Aviator Girl
by Terry Groves
part 1
I will never forget the first time I saw her. As though the grey clouds had parted, a stream of sunlight highlighted her in the crowd of her peers. To me, the light radiated from her, rather than to her. I stopped and stared. She was radiant. Her smile never faltered, and her eyes glowed with secret mischief. A white silk scarf around her neck fluttered in a breeze. Blonde, wavy hair peeked from beneath a worn, brown leather pilot cap. Flying goggles rested, casual, on top of her head. Her raised face, turned just a smidgen to the left, had her eyes, her laughing eyes, fixed on something in front of her. This is how I shall always remember my aviator girl.
Something made her stand out from the rest of the girls crowded around her. Each sported a worn leather cap, goggles, and wavy blonde hair, but she still stood out. Even the next day, when I passed by again, there was no mistaking my aviator girl. Each had the same smile and the same blue, blue laughing blue eyes. But my girl had just a little more smile and a little more laughter in eyes that were a smidgen bluer. A twinkle lived in this face that emanated its own light. Every day I visited and every day she smiled the smile that warmed me deep inside.
Every day though, I had to turn from that wonderful face in the store window, return to the grey day of my grey life. Only shadows waited for me when I turned from her. Shuffling away, I held onto a single thought; tomorrow I would return. Tomorrow, my aviator girl would still wait for me. I knew she wasn’t waiting just for me. In fact, she was waiting for someone who could afford her. I hoped that someone would not come by too soon.
I felt I was not enough man for her, beneath her somehow. Her eyes always rested on something just a little over my head. No matter how I positioned myself, I could not command her attention. I even tried jumping up and down, but she couldn’t see me. Then, one day, things changed.
I woke as I did every day, with a pounding head and aching joints. Throwing back my thin blanket, I dropped my feet to the cold floor. The grey sheets on my bed matched the sky that I could see through the smeary window above the kitchen sink across the room. My fingers combed through my hair and rasped over my stubbled face. When I stood, I knocked over the empty bottle that had been my friend last night. Some friend. Kicked me right in the brain.
Shuffling across the worn linoleum, I pushed some dirty dishes aside and twisted the cold-water tap. Brisk chill on my face helped clear the stringy clouds of sleep, and I surveyed the damage in a cracked mirror that hung at a slight angle beside the window. The image was a good liar, and I did not look too bad.
Stomping my feet to get the blood moving, I fetched my jacket from the floor and pulled it on. My aviator girl was etched in my mind. A wisp of a dream tickled at my memory. She and I had been flying in an open cockpit plane. Her laugh was real and welcome music in my ears. She turned to look at me; full at me; but then the memory faded. My heart soared every time I thought of her gaze resting on me: her smile telling how happy she was to be with me.
Grabbing my piece of rope, I tied my coat closed. I pulled the door shut behind me as I left my room. The lock was busted, so I didn’t waste any time fumbling with it. I took the back stairs down to the street in case there was someone waiting for me out front, and that proved to be the best move I ever made.
I had to push hard on the door into the alley. With a sloppy, sliding noise that grated on my bones, it inched open. When there was enough space for me to squeeze through, I did, letting the door slam closed. I looked to see what had blocked it. A clawed hand grabbing for me. I almost ran. Something jumped up my throat. I relaxed, realising that hand wouldn’t be grabbing anything ever again. Then I looked at the rest of the poor slob.
A mohair jacket, and the man it contained, lay in the filth and dampness of the alley. He had died sitting but had slipped over to one side when I opened the door. A peaked, furry cap with a feather, sat askew on his head. I couldn’t see his features because he had fallen face first into a bulging garbage bag. Funny, not a very dignified way for a dignified man to die. An air of nobleness clung to him like a shroud. I eyed his jacket. It was long, would reach all the way to my knees. Sure would keep a body warm on a grey day. It still had all its buttons to keep it closed.
Then I was pulling at that jacket. I wanted it. He didn’t need it anymore. I had to get it away from his dead flesh before he soiled it permanently. He was stiff with death, so it took a few minutes to get him out of it. Then I saw the blood, his slashed throat. Not an unexpected way to die in these alleys. Someone must have wanted something this fellow had or been angry with something he’d done. A few drops of blood dotted the front of the coat’s collar, but most had soaked into his shirt.
While I struggled to get his coat, I expected someone to yell at me. No one did, and that made me feel right about what I was doing. If it was wrong, someone would stop me. Right? Then, I was pulling his coat over my live body, buttoning it up, feeling the warmth of it. It was a magnificent coat. The type a man would wear to date a girl, an aviator girl. I thought about my aviator girl and her smile. I stopped, wondering if she would smile if she could see me standing in this cold alley, stealing this coat from a murdered man. Maybe someone isn’t always there to stop you when you’re doing something wrong.
The alley chilled, darkened. I needed out of there. I grabbed his hat and ran, fast out of the alley before someone saw me, someone who might tell my aviator girl. I ran before I had to look at the eyes of the murdered man, eyes that would never see his family again.
Two blocks later, I had to stop. I bent over, coughed, gulped in some air. It felt like everyone was looking at me. Did they know what I had done? When I looked around though, there were no accusing stares, just mild curiosity at my puffing. In my dignified coat, I existed for these people. They accepted me as one of them, just a stubble-faced man in a mohair coat and fuzzy hat. I turned and strolled down the street toward my aviator girl. Maybe today she will see me, in my fine coat.
While walking, I slipped my hands into the pockets. They were warm. Then I felt a lump in one pocket. There was something under the fabric. Feeling around, my finger found an opening in the lining, near the top. Reaching through the hole, my hand closed around something cold and hard. Pulling it out, I looked at a silver clip that held a tight knot of bills. My heart pounded. Money. I stuffed it back into the pocket.
Afraid to look at what I held in my hand, I glanced around, my eyes flitting. Even though I still gripped it, I was afraid it might slip away, smoke through my fingers. My mind kept gnawing on the image I had seen in my quick look at the bills. It might have been my eyes playing tricks, but the top bill looked like a fifty, and there were a lot of bills. If robbery had been the motive for the murder, whoever did it missed the jackpot.
I couldn’t just pull that mass of money out where everyone could see it. What would they think? Fumbling in my pocket, I tried to count the bills. If anyone saw them, the police would be called, for sure. No way someone like me could have so much money. They would come for me and find the murdered man and stick it on me. Tossed in jail forever, I’d never see my aviator girl again.
Then I remembered. They think I’m one of them. I’d be just another consumer checking his funds, maybe thinking of buying some flowers for a wife or mistress. I turned my back to the road and pulled the wad out. It took a few minutes to count it all, with my fingers shaking the way they were. When I was done, I could not believe my good fortune. I better count it again. I had won the lottery. In my hand was more money than all I had had over the entire past year. I had enough to buy a good meal, with wine. Fine wine, too, not the paper bag kind. And I would still have lots left for other things that came in bottles. Or for a date. A fine date. One fit for a lady, an aviator lady. I could have my aviator girl. With what I hoped was a casual shrug, I tucked my money back into my coat.
It was hard to keep from running. I had money in my pocket and my aviator girl in my head. I could trade one for the other. I could afford to have her, make her mine. I shuffled down the sidewalk. Then fear coursed through me. Someone will get her before me, steal my aviator girl. They were going to rob me of her red, laughing lips, her casual, joyous expression. I quickened my pace. She’s going to be gone. Yesterday, when I could only dream of possessing her, I hadn’t feared losing her. Now that she was so close, I just knew I would never have her.
Copyright © 2022 by Terry Groves
