"The manor house was filled with dusty furniture, dusty fittings and dusty everything in between. To call it a manor was a stretch, it was large and lavish for certain but did not carry the size or stuffy air that a mansion would otherwise have. Max's room was the smallest in the house, the biggest he had set aside for his mother but at the dawn of her waning years, she preferred to sleep in one of the smaller parlors downstairs, where Max had a bed set for her. Despite having mostly stepped back from piloting, in his heart Max continued to hold a strong proclivity towards appearing as what he wanted to be; a pilot. He peered back at himself from the glazed surface of the mirror, all bags and bloodshot. Max had difficulties sleeping as of late, he pretended more so for himself that it was his mattress, but deep inside he knew it was his spirit guttering.
Max reached for the dresser top and grasped on to the the handle of a brush, carelessly smoothing his hair into a casual mess. He glanced down for a moment, breaking contact with the eyes of his mirror-bound doppelgänger. His hair fell over his eyes, much to his relief. Max had lost a significant amount of weight, a combination of stress, poor eating and far more smoking than usual having killed his appetite. 'A little longer and your ribs will show.' Max shoved that thought out of his head and stood up, reaching for a white shirt and pulling it on.
Stepping out into early morning sun, Max threw his leather jacket over his shoulder and began to make his way across the drive way. Heeled boots moved swiftly across cobbled stones as he approached the row shaped structure that was the garage; back when all his siblings lived in the family home, and when the family was more affluent, the garage was full of polished cars. Now all that was left were two, a posher sedan that his mother insisted on holding on to, and a Mercedes 1979 SL convertible. The car was cool to the touch, and Max ran his fingers over the hood as he approached the drive side door from the front. The reflection of the car fell on his blue-chrome aviators, and Max couldn't help but crack a smile.
From inside the car, moving at speed, the world fell away from the rear view mirror to a sound not unlike rushing water. If one payed attention to the sound long enough, they would surely crash their car. The freeway was desolate where Max raced ahead, gear shifting and engine thrumming, like the noises of some monstrous, metal beast. Sol was painted on a distant sky, the car seeming to make no progress towards it, but in the corner of Max's eye, a sickly light called out to him. The traffic control's many reflective windows made it look like a blazing torch.
Max cocked his jaw as he caught glimpse of Sol International Airport in his wing mirror. It was a distaste harbored in him by his father, it wasn't the money that angered him, it was the loss of pride. Looking away, Max throttled the gear up and the car raced forwards, he would have described it as flying a plane. But nothing really comes close to flying a plane.
The Airport bled away from the mirror as The car drifted through a bend, the wheels screeching for only an instant, a smile crossing Max's stern face. In the back back of the car, technical drawings rolled into tubes, shoved into tubes, rattled about; Max was heading for a meeting with a contractor he had been hired by to do some calculations for the foundations on a new office block, the maths was simple and he wondered if the companies he worked for just pitied him. The smile melted off his face, turning the music up on the radio, he headed into town with a sullen expression.
Pushing through the doors of The Old Starboard, Max stepped out of the afternoon sun and into the comforting dim of the bar and grill. He reached for his face and drew off his sunglasses, tucking them into the front pocket of his white shirt. His flight jacket suddenly began to make him uncomfortably warm, the leather and fur affair working a bit too well. Max began pulling it off as he crossed the room towards the counter, draping the bomber jacket over his shoulder.
The
Summerson & Suhl logo was embroidered in white thread on the back, and various patches and badges were sewed onto the shoulders and sleeves. Many were from flight school, others he had made personally for his own aesthetic.
Max pulled himself on to a stool and scanned the bar as the bartender drew near, there were a few people around, no one he really recognized at first glance. His eyes locked on a girl in a corner, flanked by two other men, he squinted, wondering if the familiarity he felt was real or not. It was not until the bartender had asked for a second time what he wanted that Max snapped out of it.
"Coffee, Irish."
