Last week I posted a picture of a fellow stahding in front of a small biplane he owns and flies.Years ago when I met him, he asked me not to tell others his name and what he did/does for a living, and I promised I would not. In last week’s posting I explained I loaned him some pictures, and for years, I had been trying to coax those pictures back from him without success. He told me during three or four encounters over the phone that he would bring them back, but he did not. A mutual acquaintance was consulted. I explained I was ready to express my frostration to their top floor honcho and was advised, patient friend to unhappy friend, to take a more cautionary tack into this tempest. Last week, as stated, since the borrower’s promise to return pictures to me had proven worthless, my intention was to de-value my word to him, not that readers of this blog would recognise him anyway. Not that it mattered to any one of you. It mattered to me.
Wedenesday, I spoke with the bloke’s supervisor and explained the situation. He already knew me from a play I had been in years ago and was sympathetic to my concern from the get-go; recommended I talk to “Internal Affairs” to help the process along, and in less than five minutes I had that person on the phone. He promised to talk to the absent-minded borrower and get back to me. In 40 minutes, he called me back. The story he was told, from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, was that the pictures had been returned to me two years ago! The delay in getting them back was not four years, based on his figures; it was only two years. He suggested that for only about eight old pictures, the option of civil court action was a pissibility, but it would be simply my word against the borrower’s word.
I was significantly steamed for 20 minutes after hanging up the phone. Then a memory came back in a strange way, like when the perfect snappy retort to the dingbat who hurled a snide remark at you at the party you just left . . . . . hits you just as you’re turning the key in the igntion to drive home. . . . . . . . . CHEEEESES! . . . . . It was a minor epiphany, but this one was right on time.
A vague memory of pulling a 5.5 inch by 8.5 inch white envelope from my mailbox on a summer afternoon. . . . . pictures of historic airplanes inside. No “Thanks for the loan, Job.” No “Here’s a small check to help with your web site.” No “I’ll call you Saturday if the weather’s good and we can meet at the airport for some aerobatic practice in the Pitts. Bring your camera.” But pictures. Loaned pictures of important (to historians) airplanes!
Was I imagining that, the way when you’re hit on the head you see stars? The way when you’re about to impact the rear bumper of the idiot ahead of you who just stood on his brakes, you see your life pass in front of your eyes? Or was I remembering something I should have remembered last fall when I determined to get my pictures back, even if I had to go back on my word?
I concluded that I would rather be thought a brainless doofus for getting so wrapped up in something that MAY NOT have happened than go back on a promise to someone I considered a friend, and if not a friend, a hummin’ bean whose very life merited my respect. And that’s where I am today. I’ve proven myself worse than a doofus at times when my judgement was less than it should have been, but this was not about how bad I was yesterday; it’s about what I am today.
My book will be fine if it includes pictures that came back to me. It will be fine if the pictures that came back to me are not used. It will also be fine if the pictures never came back to me. And as for that guy with the biplane, may his skies be CAVU, and may he always return, softly, to home.
Live long . . . . . . and proper.
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