Captain Noon! Captain Noon! A Year in the Life Captain Icarus Noon of the Triple Z Squadron

1. From the steepled church … [bong] … The gong of Noon … [bong] … scattering the rooks from the belfry … [bong] … the roar of the airplane engine … [bong] … at first, in the distance … [bong] … then stronger, as it sounds in a dive … [bong] … This is Captain Noon … [bong] … and the adventures of the Triple Z Squadron! … [bong] 2. “Captain Noon! Captain Noon!” I knock on his door. “Whaaat?!” “Captain Noon, sir. Your flight is ready to leave. The passengers have been on board and the baggage loaded for the nine o’clock flight for three hours. The engines are idling. The crew is on board. The fuel tanks are filled. The cone-man is waiting to whisk the glowing orange cones from under the wingtips.” “Just a minute, please!” “Captain Noon, hurry.” Captain Noon, an aviation legend in his own time, can’t be rushed. “I’ll be there in a minute, I said!” Captain Icarus Noon, Premier Flight Commander of Triple Z Airlines, The Snoring Skies of ZZZ said. One eyelid opens as if startled or stuck. The other eyelid pops open. Smack, pucker, yawn and gape, our captain stretches his arms, fingers, legs and toes. So keenly trained, so languid, so skilled. Captain Noon, like Steve Canyon in the comics, ready for any emergency, any contingency, any crisis or threat. Glittering aviator wings from a cereal box pinned over the left pocket of his sky-blue terrycloth robe, and a white, silk scarf folded around his neck. He awakens. His nighttime dreams of flying give way to midday dreams of flying while sunshine beats through the window into his bedroom. Captain Noon shuffles down the hallway. His leather flying helmet and aviator goggles in a heap on the dresser. A thick layer of aerosol soap on his face, he shaves. He showers. He reaches for his shirt and pants. He dresses. He sits. He lingers. He is in no rush. Whatever it might be, it can wait. “What day is it?” he asks. “It doesn’t make any difference, Captain Noon, you fly every day.” “Oh, right.” Captain Icarus Noon turns and looks in the mirror. Tall, slender, straight brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes, and peach-fuzz cheeks. He bares and examines his perfectly aligned teeth. He flexes his shoulders, and he makes furious judo-throws and karate punches in the air. The evil in the world captures his imagination that must be dealt with from the air and brought to justice. Home from college for the summer, one more year to go. Our Captain of Captains. Our Airline of Airlines. Our Captain of Noon is almost ready to fly. 3. A number of magazines about flying arrive by mail at our house. Many pictures, stories, advertisements, notices from the FAA, flying club announcements, flying club dues, offers to buy airplanes, offers to sell airplanes, brochures from flying schools—everything except employment opportunities. Sunglasses, flight jackets, silk scarves, radios, chronometers, earphones, compasses, calculators, more flight schools, jets, propellers, more flying magazines, discounts on microphones and belt buckles, ground schools, T-shirts, pistons, flight photos, hangers, and gas. Everything needed to fly, and more to talk about. Catalogs arrive. Orders go out. Packages arrive. Ah, an employment opportunity—Jungle Airlines! Captain Noon assimilates. Controlled—he’s seen it all before, many times, nothing takes him by surprise. He is smooth, cool, in command. “Did you see the new Lear Jet at Buchanan Field?” I asked. “Sure. Saw it last week.” “Quite an airplane!” “Not bad.” “Just think, Word War II would have been over a lot sooner if we had had just one Lear Jet at the time. I mean an airplane that could fly as fast and as high.” “What?” Captain Noon was incredulous. “That was forever ago. I wasn’t even born then.” “True. It’s just a thought. They keep improving airplanes. I think the P-38 and the B-17 were the most beautiful airplanes. Just look at an F-4. Looks like a shovel.” “The F-4’s blast would knock either one of them out of the sky,” Captain Noon says. “That’s probably so. Still, they are beautiful airplanes.” “It’s a new day.” 4. Several years ago, I went to a Giants baseball game near the end of the season. The Giants were out of the pennant race, and the team they were playing had lost hope, also. I arrived early to watch batting practice. Fans are divided into those who go early to see batting practice and those who don’t. Usually, I don’t go that early because I am with the family or others who don’t understand or want to spend that much time at the ballpark. Maybe those who go early go for the same reasons I had gone that day, low spirits and a need to get away from the trials of life on the ‘outside.’ Few fans have my intent to experience some sort of renewal or escape before the game, so the stands were nearly empty except for a half-dozen men who sat in the first row at the corner behind the Giants’ dugout talking to the players and seemed to know them all. The players chatted amicably with the men who were older, probably in their sixties and seventies. I bought a grandstand ticket, but since a small crowd attended the weekday afternoon games, I sat near the men behind the dugout. Some of the players stopped on their way in from practice in the outfield to joke with the men while other players seemed to ignore them. The men spoke to all of the players, even to those who passed them by without speaking. The Giants had a good season the year before and nearly won the Western Division. Mike McCormick won the Cy Young Award for the best pitcher in baseball after a sensational year. Lots of excitement had been generated for the new season and baseball was an important part of the life of the City. Society ladies went to afternoon games and their pictures were in the Chronicle the next day with descriptions of who they were with and what they wore. The Giants’ manager and the announcers were celebrities, and it seemed everyone on the streets wore a Giants cap, pin or jacket. During the middle of the season, Giants tickets were hard to get. The Giants were the principal topic of conversation dominating other City events. We went to a number of games during the season and we were as enthusiastic as everyone else. You were just old enough to begin to understand the game, and we both had our idols on the Giants. You were in school, so I went to the game alone. The late September sun and cool air made me relax, slowed the pre-game rituals and the game, which put everything right. All the pitchers were on the field for outfield practice, then came infield practice when the pitchers ambled in towards the dugout. The men seemed to especially like Mike McCormick who at that moment was coming off the field after finishing his outfield exercises and running. Even before he was within earshot, they were calling to him. The men razed him about his picture in the Chronicle with one of the ‘society ladies’ and making the suggestion that he include a picture with one of the men. “Why would they want a picture of an old gaffer like you in the Chronicle when they can get a picture of a gorgeous lady?” one of the men said. “Well, she was just hanging around at the time,” Mike said. “Just hanging around, eh?” he laughed. “We talked some baseball, you know. She’s interested in the game,” he said to the gentleman in the big straw hat. A chorus of laughter and jokes followed. Mike rested his chin on his arm leaning on the rail by the dugout. The men huddled around the ballplayer listening and talking earnestly in low voices that I couldn’t hear. Infield practice was over and the rest of the players ran off the field into the dugout. McCormick had to join the rest of the team. The Giants were leaving after the game to finish their season in Los Angeles. “Well, it’s about over, eh?” said the man wearing a black Giants warm-up jacket.