My Own Private Hangar
They had all the standard fare expected of a hangar party: open bar with a heavy preference for Scotch and Bordeaux, catering by a celebrity chef that used caviar in tacos and crostinis, a DJ spinning vinyl just loud enough to be noticed but not good enough for people to listen. The only thing that was missing was the big man himself.
When Charlotte arrived, that was the first thing she noticed. The boss wasn’t here. The reason she had all these donors paying mid-five figures for a ticket was because of her boss. The hangar party was nothing without her boss. Drastic measures needed to be taken. The guests were already arriving. Charlotte rubbed her palms against her pleated skirt, reached into her matching Gucci handbag, and dialed the executive assistant.
“Where the fuck is he, Vannessa?” Charlotte said. She had some scheduling issues with this EA before.
“The boss will be there soon,” she said in calm, measured, monosyllabic tones. “He told me to tell you to make room for his arrival.”
“When were you going to tell me this?” Charlotte said.
“I was just about to call you when—”
Charlotte hung up the phone. She knew exactly what was going on. She should have planned for a stunt like this. How did she not see it coming?
She moved across the hangar with tremendous purpose. Her high heels echoed around the space as if she were chiseling out the concrete ground. She spoke to the caterers, pointing to the side of the hangar and demanding them to move their entire setup. Then it was the DJ. He had to be completely moved. He protested and told her that would take an hour. There’d be no music while he completed the move. Charlotte winced. She let the DJ stay.
The bar couldn’t move. That was non-negotiable. Guests were already leaning on the bartop, getting sauced and looking for their next glass. Charlotte couldn’t get in the way of that.
When the caterers moved their tables, their platters, and enough Sterno and ice trays to create an HVAC system, she imagined the plane fitting in the middle of the hangar. That’s when she got the text: “Papa bird has landed.” There were 5 minutes to prep the guests.
Charlotte ran across the hangar with a 5-gallon bucket filled with headphones and earplugs. She went up to each guest and advised them to put these on for, what she called, a special surprise.
And five minutes later, with ears covered and plugged and drinks in hand, the guests were prepared. The private jet, a 10-seater but hardly ever flown at capacity, carved its way across the tarmac and began pulling into the hangar. As the nose crossed the threshold, all of the guests started clapping. Charlotte couldn’t help but clap, too. The face of her boss, plastered across the side of the jet, came into view. Charlotte shook her head. For a brief second, she wondered how long this would all last. But that passed, and she was back to clapping and fixing for a drink.
