Mister Weston

“Mr. Weston, on the same scale, how close are you to your biological brother?”

“Negative sixty.”

“Your biological mother?”

“No comment.”

“Mr. Weston,” she said, her voice a little harsher. “Could you please answer the question in regards to your biological mother?”

“I could, but I won’t.”

“Mr. Weston—”

“It’s a no.”

“It’s not a yes or no question.” She raised her voice. “Every question today is mandatory, especially since you waited until the very last minute to deem us ‘worthy’ of your time. If you wish to continue flying after your final trips for Signature this weekend, you need to answer me. Otherwise, we can stop this session right now.”

“It’s undefined.” I clenched my jaw. “In regards to my mother, it’s fucking undefined.”

“Thank you.” She let out a breath. “Last question in that set. On a scale of one to ten, how close are you to your wife?”

“Ex-wife.” I corrected her again. “She shouldn’t be included in any files related to me, but she’s ranked right between my father and brother for a negative seventy.”

“Well, enlighten me, please.” She looked up and scratched her head. “In the event of something unfortunate happening to you, who would you like us to call first?”

“A funeral home.”

Silence.

She looked away as if she was unsure of what to say next. Seconds later, she slid a standard employee agreement to me, along with a pen. “You’ve signed this before, but please sign it with me as your witness...And wait. I actually have one last question. Are you aware that you have an ‘FCE’ on your employment file with us?”

“No.”

“Would you like to know what an ‘FCE’ means?”

“I assume it means I’m capable of counting and you’re not. You said the previous question was the last question.”

“It was.” She frowned. “Do you, by chance, have any questions for me?”

“Never.”

“Very well, then. This concludes the completion of Jake C. Weston’s profile with Elite Airways.” She hit stop on the recorder and tucked it into a white box labeled ‘active pilots.’ “You can leave now, Mr. Owens. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, standing. “Best of luck to you with our airline, Mr. Weston.”

“Thank you.” I started to stand as well, but Dr. Cox motioned for me to remain seated.

“I thought this was the end.” I looked at her. “I’m not interested in speaking to you or anyone else any longer than I’m required to.”

“That makes two of us,” she said, her tone far darker than it was at first. “I just have one final, off the record question, and then you can leave and return to whatever shell of a life you think you have.”

She waited until Mr. Owens left the room, and then she slammed a massive red folder on top of the table and glared at me. “I need you to tell me how the hell you passed your psychiatric evaluation six weeks ago.”

“I studied.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Weston.” Her face was red. “The average score for a competent and sane pilot on the PILA test is a five. You scored a nine. “

“Maybe the test was measuring something else of mine.”

She ignored my comment. “A nine means damn near deviant. It means you shouldn’t have passed any of the remaining psych tests at all. Yet somehow, the doctor passed you with flying colors.”

“How very generous.”

“A little too generous.” She plucked a business card from her pocket and tossed it to me. “I won’t deny that your career thus far has been nothing short of outstanding, but—Well...I’m just going to be frank here. You have the most fucked up psych results I have ever seen.”

“It’s an honor, thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to receive my award via mail.”

“I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” she said. “According to the real test results—not the ones you scammed somehow, you’re exceedingly below the average in three out of four emotional areas. You’re socially detached, yet somehow manage to function in social environments.” She clasped her hands together. “I haven’t personally tested you, but I think you use your career as a means to get away, to cope with some type of issue you’re internally suffering from. Not only that, but your sleep tests showed high levels of...”

I tuned out her voice as she continued to talk, only catching a few words like “psychotherapy” and “threshold” but my attention to her sentences waned with every word that left her lips.

Leaning forward, I flipped through the binders on the edge of her desk, thumbing through the thick pages. I lifted the file baskets and the notebooks, setting them down when I saw nothing underneath.

Still ignoring the sound of her voice, I stood up and walked over to the wall of taped airline policies. I stood in front of the one that announced the ‘100% No Employee-Fraternization’ rule and grabbed the paper’s edges. I slowly peeled it from the wall, glancing at the drywall behind it.