Wyatt’s Obsession

Wyatt lounged with Ed Morales at the corner table farthest from the door, munching pretzels and sipping drinks. The bar was dark and smelled of leather and bourbon. Because it was early evening, there were few patrons, but their soft voices seeped around the cozy tables. Thick Kelly-green carpet looked inviting and the bartender absently dried cocktail glasses under a flickering Budweiser sign. A lithe, tanned barmaid glided through the cool, dark shadows with a tray balanced lightly on her fingertips.

“Another Corona,” Ed said to the waitress. “Wyatt, a refill on the wine?”

“Come on, Ed, I’m a lightweight. Another glass and I’ll spend the night under the table.”

“This is near the end of a long business trip,” Ed said, raising his glass. “I’m beat, so I plan to do some serious ‘relaxing.’ The nice thing with hotel bars, it’s a short walk to the elevator and my room upstairs.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair and his grin gleamed in the dusky light. Although his tie was already loose, he tugged at the knot.

The waitress, on silent, cushioned feet, came to the table and set a foaming beer on a fresh paper napkin. “Thanks,” Ed said. “Keep ‘em coming, okay?”

“Sure thing, Hon.”

Ed guzzled half the beer. “Life’s good. Sometimes I feel like a surfer riding the big one. Wasn’t it Isaac Newton who said, ‘If I have seen further, it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants?’”

Wyatt nodded.

With his chin cradled in his hand Ed said, almost to himself, “Newton may have given me science, but my father gave me this country. He was a wetback. Worked the crops in the San Joaquin Valley. I was born in a shack near Bakersfield and started picking as a kid. Padre showed me how to twist a boll of cotton from its stem and pull tomatoes from the vine without bruising them. He taught me to love work––taught me honor. When I was twelve he died from breathing insecticide––so they said. Wish I could thank him, but I’m forty years too late.”

“How did you get off the farms?” Wyatt asked.

“An uncle put me through school. The first to come to ‘El Norte,’ he got a job, stoop labor, and found work for my parents. Ultimately, he rose to supervision. He was a second father to me.”

Wyatt stared at his glass. “Yeah.”

Ed jerked upright and swept his hand imitating a teacher erasing a blackboard. “Enough about my life story.” He finished his beer and signaled for another. “You and Madison are on a roll. Reminds me of the old days. I’m too young to remember the original founders such as Walter and Olive Ann Beech, Clyde Cessna, Pug Piper and Jimmy Maddox, but I heard the old-timers talk. They were adventurers and wheeler-dealers, putting everything on the line. They inspire me––had a vision, same as you. I fell in love with little airplanes and the people that create them, you know?”

“Odd you say that, Ed. I do know. It’s not airplanes so much for me, but engineering itself. It’s not what I enjoy, it’s what I am.”

“That’s it. Exactly.” Ed drew a circle in a patch of spilled beer on the table. “In the mornings, design ideas fly through my head while I brush my teeth. I rush through the newspaper because I’m eager to get to work and tackle the latest problems. I still get goose bumps when I see a plane rumble down the runway.”

“Yeah, been there. First time we ran our pressurization, I dang near cried. I know how Goddard felt when he launched his first rocket or Doctor Salk when he developed his vaccine. It’s depressing to think most people never experience that.”

“Are we blessed or cursed?” Ed shrugged. “Sometimes it’s a big load to carry. Most people think we live in a bizarre world of mumbo-jumbo––words such as ohms, joules and viscosity.” He sipped his beer. “I miss the old days when I cut my teeth on the first Cessna Citation––made serious contributions to the air cycle system. My thinking was more agile back then. So many ideas exploded from my head I couldn’t keep track of them.” He drained his glass and gazed at the foam lingering on the rim. “Ah, yes.” Ed’s chin sank to his chest, and he closed his eyes. “Those were the days,” he whispered. A tiny tear collected in the corner of his eye and paused like it was afraid to trickle down… afraid to reveal its owner’s inner thoughts.

The waitress floated toward their table, but Wyatt waved her away. He realized he’d been given a glimpse into the mind of a passionate man. It was a precious moment, almost religious. Wyatt’s throat tightened. He foresaw the day when he, like Ed, would sit in a cloistered bar with a young engineer and get misty over his pressurization system. He’d made a profound advancement in the engineering art and Wyatt knew he’d be compelled to share it someday, not to bolster his ego, but to inspire a fledgling designer. Wyatt, immersed in his own reveries, looked fondly at Ed––troubled he couldn’t share his true feelings with this fine man, the son of a wetback.