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“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” Martin groaned, as he watched hazmat-suited men drape GERTI in plastic sheeting. “This would never happen at a real airline.”
“I’m really sorry Skip,” Arthur said. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.” Martin glared at him, too angry to bother replying.
“Arthur, at any point between me telling you to under no circumstances to open the sealed cooler of experimental biotoxin and you deciding you ‘just needed to make sure it was alright’ did you think that maybe you should not have done that?” Douglas asked.
“I thought it would be fine, you know, like there would be some kind of second protective layer or something!” Arthur explained.
“Well, there wasn’t, was there?” Martin snapped. “So now we all have to go to the decontamination showers while they hose off GERTI. Oh, and hopefully we won’t die from whatever you probably released!”
“Oh don’t worry, it’s nothing harmful to people,” said one of the hazmat workers. “We just can’t have you spreading it around. It’s going to take a bit to get your aeroplane all cleaned up, but you chaps really should get to the showers. We set them up over there for you,” he said, pointing to a tent that had appeared on the airfield.
Martin fumed silently; the last thing he had wanted to do today was share a portable shower with Douglas, Arthur, and several hazmat workers.
Martin, Douglas, and Arthur walked over to the shower tent, where two more members of the hazmat team met them.
“In you go,” said one of the workers, holding open the tent flaps. Martin walked in and saw that the tent was split into three rooms divided by plastic sheeting.
“Clothes off and into the plastic bags,” the man instructed, handing bags to each of them. Martin flushed as he thought about the three of them showering naked together.
“Talk about getting to know your co-workers,” Douglas quipped, unbuttoning his jacket.
“Oh, this is great, like when I played rugby at school!” Arthur said. He would find sharing an extremely awkward outdoor shower with his co-workers brilliant.
Douglas and Arthur were already down to their underwear, and Martin was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
“Oh, is our Captain shy?” asked Douglas, smirking at Martin.
“It’s cold!” Martin protested, already feeling the mid-October chill without his jacket.
“Don’t worry Martin, no one’s judging you here. What’s a little emergency decontamination between friends?” Douglas said. Martin huffed out a breath and turned his back to Arthur and Douglas while he removed the rest of his clothes and shoved them into his bag.
A choked-back snort of laughter made Martin turn his head, to find Douglas and Arthur staring at him, Douglas with a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Oh, what now?” Martin asked, really not in the mood to be teased. “Go on, make fun of me. I’m skinny and I have freckles and yes, I blister in indirect sunlight. Does that about cover it?”
“Just about,” replied Douglas. Arthur remained suspiciously quiet, but he hadn’t stopped staring at Martin.
“Oh Skip, you’ve...It’s just...” Arthur started and trailed off, clearly trying to think of what to say. Douglas decided to help him out.
“I believe what Arthur is trying to say is that of all the things we thought about you, Martin, we would never in a million years have been able to guess that you have a tattoo on your arse.”
Martin felt the blush creeping up his chest and neck. He bit his lip, trying to think of something to say to change the subject.
“We’re not discussing this,” he finally said, and was saved from further explanation by two of the hazmat team entering the tent, each holding a broom.
“Into the showers, lads,” one of them said, and Martin, Douglas, and Arthur walked into the second room, where they were given sterile-smelling soap.
“Scrub up now, we’ll try to go easy with the brooms,” the other man explained.
“B-brooms?” Martin asked.
“Standard procedure; we have to scrub you down. It’s a little awkward but you get used to it.” The man shrugged.
Martin stepped under the lukewarm shower and endured the indignity of being scrubbed down by a strange man with a broom. Arthur giggled every time the workers scrubbed a ticklish spot, which was apparently every square inch of his skin. Douglas looked hardly bothered.
“So, Captain, since we’re going to be here a while and we’ve already reached peak levels of awkwardness at the office , would you like to tell us why you have a Spitfire tattooed on your bum?” Douglas drawled as the man with the broom scrubbed his back and shoulders.
“No,” Martin replied flatly, and then jumped as the hazmat man scrubbed over said tattoo.
“Oh but Skip, it’s really brilliant and you should tell us about it,” Arthur said, grinning and obviously trying to get another peek at it.
“Really, Martin, we’re standing here completely nude in a decontamination shower on the airfield being scrubbed by strange men with brooms. I think we’re rather past the point of unnecessary modesty,” Douglas said.
Martin sighed and glanced down at his backside, where the dark, clean of lines of his tattoo wrapped around his hip and over his left buttock.
“Fine,” he said, tuning so the hazmat worker could scrub his front. His back was to Arthur and Douglas, no doubt giving them an excellent view of his tattoo.
“After I passed my CPL, I went out with some mates to celebrate and they got me the most drunk I have ever been in my life. We started doing tequila slammers and I don’t remember anything after we left the pub,” Martin said, biting his lip. He’d never told anyone this story. It hardly seemed professional to do so now, but none of his training as a professional pilot had ever addressed what’s appropriate to discuss with your first officer and cabin crew while naked in a decontamination shower.
“I woke up the next morning in my bed, completely naked. I felt horrible and while I was in the loo deeply regretting drinking so much, I realized that my...backside... was really sore. I looked in the mirror and saw that I had a bandage on it. I thought maybe I’d fallen or something on the way home, but like I said, I didn’t remember anything. I took off the bandage and saw that apparently, in my blacked-out state, I had made the very responsible decision to get a Spitfire Mark I tattooed on my arse,” Martin finished.
Douglas was laughing now, and Martin felt himself blushing again. He was glad Douglas and Arthur couldn’t see how red his face probably was.
“Like you’ve never made a bad decision!” he said.
“Oh, many, but none quite so permanent,” Douglas replied. “After all, you can’t leave a tattoo the next morning.”
“I think it’s brilliant, Skip,” Arthur said. “It’s too bad you can’t show it off, it’s a really good tattoo.” Arthur hadn’t stopped staring at Martin during the whole conversation, and Martin wondered if he even realized he was doing it.
“Yes, the single redeeming part of this story is that at least the person who gave it to me knew what she was doing,” Martin said.
“Rinse off, lads,” the hazmat man interrupted. “Then you’re all done. There’s robes for you on the other side; unfortunately we’re going to have to destroy your clothing,” he added.
“But my uniform...” Martin protested.
“Look at it this way, Martin. Carolyn will have to provide us with new ones now,” Douglas said. “Maybe you’ll get one that fits you properly.”
“Oh god, she’s going to take my head off,” Martin said. Carolyn’s reaction to all this hadn’t even crossed his mind until now, and he wasn’t looking forward to telling her why her aeroplane, pilots, and son had to be completely decontaminated. Martin already felt a headache coming.
“Probably,” Douglas agreed. “It’ll be a good story, though, especially the part about that tattoo on the Captain’s bum.”
“Oh god no. You can’t tell her,” Martin begged.
“Tell you what,” Douglas said, and Martin knew this was somehow going to work out to Douglas’ advantage. “You do my walk-arounds for the rest of the month, and take the flight to Glasgow on Friday, and I won’t say a word to Carolyn. Deal?”
“I’d hardly call blackmail a deal, but fine,” Martin agreed. They exited the tent and Martin shivered in the breeze. Carolyn was walking towards them, and Martin felt his heart sink. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get worse, it was about to.
“Oh, that’s Mum,” said Arthur. “She’s not going to be very happy.”
Martin sighed. “I’ll go talk to her. May as well get it over with.” He tugged his robe around him more securely and walked toward Carolyn, leaving Arthur and Douglas behind.
“Let me know when you’d like me to come rescue you from the full force of Carolyn’s displeasure,” Douglas called after him.
“You know,” Arthur said to Douglas, making sure Martin was out of earshot, “Skip’s got a pretty great bum for such a skinny chap. I think I’d rather fancy a go in that Spitfire.”
Douglas raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t disagree. Under the ill-fitting uniform and veneer of stuffy professionalism he used to mask his insecurities, Martin was surprisingly good-looking.
“Yes, it’s too bad it’s a Mark I and not a trainer,” he said.
“Why’s that?” Arthur asked.
“Because a trainer has two seats, and I’d rather like to join you.”