11,985. MY FRIEND, THE WEEPER

MY FRIEND, THE WEEPER

He flies small planes, from a local

airport, chartered, up and down the

east  -  Florida, the Carolinas. He 

goes westward, if need be, to

Cincinnati and such. We talk about

how it all goes down (bad choice

of  words, we agreed)  -  he said,

'Contact is mandatory; when the

control tower tells you to be at

3,500 feet, you better be at 3,500

feet. Not 3,515. You can see the

larger craft sliding right by.'

-

He still tears up, he says  -  forget

all that flying stuff for now  -  at

the passing of his good dog Enzo.