Everyone knows – and has probably worked with – a guy like Zeke Edmunds.  No matter how hard he tried, Zeke never quite made it.  He couldn’t hold his beer, his women, or his job.  The longest he’d ever held the same job at the same place was six months. 

            Zeke Edmunds had the perpetual look of a college student, even at thirty-one.  A look that indicated he learned something new every day, usually things everyone else already knew. Average height, average build, average mousy-brown hair and eyes - he blended into the woodwork and felt quite at home there.

Recently hired by American Airways, Zeke held a low level: he loaded the luggage.  A simple enough job, not much chance of anything going wrong.  Only one small detail hampered this simple job: the safe delivery of live animals placed in the luggage/cargo compartments of DC-10s and 727s to their destinations.  Most 727s flew 30,000 – 40,000 feet, a height that turned water into ice cubes and animals into frozen entrees.  To safeguard against freezing the animals en route, a switch was used in the cargo compartment that turned on the heat. 

Over time, this switch earned the nickname ‘Dead Dog Switch.’  As explained by his best friend, Pilot Captain, Charles Danvers:  “If it’s not switched on, ya got a Doggie Popsicle when the plane lands.”

            Zeke met Charlie quite by accident his second month on the job.  He had just clocked out at six p.m. and was heading for the Employees' Lounge, when at a cross-corridor, a strident voice rang out:   “Stop him! He thinks he can fly!”

            Curious, Zeke had paused just as a tall, uniformed, dignified (despite his obvious whacked condition) man came running down the empty hallway, his open jacket and long scarf flapping behind him - instead of shoes he wore rubber galoshes.  A rumbling sound, which grew in volume as the man came closer, stopped abruptly as the wayward pilot lurched into the wall.  Zeke managed to catch hold of his arms, but the pilot quickly wrenched free.  The other man, the one who had yelled, also wore a pilot's uniform: his nametag identified him as Albert Hastings.

            Hastings lunged at the tipsy pilot, just barely missed grabbing his coattail.  “Damn it, Charlie; cut it out!  You can’t fly in that condition.”

             “Sure I can.  See?”  Arms out, Charlie circled Zeke at low altitude, imitating thrumming jet engine sounds.

He stumbled, “Oops,” Charlie giggled, his iron-grey hair tumbling over his glassy eyes. “Turbulence… Passengers will please fasten their seat belts…”

Thinking fast, Zeke cupped his hands over his mouth, and announced in his best Air Traffic Controller voice:  “This is the Tower to all pilots.  Due to inclement weather conditions, all flights have been cancelled.  All pilots will land immediately.”

Pilot Charlie dutifully answered.  “Flight 69 coming in for landing.”  And, using the momentum of his run, went to his knees and skidded down the highly waxed hallway.

Seeing his approach, Zeke opened the door and the pilot sailed into the room in a perfect two-point landing, the galoshes bringing him to an abrupt halt.  Zeke quickly slammed the door and jammed a chair under the doorknob.

Edmunds smiled at the panting pilot as he ran up to him.  “He’ll be okay in there until he sobers up, it’s the Janitor’s Storeroom.  Maybe he’ll think it’s a hanger.”

The pilot stared for a moment, then burst into laughter.  “Thanks, buddy.  Ol’ Charlie, he ain’t a bad sort; hardly ever drinks at all. But his Ex had been bleeding him dry for over six years, and he just found out yesterday that she’s getting married.  Been celebrating practically non-stop since then.

“He’s really conscientious about work, though’, and when he showed up totally whacked, I told him I’d take his flight for him…  That’s when he took off on me.”

“Does he always act like that when he’s drunk?”

“Well… sorta.  He’s been a pilot for about twelve years now – and a damn good one, too; but last time he got drunk to celebrate his divorce, he ‘flew’ around the terminal, looking for a runway.  After he sobered up, he told me it was some weird kind of quirk he had.  Before becoming a pilot, he worked construction, and whenever he got really snockered, he’d think he was a backhoe or bulldozer or something equally… heh…   ‘constructive.'”

“He sounds like quite a guy.”

“Oh, he is.  And he’ll be really grateful when I tell him how you stopped him from showing up in the cockpit drunk and losing his job.”

Zeke shrugged.  “Just wanted to help out.”

            In the course of four months, Zeke had, for one reason or another, managed to freeze a pair of Siamese cats to their water dishes, and four dogs arrived at the destination airport as Poodle Popsicles.  After the fourth Poodle incident (the airline had to replace all the frozen animals), Management informed Zeke Edmunds in no uncertain terms that if anything like that ever happened again, he would be terminated.  Understandably shaken, Edmunds promised he’d be more alert.

            Coming up on a record of five straight months of employment, Zeke happened into Delores Bimble at the copy machine.  He paused a short distance from the copier, admiring the hour-glass figure of the blonde Delores while she ran page after page of copies.  As he approached, however, he noticed that the copies were blank.

            Recognizing an opening to impress her with his scintillating conversational skills when he saw it, he smiled his most winning smile.  “Hi, I’m Zeke.  You work around here?”  That didn’t, however, mean he knew how to make scintillating conversation.

            But she shrugged, a toss of long blonde hair indicating a side office.  “I’m the President’s secretary.  I’m not supposed to have to do this, but I ran out of paper and Mr. Travers said to just use the copy machine paper.”

            It was then that he realized she was making copies of a piece of blank paper; and, despite her obvious attributes, seriously considered the wisdom of having possible future progeny with her.  For about five seconds, before sanity kicked in.

            He asked her out for lunch.  To his surprise and delight, she accepted. He learned that her name was Delores Bimble, but she preferred to be called ‘Lori’; and he preferred ‘Luscious Lori’ – mentally if not verbally. To h*** with suspect progeny, intellect wouldn’t keep one all warm and comfy at night…

            Several weeks passed without incident.  Things went well, and Zeke really enjoyed his high-paying, cushy job; and his frequent dates with the equally cushy Delores.  The Dog Show season in Los Angeles approached, and Zeke sent several of the purebred dogs safely to the City of Angels, always flipping The Switch ‘On’ before locking down the door. One particular day had been especially demanding, as two forklifts broke down and Zeke had to take care of most of the cargo loading into the 727s on his own. 

The last item was a large dog carrier, and not just any carrier. A beautifully wrought, hand-made piece of art in leather-covered plastic, brass fittings, and well-cushioned interior. Zeke glimpsed long, thick golden hair of the soundly sleeping animal through the metal grid on the locked door.  The polished gold-plated nameplate proclaimed “PRINCE ROCOCO III OF MONACO  -- Best of Breed World Champion  -- 1997, 1998, 1999”. Anchored securely to the handle, a large blue and gold rosette adorned the carrier, the streamers spread eloquently down all four sides of the handcrafted carrier, and big gold ‘2000’ held the place of honor in the center of the elaborate bow. 

            Zeke smiled broadly at the peaceful animal.  “Well, Prince Rocky, looks like you’ll be gettin’ a new nameplate.”  The dog hardly shifted as the forklift raised it to the luggage hold. Zeke knew that some owners tranquilized their larger dogs so the flight wouldn’t be traumatic for them.  Zeke grinned.  Prince Rocky’s pedigree no doubt guaranteed extensive, high strung trauma.

            Carefully settling the carrier into a well-protected corner, and arranging heavier crates and boxes around it to minimize any shifting or sliding when the plane encountered turbulence, Zeke returned to the huge door.  A voice called up to him.

            “Hey, Edmunds, there’s another crate coming.  Get it aboard.”

            “How big? There’s not much room left.”

            “Yeah, well, make room.”

            Zeke waited for the transport tram to stop, and then used the forklift to place the large crate into the crowded bay.  It took a lot of intricate maneuvering and swearing to get it positioned safely, and delayed take-off for ten minutes. Edmunds finally slammed the door, latched it down securely, and sent the plane on its way.

            About two hours later it hit him:   He hadn’t thrown The Switch!

            “Oh, God…” he moaned, “I’m sooo freaking dead!  Just like poor Prince Rocky…”  Terrible thoughts – other than frozen dog – whirled helplessly through his mind:  dismissal, distraught owner, lawsuits, bad publicity for the airline, and it went on and on… Not to mention the future relationship with Luscious Lori now teetered on the brink of dissolution.

            He had to do something.  He couldn’t lose this job, too; it was a great job with great pay and benefits.  Terrific benefits… There must be something he could do…

            A quick look at the pilot’s roster brought a big smile to his face.  Charles Danvers was the pilot; and Danvers owed him big time.

            He placed a call to the cockpit.  “Hey, Charlie, I need a really big favor, buddy.”

            “Sure, what is it?”

            “There’s a champion show dog in your cargo hold.  I forgot to throw The Switch—”

            “Aw, Christ, Zeke… Not another one?”

            “Yeah, well… Look, I was thinking.  You’re going to LA.  Surely there’s someplace there that will have that type of dog.  Just… buy a new one and replace the dead one.”

            “What about the owner?  Whoever owns the dog is bound to show up to claim it.”

            “Just say it’s on another plane, or that it’s in Customs or something.  You can think of some way to stall for a day or so.”

         Danvers hemmed and hawed.  "Uhhh, I'm not too sure about this, Zeke.  It could get real dicey."

         "You gotta help me out here, Charlie. The Brass already told me I'm fried if I ice another animal. It'll be my ass if the owner gets the dog back frozen stiff.  Can't do nothing about the dog, but no sense in both of us suffering."

         "Please, ol' buddy, just help me out this one time and we'll be even."

            “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

            Zeke paced nervously back and forth in the small living room of his apartment.  The plane had landed about six hours ago, and Danvers had called him to say that he put off the owner for 24 hours and he would look for a replacement dog.  He would call when he found one.

            The phone finally rang.  “Yeah, Charlie?”

            “Yep.  You’re in luck, guy; found an exact duplicate of that Afghan, and I’ve replaced the dead one.”

            “That’s great!  What did you do with the body?  I sure don’t want it found and ID’d.”

            “Ummm, it’s still here, at the ‘Hold’ area of Luggage Claim.  I got it stuffed in a locker.  What do you want me to do with it?”

            “Christ.  Look, I’m not gonna see any peace here until I know everything’s taken care of.  I’m taking the next flight out, and we’ll take care of the loose ends when I get there.  See ya.”

            Edmunds arrived 12 hours before the owner of the champion dog was scheduled to appear.  Captain Danvers met him in the lobby of the LAX American Airways terminal, and they both went to the cargo area where live animals were kept pending their owners’ arrival.

            They approached the carrier, and very bright and alert eyes peered out at them through the grid.  As far as Zeke could tell, the dog looked exactly like the other one.

            You’ve saved my life and job.”

            “Yeah, well, for the record, I had nothing to do with any of this.  And you,” he added, “owe me twelve hundred freakin’ bucks.  People insane, payin' twelve hundred freakin' dollars for a freakin' dog...”

            “It’s worth it.  Where’s the dead one?”

“Wrapped it up in plastic, and stuffed in Locker 42D; it was the biggest I could find.  Gotta do something with him soon; he’s probably defrosted by now.”

Zeke took the awkward Hefty bag wrapped body and, making certain no one saw, tossed it into the trash dumpster.  It hit with a solid thud and squish. Zeke winced, grimacing with distaste - yep, pretty much thawed.

“Hope the LA trash is on time,” he said to Danvers, cleaning his hands off on a rag, “with this heat, that dog’s gonna get plenty ripe.”

“I’m just glad this thing’s done with.  I appreciate your helping me out with my little ‘episode’, but at least it didn’t involve any bodies.”

“Yeah, you’ve been great, Charlie.  Go to the hotel, rest up. I’ll meet you back here tonight at seven.  We’ll get the dog to its new owner and I’ll buy you a drin--  er, cup of coffee before your return flight.”

            Captain Danvers and Zeke preceded the owner’s arrival by roughly three minutes.  She clutched tightly to a fur-trimmed jacket and small leather purse, and she ambled along with uncertain steps -- a frail, elderly woman of substantial means.  Her expression was drawn, as if having to wait an extra 24 hours for her Prince had been a strain.

            About two feet away, she paused, squinting at their American Airways insignia.  “Excuse me, young man,” she addressed Danvers, who wore his pilot’s uniform, and therefore looked official. “Is this where I pick up my Prince?”

            Zeke had an insane urge to howl with laughter, but the circumstances stopped him in time.  Danvers, however, chuckled slightly. “Are you Mrs. Everett S. Sloan?”

            “Yes, and I have the carrier claim ticket.”

            “Right this way, Ma’am; your dog has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

            The woman gave him an odd look, but followed without comment.  Zeke brought up the rear.  Hopefully the old woman’s failing eyesight wouldn’t discern the switch – he cringed at that phrase – right off.

            There were five other carriers in the ‘Hold’ area, but Prince Rococo’s stood out in regal glory.  As Mrs. Sloan approached with slumped shoulders and solemn expression, the Afghan inside the carrier suddenly lurched upward and began barking happily at the door’s grid.

            Mrs. Sloan, however, reeled backward, with one long, shrill screech; Danvers caught her before she fell.

            She managed, one thin hand against her bird-like breast, the other gripping her purse. “That’s not my Prince!”

            Frantically trying to salvage the situation, Zeke quickly interjected, “Sure it is, Ma’am.  See,” he indicated the diamond studded leather collar, “there’s his collar, and ID, and everything. It’s your dog, really.”

            A bit of steel returned, and she straightened, pulling free of Danver's supporting grip. "Young man, Prince Rococo III of Monaco won the World Title for Best in Breed three days ago in New York.  Two days ago, he died.  I shipped his body back to Los Angeles for burial.

            “Now, where is my Prince?!”

Epilog:

Zeke lost his job not because of his subterfuge, but because of his treatment of the body.

Three days later, he was rehired, as Chief of Customer Relations.

Contact Melinda  Reynolds