robot

I Made a Burrito and Forgot to Shave

My job as a pilot is made much easier by checklists and routines. I do the same thing – the same way – every time. Checklists are written in a way that is intended to flow logically as we set up the cockpit for each phase of flight. It’s the times when something upsets that flow that checklist items are missed. You’re midway through a taxi checklist, and a radio call breaks the cadence of the “challenge and response,” and it’s easier (and safer) to start over rather than stumble back into it. My life has become a series of checklists. I’m not sure if I was made for aviation or if a career in aviation has made me the way I am. When I’m on a trip, each day I do the same thing – the same way – every time. My evening ritual in the hotel has been modified slowly over the years to become the most efficient it can be. I check into my room and immediately strip the garnish bedspread off the bed and lay out […]

I got some lip from a ROBOT

I called to check on room availabilities at a few hotels in Towson for my parents’ visit next month. Google, of course, gave me a few pushpins just a few miles up the road, so I started calling. What’s amazing is that with each call to the front desks, I was redirected to a call center somewhere else to field my questions on room rates and availabilities. I’m a mile away asking a question to a lady who could be my neighbor, and soon I’m talking to someone on another part of the world who pronounces Baltimore wrong. On one call, I was connected to Lilly, who spoke remarkably crisply and quite lovely. She asked the standard questions, and when it was my turn to respond, my questions were standard as well. “I’m wondering if you have any rooms for the weekend of October 4th?” “That weekend. Let me check. I am checking. Yes, we have a standard suite available with one king bed and an attached living room for a rate of $116 a night, with cancellation up until

And it only cost a quarter

Jesuit high school. All-boys. Shirt and tie. A Beanie for freshmen, Catholic guilt baked into the curriculum. Everyone else had cars or rides or parents with flexible schedules. I had the city bus. The H.A.R.T. Line. Hillsborough Area Regional Transit. Big red heart logo, which, after a few sunburned summers, faded to a kind of medical-waste brown. The buses didn’t allow smoking anymore, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t smell the ghost of menthols past—or whatever mysterious stew had been simmering in the vinyl seats since 1983. Looking back, I’m convinced the whole thing was a character-building exercise from my parents. Some warped suburban rite of passage: “Let the boy take the bus. It’ll either toughen him up or teach him to get better grades.” That, or they just really loved the phrase “twenty-five cents a ride.” Enter: Diggs. Richard Diggs. Bus #7. We called him Dick Diggs because it felt right. He was a barrel-chested, don’t-make-me-turn-this-bus-around kind of guy. I met him on day one. Fresh shirt. Stiff tie. Armed with a quarter and a lot of misplaced confidence.

Scroll to Top