Nothing by Chance

The sun was down, the crowd slowly disappeared into the dark and at last we were left alone with Al.

“You guys are the best thing that happened to this airport,” he said quietly, looking toward his airplane in its hangar. He didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard in the Wisconsin evening. “Lots of people think about us flying our Cessnas, they’re not sure we’re safe. Then they come out here and see you throw those airplanes around like crazymen and jump off the wings and all of a sudden they think we’re really safe.!”

“We’re glad we can help you out,” Paul said dryly.

The tree-frogs set in to chirping.

“If you want, you guys can stay in the office here. Give you a key. Not the best, maybe, but it beats sleepin’ out in the rain, if it rains.”

We agreed, and dragged our mountain of belongings in to carpet the office floor in a jagged layer of parachutes, boots, bedrolls, survival kits, ropes, and toolbags.

“Still don’t see how we get all this stuff into the airplanes,” Paul said, as he set down the last of his camera boxes.

“If you guys want a ride in town,” Al said, “I’m goin’ in; be glad to take you.”

We accepted the offer at once, and when the airplanes were covered and tied, we leaped into the back of the Sinclair pickup truck. On the way, wind beating down over us, we divided up our income for the day. Two passengers at $3 each.

“It’s kind of good,” Stu said, “that all the airplanes from Prairie didn’t stay. By the time you cut six dollars ten ways, there wouldn’t be much left.”

“They could have flown those other passengers, though,” I said.

“I’m not worried,” Paul offered. “I have a feeling that we’re going to do pretty well, just by ourselves. And we made enough money for dinner tonight… that’s all that matters.”

The truck rolled to a stop at the Sinclair station, and Al pointed down the block to the A & W root-beer stand. “They’re the last ones open and I think they close at ten. See you tomorrow out at the airport, OK?”

Al disappeared into his dark service station and we walked to the root-beer stand. I wished for once that I could turn off the barnstormer image, for we were watched as closely as slow-motion tennis balls by the drive-in customers of the Rio A&W.

“You’re the fellows with the airplanes, aren’t you?” The waitress who set our wooden picnic table was awed, and I wanted to tell her to forget it, to settle down and pretend that we were just customers. I ordered a bunch of hot dogs and root beer, following the lead of Paul and Stu.

“It’s going to work,” Paul said. “We could have carried twenty passengers tonight, if you weren’t so afraid of working on your airplane for a few minutes. We could have done well. And we just got here! Five hours ago we didn’t even know there was such a place as Rio, Wisconsin! We’re going to make a fortune.”

“Maybe so, Paul.” As Leader for the day, I wasn’t so sure.

Half an hour later we walked into the office and snapped on the light, blinding ourselves, destroying the night.

There were two couches in the office, which Paul and I claimed at once for our beds, pulling rank as the senior members of The Great American. We gave Stu the pillows from the couches.

“How many passengers are we going to carry tomorrow?” Stu asked, undisturbed by his low status. “Shall we have a little bet?”

Paul figured we would carry 86. Stu guessed 101. I laughed them both to scorn and said that the proper number was 54. We were all wrong, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

We snapped out the lights and went to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

I WOKE UP HUMMING Rio Rita again; I couldn’t get it out of my head.

“What’s the song?” Stu asked.

“C’mon. You don’t know Rio Rita?” I said.

“No. Never heard it.”

“Ah … Paul? You ever stop to think that Stu, young Stu, probably doesn’t know any songs from the war? What were you … born about … nineteen forty-seven! Good grief! Can you imagine anybody born in NINETEEN FORTY-SEVEN?”

“We’re three caballeros …” Paul sang tentatively, looking at Stu.

“… three gay caballeros …” I went on for him.