I dug out my Texas driver’s license and my old military ID card—long since expired—and a copy of my newly minted orders. After a visual look-over by an attractive and smartly-dressed female police officer, I was asked to fill out a data card listing my personal information and the year and make of my auto. She explained that I should leave the address section blank until I had a permanent Oklahoma City address. After that, my fingerprints and a photo were taken, and within a few minutes I was sent back out to the parking lot armed with an ID card and a decal to place on the windshield of my auto.
Included in the package were directions to the auditorium where the orientation was to be held for the next three days and beginning at 10AM that morning. I glanced at my watch and saw that I still had more than an hour to burn before I needed to be in place, so I pulled out the map that had been included and looked for a cafeteria. In short order I found what I was looking for and headed for a cup of coffee.
***
The auditorium was about half full by the time I arrived—and I estimated there to be a couple of hundred, or so, prospective air traffic controllers. As per the times, the vast majority of candidates were white males, with a sprinkling of darker skinned Hispanics and a just a few blacks. There were no females present.
I tried to spot one of the other fourteen trainees who had been in the orientation at Houston Center, but since I’d hardly spoken to anyone on that one day, and I’d spent the whole time listening to instructions rather than looking around to memorize faces, I failed to recognize anyone.
The auditorium was roomy, easily able to hold probably around five hundred or so participants, and since this was the pre-water bottle era, there were tables along the wall holding large coffee brewers, pitchers of iced water, along with glasses, cups and napkins. At the entrance there were two large tables on which several boxes of donuts had been placed. Although I’d had an ample breakfast at the hotel that morning, I couldn’t pass up the chance at snagging a couple of free glazed donuts. As I surveyed the area, looking for a good seat, hands full of coffee and donuts, I thought that maybe I was going to like this FAA.
For the next two hours I tried to stay ahead of a severe sugar-induced coma and struggled to concentrate on the various speakers up on the stage and what they were saying. There was the director of the Aeronautical Center welcoming us to the Academy, some HR lady explaining accepted and expected student behaviors during our nine-week stay, some other lady explaining health plans, and a couple of senior FAA ATC instructors. What those last two had to say has been forever lost due to my sugar-addled memory.
What I do remember was that after a couple of hours we were mercifully given a well-earned thirty-minute break. While relieving myself of the morning’s orange juice, coffee and water, a guy standing at the urinal to my right decided that this would be a good time to introduce himself.
“Hey,” he said, cheerfully. “You’re from Houston Center, right? I remember seeing you there last week during our orientation.” I was hoping he wasn’t planning on shaking hands.
“Yeah.” I answered cautiously. “I guess you’re from Houston too, right?”
“Yup! Well, I mean I’m going to be working at the Houston Center. I’m really from New York. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m from Houston. That’s my home town.”
We finished our business and headed toward the basins to wash up. I walked a little behind and to his left, allowing me to get my first good look at him. He was a little taller than me—maybe an inch or so over six feet, with wavy sandy blond hair piled on top of his head, and cut in an overly high and tight style on the sides.
He was wearing a light brown paisley patterned tie knotted over a pale yellow short-sleeved cotton shirt that was tucked into a pair of light olive-colored polyester slacks. What was instantly noticeable though was that he had his pants hitched up halfway between his chest and his natural waistline, causing the inseam to fall several inches above the top of his shoes. In Texas we call that the “high-water” look.
Worse, because his body type was a definite “apple” shape, the way he wore his pants only served to draw attention to his portly midsection. Between the bottom of his pant cuffs and a pair of scruffy brown shoes, he sported a pair of bright green socks that had tragically fallen down to his ankles.
“I’ll bet since you’re from Houston you’ve already picked a roommate, right?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said, quickly shooting my gaze up to his face, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I’d been giving him the once-over.
“A roommate. You know…what the admin lady and the ATC instructors talked about a little while ago.” he said as he bent over the basin to wash his hands.
“Uh, I think I must’ve missed that. They asked about roommates?” I asked, honestly surprised.
“Oh, well…we were asked to think about who our roommates are going to be for the next nine weeks here. And then they asked how many had already picked their roommates. I didn’t raise my hand because I don’t have one and I noticed you didn’t either. I think most of the guys in our class have already paired up, so I was wondering if you’d paired up with anyone.”
“I didn’t think we would have to pick roommates so early in the process. And to be honest with you I don’t recall that part of the briefing this morning. Must’ve been dozing a bit, I guess.”
“No, no!” he said, emphatically. Didn’t you hear when they briefed us that when we went to check out our FAA approved apartments we should do it with our roommates?”
“Uh…no. I must’ve missed that. But OK, I guess that makes sense.”
“So, who’d you pick as a roommate—or have you yet?” he asked as we made our way back to the auditorium.
“Me?” I asked, trying to create thinking space. “Oh, no one. I don’t know anyone.”
“At what hotel were you staying in Houston?”
“I was at my parents’ house.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re from Houston. So, if you don’t have a roommate picked out—and I don’t either—how ‘bout we buddy up?”
I didn’t know what to say since I didn’t know this guy. But, then again, I didn’t know anyone. “OK, let’s talk about it after the orientation. Where are you sitting?”
“Right behind you.”
“Oh. Alright, we’ll talk afterwards, OK?”
“Sure, that’ll work. By the way, my name’s Bill.” And he stuck out his hand.
“Frank. Nice to meet you.”
As I gripped his hand I felt like I’d grabbed a warm, moist, and a not so recently deceased fish.
***
After the orientation I got together with Bill and we decided to find a restaurant nearby to have lunch and strategize on how and where to find a permanent living space. During the morning orientation we had been given a more updated list of FAA approved hotels and apartment complexes.
Since we were required to have a roommate, all the apartment complexes and hotels offered two-bedroom units, but the downside was that only one bathroom to each two-bedroom unit was the norm.
After a nice comforting steak sandwich with French fries for lunch, Bill and I returned to the Aeronautical Center for the afternoon portion of the orientation. This session was more boring than the morning one and I again fought a losing battle with trying to stay awake.
Just before we were dismissed for the day we were again asked if everyone had paired up. If not, those stragglers were to come up to the front of the auditorium where the FAA people in charge would help pair them off. I looked over at Bill who gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Outside in the parking lot, Bill and I made arrangements to meet the following morning to begin our search for living quarters. We had been told that we had until Wednesday to make all final living arrangements because Thursday we were to again meet in the auditorium to submit our lease agreements and the names of the employees rooming together. Then we were to be given a tour of the classrooms at the academy and end the day with an introduction to our primary instructors.
We were further instructed that on Friday we would report to our respective training buildings to receive our classroom assignments, formally meet our individual instructors, and be given our training books and materials.
Classes would start on Monday, at 0730, sharp.
The next morning Bill and I rendezvoused in the parking lot of a restaurant which was conveniently located a similar distance from his hotel and mine. We used our FAA Apartment Locator maps to plan out a logical route among the recommended apartment complexes to more easily find a suitable place to live. Since he insisted on driving his car—an older four-door Volvo sedan—I left my little red Toyota sports car in the parking lot, hoping it wouldn’t garner too much attention and would still be there when I got back.
As we pulled out into traffic, I noticed that Bill was wearing the same clothes that he’d been wearing the day before.
Bill
Although he was never deployed to Vietnam, he was an ex-Navy aviator having flown the Douglas A-4 Skyhawk, and a handful of smaller non-jet powered aircraft. He signed up right out of college and for some reason only served four years of a six-year commitment. I suspected he’d had a medical issue and was medically discharged, but anytime I tried asking he always managed to dodge the subject.
After returning to his small upper New York state hometown, he married his high school sweetheart and was hired to sell insurance for a couple of years at his father-in-law’s State Farm agency. He admitted he was never very good at selling, and the longer I got to know him I better I came to understand why.
He had applied to the FAA two years ago, and after taking the entrance exam three times he was finally selected. I asked why he chose Houston Center instead of New York Center, and he said Houston had been his only choice. He decided not to tempt fate and accepted the offer, hoping that after he certified he could put in for a transfer back to New York.
That morning in early April was unseasonably cool for Oklahoma as we pulled out into the vehicle-cluttered avenue. After visiting three or four apartment complexes we stopped for lunch to discuss our perceptions. We agreed that they all were in our price range and offered roughly the same amenities. Some offered free breakfast—usually bagels, donuts, and cereals—while others touted their large pools and spacious grounds, and some even had free Taco Tuesdays!
After lunch we decided that the one complex we both ended up liking had moderately-sized furnished bedrooms, and a small pool, but it was right off MacArthur Avenue which offered us a fairly straight and short drive to the academy.
We returned to the leasing office and signed off on our nine-week lease agreement. Since we were FAA employees, the leasing manager explained as she gave us each a set of keys, we were not required to make a deposit. I thought that was very convenient, but I guess it made sense since the complex knew where we worked and who we worked for.
Afterwards, I asked Bill if he wanted to join me for dinner and a few drinks later on that evening, but he said he probably couldn’t because he hadn’t asked his wife if he could go out. I thought that was odd and told him that I didn’t think she’d be able to check his whereabouts all the way from New York.
“Oh no!” he said, arching his eyebrows. “She’s here at the hotel waiting for me to come back. If I told her I wanted to go out later without her she’d really be mad!”
“She’s here?” I asked, surprised. “She came down with you?”
“Oh yeah. She wouldn’t let me come by myself.”
“OK, so is she going to be moving in with us too?”
“No,” he said nervously, “she’s just going to help me move in and then she’ll fly back to New York. She just wanted to make sure I’m OK.”
I was about to ask if he was sure it was his wife and not his mother that had come down with him but decided against it.
He drove me back to the parking lot where I’d left my car and as I got out I caught a sharp whiff of sour body odor. As Bill drove off I and walked back to my car I discreetly made a double armpit sniff check. Well, it wasn’t me.
***
I spent the next few days checking out of my hotel and repacking my car for the move into the new apartment. Because my car was so small I had packed almost two weeks-worth of clothing changes into the trunk, right-front floor and seat, and every nook and cranny I could find. Because I had to fold and roll most of my shirts and pants, so they would fit in the car, I knew that I’d be spending the first week in the new apartment ironing and re-hanging all my clothes.
When the decision was made that this complex was going to fit our needs nicely, Bill and I chose our respective bedrooms. Mine turned out to be a little smaller but it had a nice view of the swimming pool and a larger closet. Also, since it faced east it would get the early morning sun but was spared the late afternoon and early evening solar heat.
Since I was the first one to move my stuff into the apartment I picked the optimum areas of the bathroom cabinets to store my personal items and the more convenient towel bars to hang my towels.
When Bill finally showed up late in the afternoon after taking his wife to the airport to return to New York, I showed him the available areas in the bathroom for him to store his toiletries. He just shrugged and said anywhere was OK with him. And when I brought up the subject of who should take their morning shower first he told me that he’d just as soon go last as he normally didn’t take too long to get ready in the morning, and he wanted to get those extra few minutes of sleep anyway.
The apartment was fully furnished and featured a very spacious living room. In it was a nice TV set, a roomy couch, comfortable upholstered chairs, and modern lamps and tables. Everything looked pretty new, but I was especially fond of the kitchen which was decked out with all new appliances. Checking out the kitchen drawers and cabinets I found that they were stocked with four-place setting dishes and eating utensils, and an abundant variety of cooking tools.
While it had taken me about an hour to get all my stuff out of the car and situated into the bathroom, my bedroom closet, and dresser drawers, I noted that it had taken Bill just a few minutes to get whatever stuff he had from his car and into his living area. When I asked him if he’d already gotten all of his stuff out of the car and into his bedroom he said he had.
“I don’t like to pack a lot of stuff, so I traveled pretty light from New York.” he said casually while looking through the channels on the TV. “I’ll buy more stuff now that I’m here.”
I thought that was probably OK, but I was a little surprised to see that he was still wearing the same yellow shirt and olive-green slacks that he’d been wearing for almost a week now. For the move, though, he had removed his shoes and sagging socks and put on a pair of very thin-soled white flip-flops. I noticed that he’d also rolled his pant legs almost up to his knees.
After taking a shower and putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt I told Bill that I was planning on making a trip to the nearest supermarket to buy some detergent to use in the complex’s laundromat, and other odds and ends. I asked if he needed anything.
“No…I don’t think so. I’m good,” he said, not taking his eyes off the afternoon soap opera he was watching.
“OK, so by the time I get back maybe we can go get a bite to eat and check out one of the local bars. Anyway, while I’m gone you’ll have time to shower and change so we can go.”
“Well,” he said, “I was planning on just walking up to that burger joint down the street in a few minutes and getting take-out.”
“Really? Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere nice instead? After this weekend I doubt that we’ll be able to splurge too much given the workload I think the academy will pile on us.”
“Nah…that’s OK. I just want to eat, read a bit, and then hit the sack. You can go out if you want.”
“OK, suit yourself. Oh, and when you hit the shower I made sure to put all my stuff, like soap and all, to the side so you’d have room for yourself.”
“That’s not a problem. I don’t plan to take a shower tonight anyway. I didn’t sweat that much today.”
“Uh, OK.” I said quietly. As I got into my car I thought to myself that—well, he may not have sweated a lot, but he was starting to smell.
I spent Saturday morning doing wash, ironing and sorting my clothes after having had a bowl of cereal and some toast. I didn’t see Bill until later that day when I was getting ready to walk out to the pool and enjoy the cool sunny afternoon. He came out of his bedroom wearing a pair of white boxer shorts and his well-worn flip-flops. For fear of what I might smell I made sure to stay on the other side of the room from him.
“Wow, you slept late!” I said.
“Yeah, I didn’t see any reason to get up, so I just slept in and read a little this morning.”
“OK, well I’m going out to the pool for a couple of hours and enjoy some of those free snacks and margaritas the apartment complex is serving. Wanna come out later?”
“Nah, I don’t drink and I don’t like to swim. Besides I’m gonna call my wife to make sure she made it home OK.”
“All right. Maybe after you call her you can come out to the pool.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
And with that, I headed out to the pool to soak up some sun and chug down some free margaritas.
I didn’t see Bill for the rest of the day but noticed that his bedroom door was closed when I returned. I assumed he was reading or maybe sleeping. I did note, however, that when I took a shower after returning from the pool, the tub had not been touched since I’d used it earlier that morning. His bar of Ivory soap sat in its little dish looking as pristine as it had when it came out of its wrapper.
On Monday morning, our first day of training, I awoke extra early to get a good start on the traffic situation between our apartment and the academy. I was out in the kitchen, having already consumed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee, when at 6:50AM, I finally heard Bill’s bedroom door open and the bathroom door close.
I was already concerned because, although our first class didn’t start until 7:30AM, we had agreed to leave at 6:45AM to take into account any unforeseen traffic glitches. For the last ten minutes I had been debating whether or not I should beat on his door to make sure he was up or whether to just wait him out. Since we had a little time to spare I decided to wait.
I walked over to the bathroom door and in a loud voice reminded him that since we were already late he needed to hurry and shower, shave, and dress. To my astonishment, he opened the door and told me that he’d be ready in a couple of minutes. He said this as he was “brushing” his teeth with his index finger.
“Don’t you have a toothbrush?” I asked, incredulously.
“Whaaaa?” he said.
“Toothbrush! Don’t you have a toothbrush?”
“Uh, I don’t like to use them. This is faster!” Then he bent over the sink and spit out what I hoped was toothpaste.
I didn’t believe what I was seeing. “You’re haven’t taken a shower yet? We’re already late!”
“Don’t need a shower.” He informed me as he scooped two handfuls of water—splashing them over his head and face. “Looks like I don’t need a shave either,” said he, as he peered into the mirror. Then, opening up the largest bottle of “Aqua Velva” aftershave splash that I had ever seen, he shook some of the grossly aromatic fluid into one of his hands. Putting the still open bottle down he vigorously rubbed his hands together and bathed his face, head, underarms and chest with the aftershave. Before I could look away he pulled the elastic waistband from his boxers away from his gut and stuck his hand down, massaging his genital area with what was left of the liquid.
“There! All ready to go! Just need to run this comb through my hair and I’ll rush into the bedroom and get dressed. OK?”
He pushed past me and in a cloud of sickeningly sweet alcohol fragrance ran into his bedroom.
I was shocked and rapidly getting a bit nauseous. Walking back towards the kitchen I remember thinking that God should strike me dead if he came back out wearing that same old yellow shirt, olive pants and light green saggy socks.
Luckily, God wasn’t listening. He came out dressed as I was afraid he might—his pants still bearing the wrinkles from having been rolled up to his knees.
On the drive to the academy in my little car I made sure both windows were rolled all the way down and I concentrated on breathing through my mouth to avoid smelling the Aqua Velva and whatever other odor that may be coming from the passenger seat.
Air Traffic Controller Training
As I recall, the nine weeks of training were divided into three separate blocks: The first two weeks were academic and included learning about the structure of the FAA, the differences between the three options within the Air Traffic Control field (Terminal, Center, and Flight Service Station), and an introduction to the tools of the trade—flight progress strips, flight strip bays and headers, and the infamous double-ended ATC pencil with its red lead on one end and black lead on the other.
The next two weeks were devoted to having the student memorize the imaginary airspace structure that existed above and around the, also imaginary, Oklahoma City Center. We were issued high and low altitude ATC maps which contained airports, airways, airway intersections, navigational aids, restricted and prohibited airspace, military refueling routes, and sector boundaries and radio frequencies. The low-altitude maps depicted airspace from twenty-three thousand feet and below, while the high-altitude maps depicted the airspace from twenty-four thousand feet and above.
We were told that to be able to pass the “Map Test”, to be administered at the end of this two-week training period, we would be required to draw every line, symbol, number, and notation on each map—by memory—on two blank sheets of paper.
In the meantime, we were to also memorize the format and type of information that was to be displayed on flight progress strips. These strips of paper were about seven inches long and about an inch-and-a-half inches wide. (See examples of strips and holders in the pic section of this blog). Each strip is divided into approximately thirty sections wherein pertinent aircraft and time and route information is manually entered by the controller. Some of this information consisted of aircraft call-sign, type of aircraft, airspeed, departure and arrival time, altitude requested and approved, routing data, and time over fix and so forth. Further, there were a plethora of symbols that needed to be memorized so that they could be hand-entered on each flight progress strip. Each symbol denoted a particular action taken on a flight and was represented by: arrows pointing up or down, arrows pointing left or right, the capital letter “D”—with or without an arrow going through it, a strikethrough, the symbol “@”, the letter “X” and “C”, and many others. To complicate matters, if an action was written in red on the strip it denoted a non-approved or requested action, and if it was in black it meant the action or request had been approved. Information successfully passed to and approved by another controller was circled in black.
These paper strips slid into plastic or metal strip holders and displayed on what is described as a strip bay. Since each strip represented one aircraft, the controller would have to scan each strip carefully to interpret that aircraft’s past, present, and future position and altitude. After scanning all the flight progress strips in the controller’s strip bay, he should be able to formulate a three-dimensional mental picture of the position and altitude of all the aircraft in his section of airspace (called a sector).
This three-dimensional mental image of all the aircraft in a controller’s sector was commonly referred to as “having the picture”. So, as an example, when a training controller made an error and assigned an aircraft a route or altitude that conflicted with another it was assumed, and loudly broadcast by the instructor, that he “…didn’t have the picture…” Not having the picture is a fatal condition in air traffic control, and the main cause of controllers washing out of the training program.
It should be noted that all of this mental imagery had to be visualized without the assistance of a radar scope. This was and is known as manual air traffic control—that is, controlling aircraft by imaging the complete moving air traffic picture solely in one’s mind based on the information that is presented to him on each aircraft’s flight progress strip. And, while maintaining this moving picture the trainee was expected to communicate verbally with each aircraft, and coordinate information and aircraft requests with supervisors and other controllers.
The next two weeks we were going to learn (and all but memorize) the Air Traffic Controller’s Bible: FAA Handbook 7110.65. This document, made up of over seven hundred pages, contained rules of separation and all criteria necessary for controllers to be able to move aircraft from one place to another without losing the required spacing. The handbook also contains everything there is to know about the world of air traffic control.
There were rules on how to apply departure separation between two aircraft departing the same airport when the leading aircraft was slower than the latter. Hundreds of rules on how to apply the three basic types of separation: Lateral, Vertical, and Longitudinal. And finally, definitions of phraseology, descriptions of navaids, and procedures on how to handle emergency and radio-out situations.
The final five weeks were devoted to applying all this knowledge to simulated air traffic control scenarios, called “problems”. This was accomplished by using flight progress strips representing imaginary aircraft. Since the planes were not real, the imaginary pilots flying them were voiced by the instructors standing behind the student. (Example— “Oklahoma Center, this is N1234, reporting over Enid at six-thousand, requesting seven thousand.”) They always had a request.
Successful completion of the course depended on the student’s ability to memorize and use all the information presented up to that point, and to pass a complex one-hour “problem” involving no less than twenty imaginary aircraft. Of course, they all wanted to violate every other aircraft’s altitude or route or developed a sudden emergency that required the student to descend that aircraft through the route or altitude of everyone else beneath him.
If the student was too good and was cruising through the problem with ease, the instructor would mischievously create a “pop-up”. That would be an aircraft which had been flying without a clearance and mysteriously popped up on the controller’s radio frequency requesting a flight clearance to some airport that was on the other side of the airspace. Of course, he would request a route or altitude that would conflict with three or four other aircraft already on the controller’s frequency. It was the instructor’s job to shake up or destroy the trainee’s “picture” if he could.
If a student’s nerves, stamina, and mental capacity survived and he maintained the picture during the final evaluation at the end of the course, he would be certified as a developmental controller and be sent back to his home facility. There, everything would start all over again, this time memorizing his home facility’s actual airspace and learning its particularities. The whole training program was structured to last four years, after which he/she, if successful, would be promoted to “FPL”, or a Full Performance Level controller. Having started government service as a GS-7 pay level developmental, the trainee would’ve gradually climbed the GS ladder to finally attain the coveted GS-13 pay level as an FPL.
As I’ve mentioned before, ATC training was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life; and adding to the job’s complexity factor would be a series of governmental changes in the program that would further complicate my training.
***
On a Friday, two weeks into my training at the academy I was called out of class by one of the head instructors and asked to report to the office of the supervisor of instructors. Thinking that I’d done something that had put me in jeopardy of getting kicked out I walked down the hallway in a state of sheer terror.
I stepped into the office and was met by a female administrative assistant.
“Hi,” I said timidly. “I’m Frank DeLeon, and I’ve been asked to report to this office.”
“Yes, Mr. DeLeon. Have a seat and I’ll announce your arrival.” She turned and walked into another office behind her whose door was open. In a few seconds she stepped back out.
“He’ll see you now.” She said cordially.
I stood and walked into the office. A middle-aged man in a nice blue suit (all the instructors wore just shirts and ties), stood and walked around a large wooden desk with his hand extended.
“Hi, I’m John Robinson…glad to meet you Frank. Have a seat.” He gestured to a comfortable looking overstuffed chair set diagonally from his desk.
I sat down, too nervous to get myself too comfortable.
“First off,” he started, “you’ve done nothing wrong so don’t be concerned about that.”
“Oh, OK.” I said, a little relieved.
“But it’s come to my attention that you may be able to help us out with a little problem.”
“Well, I’ll try.”
“You share an apartment with a guy named Bill—is that right?”
“Uh, yes that’s right.”
“Have you noticed anything strange about him?”
“Well…I’m not sure what you mean. He’s kinda quiet and stays in his bedroom most of the time when we get back from school.”
“No, I mean…uh…hygienically. You know, like his personal hygiene.”
“Uh…well, he doesn’t change clothes every day. I know that.”
“To the best of your knowledge—and since you do room with him—does he shower or bathe…at all?”
I really didn’t know what to say. Of course, I had noticed that for two weeks the solitary bar of Dove soap had remained untouched on one corner of the tub, while I was already on my second bar of Dial. But, I felt uncomfortable discussing someone’s hygiene problem—especially a fellow student’s.
“Well, to tell you the truth I haven’t seen him use the shower since we moved in together.”
“OK. Let me ask you this. Do you drive in together every morning?”
“Yes.”
“And….?”
“Well, you mean does he smell?”
“Exactly. You see, I’ve been receiving reports from my lead instructors about the state of Bill’s body…uh…odor. It’s, I guess…repulsive.”
“OK, yes…I’ve tried not to notice, but I don’t think he changes clothes very often. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than what he wears to school every day and a dirty T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops he wears in the apartment. I try not to get too close to him. And when we drive in to school together I keep the car window open.”
“So you’ve not seen him take a shower, wash clothes, or wear anything else other than a yellow shirt and green pants, right?”
“Right.”
“OK, we’re going to deal with this situation today because students in his class, along with the instructors, are refusing to get close to him. His condition is disrupting the learning environment and it’s affecting morale. Thanks for you input, and this conversation will remain confidential.” He stood up to shake my hand.
I quickly stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know how to deal with this situation, but I guess I’ll try to talk to him today.”
“That would be great! Thanks again.”
And with that I quickly found myself back in the hallway headed back to my class.
***
The next day, Saturday, was the day I normally set aside to do my wash. I hadn’t talked to Bill about my meeting, nor did I broach the issue of his hygiene, but what I did do was to knock on his bedroom door just before I left for the laundromat.
“Hey Bill!” I said loudly while rapping at the door. “I’m about to go to the laundromat with my wash and was wondering if you wanted to come along with your wash.”
I heard some shuffling behind the door. “Oh yeah. Let me get my stuff together and I’ll join you. Just a sec.”
I put my laundry basket down with its load of laundry, a small box of detergent and a bottle of bleach for my tidy whities. “Hurry up before the place gets crowded and there’s no washers left.”
“OK, coming.”
The door opened and Bill, in his old shorts, no shirt, and flip-flops, came out carrying a large box of Tide and a small brown paper lunch bag.
“What’s that?” I asked, surprised at what he was carrying.
“Soap! Tide!” He held up the box for me to see.
“No! The bag! What’s in the bag?”
He peered at the small bag, looked at me with a look of surprise, shrugged his shoulders and said, “My wash.”
“WHAT?? In that little bag? A week’s worth of wash?”
“Well, I don’t have as much as you do because I don’t change my clothes every day like you like to do…but yeah, this is all I have to wash.”
I was stunned, and just stood there for a few seconds. Finally, I picked up my basket and headed for the door. “When we get back you and I are going to have a long talk!” I said, walking out the door.
Later that afternoon I told Bill about my visit to the supervisor’s office. I expressed my shame and embarrassment for being asked to discuss my roommate’s hygiene and threatened to move out unless he made some drastic changes.
Surprisingly, he took the butt chewing quite well, actually apologizing for his conduct, and promised to improve. He blamed everything on his wife’s absence. “You see,” he said, “she’s the one who always reminds me to shower and put on deodorant. She wanted me to bring a lot of clothes, but I refused, just promising that I’d buy new stuff down here. I guess I’ve just gotten a bit lazy. But look, I’ll go shopping this afternoon and buy some clothes with the money she gave me. OK? And I promise to take a shower every day.”
It felt weird listening to a grown man—a former Naval aviator—promise me that he would start practicing minimal hygiene.
***
Later that evening, I made my almost daily call to Kaz and was anxious to share the adventures I’d been having with Bill. But before I got a chance to say much she broke down crying and told me suddenly that she was not getting along with my mom.
It had started when she decided to lend a hand in the kitchen and attempted to defrost mom’s freezer. According to her, mom had accused her of trying to take over the household by showing her up and doing all the housework. Mom had abruptly ordered Kaz out of the kitchen and told her to just stay in her room.
I was brokenhearted and disappointed to learn that mom had again shown her bad side and had started treating Kaz in much the same manner as she had treated Sharon those many years ago.
To be continued…