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difficult for him to ignore the disrespect heaped on his dream of becoming a pilot.
    Trip tried to shake off the source of his fear of heights. Reflecting back to grade school, he was eight years old. Recess was supposed to be playtime. Fun . He was stranded atop the jungle gym. He closed his eyes so hard, it made his scalp hurt. His classmates could see he was visibly shaken. The taunting escalated. Never ended. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. Rhythmic. Haunting. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. And he did. In slow motion. Arms flailing.
    Even when he relives it, it was always in slow motion. Like now. Trip looked down–soda straws scattered–as he tumbled behind the counter. Arms flailing. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. The Liar Flyers leaned over the counter. Trip was sprawled on the floor, covered with soda straws.
    The chuckles and guffaws were accentuated by Bomber’s observation, “And you wanna be a pilot?”
    Ouch. Brutus didn’t slice a cut any more unkind.
    “Shove it, Bomber,” as Deb came to Trip’s rescue. “Ya okay, Trip?”
    “Yeah,” Trip muttered unconvincingly.
    Deb helped Trip up and gathered some soda straws. Trip grabbed a sack of flour. Deb reached to assist and loaded Trip with another sack of flour. As Trip exited through the back hallway toward the stockroom, Crash looked at his watch and started the finger count again.
    As Crash signaled the count of eight, the sound of the collapsing shelving and falling supplies echoed from the stockroom. Crash and Hooker each pulled out a dollar bill and slid them down the counter to Bomber.

Chapter Two
    Deb knew the stockroom would be a mess, but she wasn’t prepared for what she found. Shelves were toppled. The floor was covered with everything that should have been neatly stacked on the walls. Strangest find, or non-find, was Trip. He was nowhere to be found. As she waded into the destruction, it was near impossible to place a foot solidly on the floor. She called out his name–once, twice–no response.
    Then, from the far corner of the stockroom came a rustling sound. Trip was buried under a mountain of chicken noodle soup cans, tomato sauce, pasta, and worst of all, the flour that he had tried to stack on the top shelf. Deb had to control her laughter. A white cloud sifted over everything–a real whiteout. The only way to find Trip was to wait for him to blink his eyes. He was covered from head-to-toe.
    Trip rose to his feet and started to dust himself off. This made it difficult to breathe. The stockroom looked like a mysterious fog had rolled in from a Hollywood B horror movie. Trip was about to make his most serious error of the day when Deb stopped him from exiting the stockroom.
    “You can’t let these old Liar Flyers see you like this,” she chided. “You will never live this one down.”
    Trip knew she was right. He slumped his shoulders and said, “I look like the Michelin Man ran over the Pillsbury Doughboy. Now what?”
    Dusting flour off herself, Deb tried to make light of the situation, hoping to ease some pressure from Trip. “Hey, everyone likes you. We all tease each other ‘round here. Stay. After a few minutes, go change yer clothes. Got it?”
    “Yeah, sure,” came Trip’s feeble response.
    “And get out there and fix the sticky door on the jump plane before Buzz chops yer head off. How ya ever gonna be a pilot if ya can’t handle the simple stuff?”
    Pausing long enough to gather her composure and swallow the laugh that would give her away, Deb returned to the lunch counter as though nothing had happened. She unpacked an apple pie and walked to the table furthest away from the counter. She cut the pie and yelled, “Make yourselves useful. I’m tryin’ out a new baker. Is this apple pie any good?”
    The ensuing stampede erased any further interest in Trip’s whiteout situation.
    Crash was the first to exclaim, “Hope the apples are Granny Smith.”
    Hooker chimed in