Shitman and Shakey

The next day Bobby was setting up when the guys came to service the port-a-potties that served as the bathrooms of the Torrey Gliderport.
“I’m the Shitman,’’ the guy said. “I pump shit.”
And he was. He was pumping out the port-a-potties. His helper had that disease where you have the uncontrollable shakes. The Shitman called him Shakey, but it didn’t seem to bother him. They came once a week to pump and clean the potties. Shitman pumped and Shakey cleaned.
“I’m the only port-a-potty company with a car wash on my truck,” Shitman explained to Bobby. It was one of those high pressure washers. “We have the cleanest port-a-potties in the business,” he proclaimed.
Shakey was smoking a cigarette. He held it between his lips while he was cleaning. When he started shaking the ashes would fall off.
“You should take me for a ride one of these days,” the Shitman suggested.
“Sure, it’s a hundred dollars,” Bobby said.
“Oh, you can work me a deal can’t you? I take care of your potties for Christ’s sakes.”
“It’s not up to me. I have to register all my passengers with the glider shop and turn in a waiver for each one.”
“When I’m ready I’ll have a talk with the guy in the shop,” he said as he moved to the second outhouse.
“Okay,” Bobby said, “I gotta go,” he added and started for the van. The smell was terrible.
“See-ya,” said Shakey.
*
A week later, the Shitman, whose real name was Al, wanted to go for his flight. And he was insisting on a deal. Bobby told him to go talk to the Flight Director. Shakey busied himself watching the gliders fly, and smoking a cigarette.
“Drop him in the ocean,” Shakey said to Bobby, “he can’t swim.”
Five minutes later Al came out of the glider shop with Uncle Bill in tow.
“Go ahead and take him Coop,” Bill said. “I’ve got his waiver. Come and see me after the flight. Have fun.”
Al was a big, burly, hairy man. And he stunk. He looked funny with a helmet on.
“How much do you weight?” Bobby asked him.
“Why is there a weight limit?”
“Yeah, a hundred and seventy-five pounds.”
“That’s what I weigh, one-seventy-five.”
Bobby figured he was more like two hundred, but he didn’t say anything. The conditions were strong. He squeezed Al into the passenger harness and told him the launch procedures. They practiced the run.
“Okay, enough of the formalities, I don’t have all day.”
“We’ll be in the air in a few minutes. There‘s two more things you need to know. Number one: Don’t touch the control frame.” Bobby showed him the control frame. Then he showed him where to put his hands.
“What’s number two?”
“Don’t scream like a girl.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Al said.
They walked down to launch and Bobby hooked Al in, then himself. They did a hang check. Bobby had quit explaining things to Al; he just wanted to get this flight over with.
“Ready?” Bobby said.
“I’m ready,” Al confirmed.
And into the air they went. Even with the breeze Al’s stench was palpable.
“You want to buy a port-a-potty business?” Al asked Bobby as they flew up north. “I’ve got a hundred of them at a hundred bucks a month. You do the math.”
“Why are you selling it?” Bobby asked to keep the conversation going.
“I’m tired of it. I’m going into real estate.”
“How much are you asking?”
“A hundred grand - that includes the potties, the truck and a septic truck -I pump septic tanks too- and the customer list.”
“I don’t think I could do that type of work.”
“I can break your nose in a minute. You won’t smell a thing.”
Bobby didn’t say anything else. He was thinking about getting his nose broke. He subconsciously felt his face to see if there was any blood. Then he went into his routine of pointing out the landmarks. Al waved to Shakey as they flew over the glider shop.
“I’m going to sell one of those mansions down there,” Al said as they flew by. “You know La Jolla is the most expensive place to live in the country don’t you?”
“It is?”
“That’s right, five million times three percent. You do the math.”
Bobby did, and it was a lot of money. He recalled how much he had paid for the van. Then he tried to imagine some rich guy and his wife buying a house from Al, but he couldn’t.
“This is pretty cool.” “Do you do this all the time?”
“Most days, it depends on the weather.”
“It’s pretty cool. Where do you take lessons?”
“I took lessons here in San Diego.”
“Here at Torrey Pines?”
“No, back in Sorrento Valley, on a small hill. You have to have an advanced rating to fly at Torrey.” He wished he hadn’t said it as soon as he had said it.
“How long does it take to get an advanced rating?” Al asked. Bobby explained.
“Look at those fools down there on the golf course. What a dumb sport,” Al said as they flew back up north. Then he said, “This is easier than it looks.”
Bobby was just about to ask Al if he wanted to try it, but then bit his tongue. Maybe he’d let Al try landing, he thought, and started to chuckle to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Do you want to go down now?” Bobby asked.
“I don’t know. How long does it last? I could float around like this all day. I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t you have to get back to work?”
“I can pump shit anytime, morning, noon, or night. It all pays the same.”
Bobby made one more lap and then told Al to get ready for landing.
“Fly over the potties,” Al requested.