Best Friends Don't Kiss

November 2nd

LukeThe lobby of Soar Aviation at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey is a tasteful oasis of beige hues, ambient lighting, high glass ceilings, well-spaced armchairs and sofas, and a baby grand piano.

No one ever plays that damn piano, but that’s beside the point.

This posh waiting room is for travelers catching private planes out of Soar, one of the five companies that flies and charters flights at one of the busiest strictly private airports in the world.

And since I’m one of Soar’s contracted pilots, I walk through this lobby about three times a week. No doubt, it’s a striking contrast to what I used to see more than two years ago when I was still flying as a commercial pilot out of Newark International Airport.

Basically, I get paid to fly around in the clouds.

You’d think after being a pilot for eight years, the novelty of flying would wane, but it doesn’t. Every time I sit in the cockpit and prepare to take off, I’m just as excited as I was my first day in flight school.

Lobby left behind, the tarmac feels like home under my feet. The moisture of dew is still ripe in the air, but after years of flying out of this airport in the mornings, I know it’ll be burned off within the next thirty minutes, as soon as the sun gets high enough in the sky to put some heat into the air. I do my checks and cross-checks, circling the plane and working my way through my preflight checklist, and then head for the stairs that lead to the inside. My phone buzzes in my pocket before I get to the top, so I pull it out quickly and check the screen to find a new text.Thatcher Kelly: Luke, my man, I have a huge favor to ask. I’m running a little late this morning. Work your magic with air traffic control?After leaving my job with a commercial airline and signing on with Soar—a company that specializes in private flights for a lot of very wealthy clients—I’ve had the pleasure of flying Thatcher Kelly and the rest of his friends—billion-dollar-bank-account friends, mind you—around for the past two years.

Apparently, I’ve also become his go-to contact whenever he’s running late. Which, frankly, is a lot. Thatcher Kelly runs on Thatcher Kelly time. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.Me: Sure. I assume that means you’ll be handling Wes Lancaster, sir?On this fine Monday morning, I’ll be flying Thatch and several of his closest friends to LA. And Wes Lancaster, the owner of the New York Mavericks and investor in a lot of high-profile restaurants, will be on today’s flight.

Wes is a stickler for time, and when his buddy Thatch is the cause for a delay? He gets pissed.Thatcher Kelly: Ah, don’t worry about that broody bastard. He can handle running a few minutes behind schedule today.I’m not worried about him handling it. I’m worried about being the one to have to tell him.Me: How many minutes are we talking exactly?Thatcher Kelly: About twenty.Me: Okay. I’m sure I can swing a twenty-minute maintenance delay of some sort.Thatcher Kelly: If I weren’t already married to the hottest woman on the planet, I’d get on my knees and fluffing propose to you, son. Consider dinner on me tonight.I smirk, slide my phone back into my jacket pocket, and step inside the Bombardier Global 7500—my aircraft for the day. It’s a sleek piece of machinery and the biggest, fastest aircraft in Soar’s inventory.

Trevor is already in the cockpit and setting up his nest. We’ve been through a hell of a lot together, including doing quite a bit of growing up. After graduating from Columbia, we both went through flight school and took the first jobs we could find as pilots. He worked for FedEx, and I started climbing the ladder of the commercial airline world, but finally, with our jobs at Soar, we’re back together. He can still be a pain in the ass, but he’s one of the best pilots I could hope to fly with.

“Morning,” I greet, and he glances over his shoulder to grin at me.

“Hey, man.”

“Just so you know, Thatch is running behind.”

Trevor shakes his head. “And what’s our excuse for today’s delay?” he asks, more than used to faking pretend postponements on behalf of Thatcher Kelly. If he weren’t such a cool-ass guy, we’d probably get really tired of his shit, but I guess that’s Thatch’s charismatic magic. It’s impossible to dislike him. Plus, it just so happens that we get paid really well too.

“Let’s go with GPS maintenance,” I comment and stash my duffel and unpack the essentials from my flight bag—my headset for talking to air traffic control and my electronic flight charts.

While I enter the data about our flight into the computer system, Trev runs through our checklist.