Road Trip 2 Remember
- 1 year ago
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Road TripChapter 24 free porn video
Lest we forget ... besides the band, besides the Keene Dredge, besides the AT-11’s, besides the 1932 three window engine swap, besides, the 1948 Ford Pickup, I was still taking Instrument flying lessons.
Am I forgetting something?
The house ... the house ... the new house! I knew I was forgetting something.
I beg your pardon. I didn’t forget ... I didn’t do it!
“Why do I have to go to Denver Monday?” oops ... gotta quit doing that.
“You’re making a run to Denver?” asked George, the bass player.
“Why are you going to Denver?” asked Bobby.
“Pick me up some new sticks,” said Tommy.
“I bought a B-3,” I said. You guys are in so much trouble. I’m gonna sic Crystal on ya.
“Cool,” said Tommy.
“Did ya get the Leslie? Didya? Huh?” said George.
“Who is going to play it,” asked the ever practical Bobby.
“Yes, George, I got the Leslie. Road cases.”
“Can I try my bass through it?”
“Cases? as in more than one?” said Bobby. “Karen, where did you get the money?”
“Listen you guys ... a couple go months ago ... in the Chinook ... remember that?” I said.
“Uh huh,” in trio.
“My trailer got invaded, when it was all over I had a pair of pickups and 22 million dollars.”
“WHAT?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Did ya dump ‘em in the Acme Coal Fire?. Did ya? huh?” said George. “That’s where daddy dumps his deaders.” George slapped his hand over his mouth. Through his fingers he mumbled, “I din’t say nufink.”
George is a stellar bass player. He’s rock solid ... never misses. He might be a little unimaginative but he has the record parts perfectly. He might also be a trifle Autistic ... never ask him to put this part with that part, “It’s not that way on the record.”
“You don’t want to know,” I repeated. “Yes, George. You can try the bass on the Leslie.”
“How are you getting to Denver?” Bobby asked.
“I thought I’d fly,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Why not, what?” said Bobby.
“Sorry, Bobby. I’m going to drive.” No I wasn’t ... I was going to fly down US AIR.
WHY NOT?
WHY NOT!
The Drawing Saturday night came during the third set at the Mountain Inn in Dayton. I had to announce the winning numbers. No, really. The bartender brought the numbers written on a sheet of paper over to our little bandstand and told me to announce it.
After the song, I said, “The Lottery Numbers for the Saturday night Drawing are 19,27,16,10,67 with 15 as the Monsterball. All official announcements are pending.”
“Holy SHIT!” said one of the dancers, “I got four numbers and the Ball. That’s fifty thousand dollars. Run me a tab, barkeep ... a round on me!”
That was just about the end of our night.
The manager came over at midnight, “Bobby, you might as well go home. There’s not going to be a crowd.”
He was right, as soon as that round was finished, the winner hollered, “Silver Spur in Ranchester ... a round on me.”
The place cleared out.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked the manager.
“Nope. I’m going to get Five grand for selling the ticket. Most I’ll let him tab is a grand and he’s almost there.”
Four of us split the gate and the guarantee, Six hundred ... one fifty each.
“When can you come back, Bobby?” asked the manager.
“Three weeks,” he said.
“Sooner if anyone cancels, your sound is much improved.”
“It’s all on her,” said Bobby. “She’s the best lead and singer in the neighborhood.”{
“Don’t blush, Karen. He’s right.”
I blushed even more. I packed up my stuff in the Jeep, took the Dayton Cut-across. Unloaded the equipment and went to bed. “I gotta get the door fixed in the Avocado,” was my last waking thought.
Of the Sunday morning ... I was packing for my flight. I needed luggage if I wanted a hotel ... and I did. I walked out the door and headed for the Vega.
Wouldn’t start.
I switched to the jeep. It wouldn’t either.
Neither would the Dodge.
“Going to be like that?”
“Why?” I’d got used to speaking to them when I was alone. I probably shouldn’t because sometimes I’d forget and do it when someone could hear.
I fussed with breakfast, loved on the cats and then I called Hairy.
“I need a ride, Hairy.” I begged. “I have to be in Cheyenne by 10 in the am Monday and Denver as soon as I can get there after Cheyenne.”
“You know those voices that told you the lottery numbers?” I asked him.
“They’re talking to me now.” I explained
“You can have ‘em back for all of me,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me fly.”
“WHAT?” That almost stopped my heart.
“CRASHED?”
“NO SURVIVORS?” I was supposed to be on that plane.
“Just the skydivers?”
“It’s on the radio?”
“Come get me, I don’t want to drive.”
“Thank you ... and you’re right, I would have tried to stop it.”
I turned on the radio and dialed the local AM station. They confirmed the crash.
US AIR flight from Sheridan to Denver struck a skydive aircraft as they were unloading the sport ‘chutists. The pilot jumped after the collision. NTSB was on the way to investigate. UP DATES as available. Of course there was a lot more ... the pilot lived in Sheridan. Her mother was in shock ... the younger sister was in tears.
I figured I ought to get moving ... The fucking vehicles started ... first try. I switched my luggage to the Vega and off I went. As per normal ... when I went ... I really went. The new GM Wankel ran like built it to run. It’s still 13 miles of gravel to town.
The trip to Buffalo went as it usually did. Quick and interesting. Work on the new Interstate was progressing. Personally, I prefer the old ways.
I have a key to the tower. I’ve been meaning to give it back now that the aircraft are in Sheridan. I’m obstinate ... and still fucking with the manager. I parked in the hangar, locked up and walked to the tower.
I contacted Hairy down by Casper and told him Sheridan was closed. He picked me up at Buffalo International ... very funny Karen. I fueled the H-18 and off we we went. I have a key to the fuel tanks too.
Aspen
- 30.10.2022
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