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The band was waiting at the Airport Terminal for our flight to the concert gig we were playing in Detroit that night. Sitting next to me was a guy who was shaking like a leaf. I hadn't flown for quite a while; the last flight I'd been on was so rough they served the food directly in the airsick bags. We'd been flying on a 767 wide-body jet, and I'd asked the flight attendant how often they crashed. "Only once," she'd told me.
"You nervous?" I asked the guy sitting on the bench next to me.
"Yeah," he said, quivering like jello. "I freak out at take-off. I freak out during flight. I really freak out at landing. I hate airplanes. I can't stand flying."
"So why do you fly, dude?" I asked, puzzled.
"I hafta," he said sadly, "I'm the pilot."
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