AINTRIGHT: AN IDIOT WITH A GUN

Copyright
©
2014 DL
Greenlee

Part
One
-
A Bullet For
The Brit

Part Two-Tooters &
Shooters

Part One: A Bullet For The Brit?

An angry woman with an English accent barked
another impatient demand, “In one mile turn left on Ranch Road
1437!” She didn’t say it but he knew what she was thinking, “If you
miss this turn I will set this motorhome on fire with you in
it!”

Three months earlier when they left on their
around the country adventure she had been polite, even flirty. He
loved the sound of her voice. Now her only emotion was anger and
all he wanted from her was silence. Her voice grated against his
ears, “In one half mile turn left you Moron. For once listen to
me.”

Clinching his jaw he stared out the
windshield at the dust blowing across the road in the sunlight, and
made his decision. A single speck of lead traveling faster than her
words would shut her up forever.

His left hand on the steering wheel, he
reached for the Ruger, .380 semi-automatic pistol, holstered inside
the waistband of his jeans. Wrapping his fingers around the rubber
grips he paused, inhaled slowly then puffed up his cheeks and spit
out a burst of warm air. “Think,” he told himself. “Think about
what you’re fixin' to do.”

Leaving the .380 in its holster he reached
out and muted the mad little British woman that was rampaging
inside the GPS. He knew if he looked over he would see her banging
against the glass with her fists and screeching out directions. He
grinned; all he heard was the hum of tires on pavement.

“Why’d you do that?” his wife asked, looking
up from her Kindle.

“It was either quiet her down or use my .380
to 'recalculate' that ornery little British gal that’s been yelling
at me since Boise. A company called American Coach should have a
little bitty American woman giving directions.”

“So, you’d be okay with an American woman
yelling at you and telling you where to go?”

“Well, after 33 years it would be somethin’
I’m used to. Crap here's the turn already.”

He stomped down the brake pedal, the tires
slightly skipping across the road's surface. The cloud of smoke
rising from the bottom of the motorhome carried the smell of burnt
rubber. Passing the wheel from right hand to left he turned the 42’
motor-home onto Texas 1437 from U.S. 180, promptly accelerating
down the two-lane road.

“Why don't you ever pay attention to where
you're going?” his wife said crossly, her seatbelt choking her from
being thrown forward and back.

“Umm, it's just because your gorgeousosity
is so distracting.”

“That's not even a word.” Pressing her back
against the seat she tugged on the shoulder strap in an effort to
loosen it.

“You're right babe it's a beauty to
indescribable for words...your beauty.” His foot still mashing the
gas pedal against the floorboard, he stole a peek at her then
looked back to the road.

“You are so full of it.
Finally,” she said when the strap released. “Now
s
top driving like you’re in a police car?
You’re retired you know.”

“We’re just about there, only 13 miles to
Aintright.”

“Slow down you’re making me carsick, and
what kind of name is Aintright?”

“Probably ‘cause all the folks in town just
ain’t right.”

“Why do you say such stupid things?” she
asked with a sigh.

“Probably ‘cause I ain’t right,” he said,
throwing both hands in the air.

“Could you please steer?” she asked, leaning
over to retrieve her Kindle from the floor.

Grabbing the wheel with one hand he turned
to look at his wife. His free hand flourished in a parody of a tour
guide describing an inviting locale.

“Actually the Aintrights were one of the
founding families of this remote, but quaint, west Texas village
that’s tucked away in a valley of hidden waters and nestling the
Guadalupe Mountains in north Hudspeth County. A fun fact about
Hudspeth county, it's approximately the same size as
Connecticut.”

“You need something to read besides travel
brochures,” she said searching the floor, trying to find her water
bottle that had been thrown from the cup holder.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Gravel being
flung against the underside of the RV warned him they were headed
for the bar ditch. The wheel jerked in his hand. Digging her
fingernails into the armrests of the leather captain’s chair she
sank down into the seat. Looking back at the road he lifted his
foot off the gas pedal and gently guided the vehicle onto the
pavement, then wasted no time in regaining speed.

“Idiot. It’s a miracle you haven’t killed
us,” she said relaxing her grip.

“You know what they say about God taking
care of idiots.”

“What worries me is they say nothing about
God taking care of those that have to ride with them.”

“Ha, very funny...mercy, speakin' a God,
look at those mountains.”

“Seriously? Why don’t you try looking at the
road, I’ll look at the mountains.”

It was as she had imagined. The orange light
of a late September sunset captured the peaks of the Guadalupe
Mountains in a fiery spotlight, while the salt flats of the
Chihuahuan Desert glowed white in their shadows.

“I can’t wait to see the fall colors of the
maple trees in the mountains,” she said.

“Yep, pretty unusual sight in Texas. But ya
know what ain’t unusual in Texas? Me bein’ hungry.”

“Is food all you think about?”

“No ma’am,” he said with a wink, “it’s not
all I think about.”

“You might as well just keep thinking about
food.”

“Food it is. Soon as we get the Command
Center set up at the Aintright RV Park, I’m breaking out that
leftover Mexican we got at the Little Diner in Cornutillo. I’m sure
he’ll be able to find work around here.”

“That is not funny,” she grumbled.

“Don't take everything so dadgum serious
babe.”

“I don’t take everything serious. But you
shouldn’t just blurt out whatever pops into your head, you might
really offend someone, or in your case a bunch of someones.”

“I'd hafta' completely stop talking. More’n
half the country is either a crybaby or just lookin' for somethin'
to be mad about.”

She leaned against the headrest and let her
eyes shut. “I agree with you...you should stop talking.”

“Don't get too comfortable, we're nearly
there.”

He reached behind his head and grabbed the
top of his seat with both hands, stretching and making his left
shoulder pop. Sighing, he grabbed the steering wheel and turned his
head from side to side. Cracking his neck he stared down the quiet
Texas road, flipped on the headlights and yawned. Ten minutes later
he was wide awake.

“Open those pretty blue eyes, we're here,”
he said.

“Yes we are,” she said,
opening her eyes and leaning forward. “
Here
on the road in the RV. See I
can joke.”

“Uh, Okay, but no. To quote our fellow
Texan, Bill Engvall, ‘here’s our sign.’ Aintright, Texas,
population 413.”

“I should never have given you that
DVD.”

“We can watch it again as soon as we find
the RV park.”

“Yay,” she said mockingly. “Give me the
address of the park; I’ll put it in the GPS.”

“No, no, no,” he said. “I’m not about to let
Her Majesty loose again. From here on out we get where we’re goin’
with good ol’ American know how….besides I didn’t get an
address.”

“Didn’t get an address?”

“Nope, but I did get directions. That's good
enough in a town this size.”

“What are the directions?”

“Look for the Aintright ISD and school
building”?

“That was it?”

“Pretty much. There'll be a marquee that
said-”

“Aintright School.”

“No, though yeah, prob'ly there is. It'll
read Cougar Country, Aintright ISD.”

“I meant the Aintright School is right in
front of us. You don't see that?” she said impatiently, then shook
her head. “It's a wonder you never got shot.”

“Too quick to kill baby.”

“Just slow down and look for the RV
Park.”

“Aintright RV Park right there,” he said,
stepping on the brakes. “Looks like the road runs next to the
school.”

He turned the motorhome onto a wide,
well-maintained gravel road that had been recently graded. The
gravel crunched under the wheels as he followed the road alongside
an adobe wall of the Aintright School, before curling around the
school's back parking lot.

At road's end a small wooden office with a
single door and a fresh coat of white paint. Its porch barely big
enough for the two chairs rocking in the wind, under a sloping roof
of green corrugated fiberglass.

“The park is at the back of the school?”

“Seems so,” he said, “but it looks closed.
Shoot it's not even eight o'clock yet.”

“It is Sunday evening in a small town. Stop
and I'll check the office.”

He brought the motorhome to a halt barely
twenty feet from the simple structure. Staying put he leaned his
right shoulder against the back of the driver’s seat. His wife
eased from her chair onto the steps leading out the door next to
her. A year back she started working out in preparation for this
trip and it showed in all the right places as she went out the
door.

“Don't bother getting up,”

“Hadn't planned on it. I'll just sit here
and admire the view, but do me a favor and walk slow,” he said out
the open door.”

“Shuddup,” she replied, without looking
back.

The two front windows were dark, a bulb
screwed into the fixture above the door casting its yellow light
across the porch. The boards of the porch creaked under her
feet.

Reaching the door she saw
the placard hanging on it,
GONE TO
WALMART
. “Seriously?” she thought,
"nearest Wal-Mart would be in El Paso, ninety miles away." The
posted hours and check-in instructions were painted in black
letters.

HOURS

OPEN: When We're Here.

CLOSED: When We're Not Here.

Hookups are that-a-way. 20$ a day whether
we're here or away. If you stay & don't pay it's best you learn
to pray. Drive Friendly Folks!

A red traffic arrow painted under the
posting pointed toward the RV hookups. Below that a metal slot in
the door with the words, “CASH ONLY,” painted in green.

She turned, hesitated on the top step of the
porch and glanced in the direction of the empty hookups then
started walking toward the idling motorhome. She gave a shout to
her husband who, as he promised, hadn't moved.

“They're closed but the sign says...”

“Long-haired freaky people need not apply,”
he sang off-key. “Sign, sign everywhere a sign.”

“What are you trying to sing?” she
asked.

“I ain’t tryin’, I’m doin’. It’s from the
song “Signs,” by the Five Man Electrical Band.”

“Whatever,” she said stepping up into the
RV. “That’s fine if you don’t want to know what the sign says.”

“Sign…”

“Do not sing that again unless you want die
in your sleep,” she said plopping into her seat.

He opened his mouth, the word “sign,” on the
tip of his tongue; she folded her arms, raised an eyebrow and
stared at him. Patting her shoulder he decided to ask again about
the office sign.

“Okay. What'd it say?”

“Go read it yourself.”

“I would, but I’d hafta’ climb over you to
get out. I wouldn’t mind, but you…”

“Fine. It said hookups are that way,” she
motioned toward the windshield with her hand. “Once again I'm
surprised you didn't see them, the first one's not forty feet
away.”

“Indeed they are,” he said looking out the
windshield. “But come on, who expects RV hookups to be at the edge
of a school parking lot?”