Authors: Wayne; Page
“So, was it worth it?” Trip asked Bomber, whose head was buried in the engine of his glorious Stearman.
Each on his own stepladder, on opposite sides of the PT-17 parked in the hangar, they were fine-tuning an engine that had performed like a true champion. Bomber moved one step higher to make eye contact with Trip and responded with a simple, “Yup.”
Bomber tried a wink through a blackened eye that was partially covered by a gauze bandage circling his head. Looking like the losing rooster in a cockfight, he tightened a hex nut with a socket wrench. “Reminds me of that time I stole a kiss from Becky Thatcher. Back in 1943.”
“Really, Tom Sawyer?” Trip challenged. “Even I know that.”
“Were you there?”
They exchanged smirks as they continued checking the biplane engine.
Back to his hex nut, Bomber said, “Didn’t think so.”
☁ ☁ ☁
Her back to the lunch counter, Deb would have taken issue with the Becky Thatcher kiss. A large mixing bowl cradled under her elbow, each stroke of the large wooden spoon assaulted the pancake batter as though Bomber’s face were the target of each stroke. Buzz, Hooker, and Crash, seated a not-so-safe distance away on the lunch counter stools, should have known better than to opine on the previous day’s happenings.
Hooker, possessing the least modicum of judgment, started with, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Crash blathered, “Sallie Mae, 1947, Des Moines.”
“Yup,” Hooker agreed.
Buzz choked on his coffee at the feigned agreement on something so obviously irrelevant. Deb was within striking distance. Couldn’t these old fools see that she was looking for an excuse to pounce on someone? Anyone? Them?
It was Crash who crossed the line first, “So, Deb, was it worth it?”
Her whipping of the pancake batter stopped as she whipped around, ready to whip the closest old geezer she could find. Deb’s face revealed injuries matching those of Bomber. Her black eye was so black it was purple. Her other, non-purple eye was covered with a patch, masking the fact that it was in worse shape than the purple eye. She looked like a pirate too drunk to say
Argh
.
“Darn right it was worth it,” she screeched as she punctuated each word with a shake of her battered, wooden spoon. A huge blob of pancake batter arched skyward off the wagging spoon and splatted on the lunch counter in front of Crash. “Next time, I’ll tar and feather that old buzzard.”
Never knowing when to keep his mouth shut, Crash asked, “Aren’t buzzards already feathered?”
Elbows on the lunch counter, spoon ready to Roto-Root Crash’s sinuses, Deb warned, “Ya wanna piece of me, Crash?”
Buzz, hands raised in surrender, slid off his stool and retreated. The two ancient combatants did less sliding, and more stumbling, in their retreat. All had seen the wisdom of skedaddling while their legs were still attached.
“Cowards,” Deb accused. “Now git.”
Crash, the last one escaping to the safety of the hangar, stuck his head back in the cafe with, “Hey, Deb. Let us know when yer ready for another test flight.”
Deb whirled and threw her pancake javelin across the cafe. Crash ducked to safety just in time as the wooden spoon went splat, and stuck to the hangar door.
There would be no pancakes on the Sky Gypsy Café menu that day.
Hooker swiped his finger across the tip of Crash’s nose. “She got ya good.”
“A little pancake batter ain’t gonna hurt,” Crash grinned. “At least I don’t have a black eye like Bomber.”
From across the hangar, Buzz shouted, “Hey, come on. We’re on a deadline here.”
It took forever for them to agree, but the Liar Flyers selected names for each of the three biplanes. The first test biplane had been named
Willin’ Nellie,
after some floozy barmaid they all remembered fondly from St. Louis. Or was it Kansas City? No matter, after yesterday’s test flight with Deb, it was unanimously agreed that a change to
Screamin’ Deb
had been earned
.
Bomber was squinting his one good eye to apply the final red brush strokes finalizing the name change. The flaming, fire-engine red paint was a perfect match to Deb’s beet-red face as she attacked Bomber the day before.
Ole Red
and
38 Dee
wouldn’t get their christening paint nomenclature for another week. Hard to believe that the Liar Flyers were almost finished with the rehab of all three Stearman biplanes. When Trip had bailed from Buzz’s crashing jump plane three months ago, these biplanes were ready for the trash heap.
Covered with tarps and spider webs, home to raccoons and mice, tires as flat as pancakes, Buzz had been ready to sell them off. He still might sell them. Especially with the restorations, each plane was worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. That was a bridge yet to be crossed.
The entire Highland and Clinton County communities wanted in on the action. Buzz had to continually remind Deb that a lot of the paying traffic through her Sky Gypsy Café was due to the free entertainment provided by the constant blathering of the Liar Flyers. Fathers would bring their young sons by for a hot dog, when what the kids really wanted was to hang around airplanes and hear old stunt pilot stories. The fathers would roll their eyes and have to explain words that were inappropriate for young, tender ears.
Buzz was cautious and didn’t like people wandering aimlessly in his hangar. There’s a lot of dangerous stuff around airplanes. Walking into an invisible, spinning propeller could ruin anyone’s day. For the past month, he finally gave in and let the older kids, those ten or above, watch the biplane rehab process IF, a mighty BIG IF, they were accompanied by an adult. And they had to stay behind the ropes. He moved all three biplanes into a corner near the Sky Gypsy Café and set up a few folding chairs.
One thing led to another, until each Liar Flyer had adopted a couple of teenage interns. Were it the 1960’s or 70’s, these eighteen-year-old hotshots would have been at the drag strip, working on cars. Now they were elbow-to-elbow with eighty-year-old ex-stunt pilots. Every day Bomber was assisted by an eager young mechanic. Hooker led the structural work; struts, wires, fuselage. He made sure that the ailerons responded to pilot instructions from the cockpit. Crash knew linen and cotton; a good thing to know on an old biplane. It was a Google-proficient intern who clued Crash in on the new Ceconite 102 fabrics that would update the tattered linen and fabric wings. It took a full day for Crash’s eyes to uncross when the intern showed him the websites where they ordered the Butyrate Dope and paints. Part-time seamster, full-time painter, and always the instigator, the three planes glistened and shone because of Crash’s artistry. And the intern’s computer savvy.
Buzz continued to stress his most important motivator; his promise to give all of the Liar Flyers recertification flight training. Bomber had been grounded after his spontaneous spin around the airstrip with Deb, but Buzz promised to lift the suspension AFTER the last two biplanes were proven air worthy AND if the Liar Flyers behaved.
Upon hearing Buzz’s latest ploy, Deb was furious. She stomped into the hangar and challenged Buzz, “Have you lost your mind?”
“Mornin’, sweetheart.”
“Don’t mornin’ sweetheart me,” as she poked Buzz in the chest with her index finger. “Ya really gonna trust those has-beens with expensive biplanes?”
Buzz backed up an inch or two, done instinctively when someone gets in your face. “Settle down. Bomber actually handled that plane pretty well-”
A sentence that Deb didn’t let Buzz finish as she shouted, “--Pretty well? Pretty well? You weren’t within an inch of yer life. Men. Worthless. Frickin’ testosterone!”
“Promise of flyin’ again has them stoked,” Buzz said, convincing only himself. “Besides, most of their stories are true.”
“True?” Deb lost it. “Nothin’ but a bunch of blowhards.”
As Deb marched back to her cafe, she overheard Buzz say, “At least she hasn’t cut me off.”
“Heard that,” she huffed over her shoulder.
“Yet,” Buzz whimpered.
Trip needed a Gerty fix. It had been two weeks. Plus, he had news. While he wasn’t overly apprehensive about seeing Gerty again, his return to his airstrip home had happened rather abruptly. Granted, not as abruptly as his parachute arrival at Gerty’s. Buzz accepted Trip’s request for an escort. The thirty-minute drive to Gerty’s was mostly consumed by talk of the upcoming air show. This was the news Trip wanted to share with Gerty.
“This is it,” Trip said, as Buzz turned into Gerty’s gravel lane. As Buzz eyed the quaint Victorian farmhouse, white picket fence, and red barn, he quizzed, “You did all this?”
Embarrassed, Trip pointed to Gerty, busy hoeing in the garden, “There she is.”
Maggie straightened her apron as she bounded off the kitchen-side porch toward Buzz’s pickup.
Trip announced his presence with, “The cafe ran out of eggs.”
Buzz complimented Gerty as he remarked, “You’re right, Trip. This is a nice farm.”
“Not for long,” Gerty lamented. She wiped her brow as she leaned her hoe against the garden gate. “Do I get a hug, or you just going to stand there?”
The ice broken, Trip and Gerty embraced warmly.
Maggie had now waddled to an attack position near Buzz. Trip rescued Buzz as he offered Maggie a genuine hug as well.
Safely sequestered behind the hugging Trip, Buzz said, “You must be Maggie. And yes, I’m taken.”
“Do I smell pie?” Trip asked.
“Hope you don’t mind paper plates,” Gerty apologized as she led everyone to the intoxicating smells of her kitchen. “We’re in a bit of a mess.”
It took some searching through the scores of boxes to find what she needed, but the apple pie was up to Gerty’s blue-ribbon standards. After seconds, thirds for Trip, the foursome settled back to discuss Trip’s plan.
“You would do that for me?” Gerty gasped.
“Sure,” Trip smiled.
“Robinson had me doin’ a fly-over, scouting out your farm for some developer,” Buzz added. “We’ve got a little event scheduled in two weeks. Restored some old biplanes. Invited some guys from Illinois over for a one-day, fly-in air show”
Her interest piqued, Maggie asked, “Illinois guys, do they bring their wives?”
“Ignore her,” Gerty sighed.
“Trip’s idea,” Buzz continued. “Use an air show as a fundraiser. Save your farm. Stop by the airstrip, work on some promo stuff with Deb. I think you know the way.”
As Trip and Buzz rose to leave, Trip asked Gerty, “How is Dorothy?”
Puzzled, Buzz asked, “Who is Dorothy?”
The smell of frying bacon could generally mask, overwhelm any odor in the Sky Gypsy Café. Not so today. Even the grilling of a twenty-pound bag of onions destined for Deb’s secret recipe chili on the flattop paled by comparison. It was Crash’s doing. Every window, every door in the hangar was wide open. Except the door separating the hangar from the cafe. The repaired wind sock hung limply, no cross breeze to clear out the hangar.
It was the smell of fresh paint that caused the headaches. It also caused the last two Stearmans to glisten, sparkle, pop. Buzz strictly enforced his ‘NO SMOKING’ rule. One match married to the paint fumes might divorce the hangar from the airstrip. He had already crashed one airplane. He wasn’t about to see his three biplanes go up in flames.
The good news? Painting was the last step. The planes had all been fully restored. The champagne was on ice. There would be a celebration this afternoon. There would be more test flights. Without Deb’s participation. Buzz would be the test pilot as Bomber was still grounded. The Liar Flyer flight school would open the next day.
The main activity in the cafe was not the one-contestant chili cook-off. Gerty, Maggie, Dorothy and a collection of young Girl Scouts were busy making posters and stuffing envelopes. The Girl Scouts were giving the older ladies lessons in grassroots marketing via texting and Facebook. There wasn’t much time to publicize the upcoming air show. Word-of-mouth in small places like Highland and Clinton Counties would be the main communication vehicle. News of Deb’s test flight with Bomber had increased traffic through the cafe three-fold. Rural gossip spread the word like wildfire. Within twenty-four hours, posters were nailed to telephone poles at every intersection; flyers littered windshield wipers in town, and the word was out.
A first ever air show was coming to the Clinton County Airstrip.
☁ ☁ ☁
Carnies Rufus and Gomer were on time for their appointment. Not as if they had a busy schedule. One o’clock, Tuesday. Waffle House parking lot, east side of town. Still wearing their Goodwill wardrobe first modeled at the Highland County Fair shooting range, they waited patiently in Rufus’s dilapidated Cadillac convertible. Faded red with gray/black primer accents at rusted wheel wells, the carnies were proud of their hot ride. The top was down, because the fabric was so torn and tattered, it didn’t matter. Up or down, the wind on their greasy, unwashed hair was the same.
Robinson was also on time. As he opened the door to exit the Waffle House, he frowned at the air show poster taped to the door. He wanted to rip it off, but he kept his cool. He walked by the Cadillac carnie miscreants and dropped a large envelope on the seat between them. He assumed they could read. A half-right assumption. No words were spoken. Task assigned, Robinson drove off in his Mercedes.
Rufus and Gomer each reached for the brown envelope at the same time. A brief tug-of-war ensued. Good thing Rufus won, as he was the one who could read. The contents were simple, easy to understand. Even for Gomer. Gomer didn’t need to know how to read to grab one of the hundred-dollar bills that fell out of the envelope. It wasn’t every day that he had a Ben Franklin in his wallet.
Rufus held an air show flyer in his hands. Initially perplexed, he flipped the flyer over. A few instructions written on the back were direct and to the point. Thousands of dollars, many more Ben Franklins were ripe for the picking.
Smoke and gravel spewed from the back of the rusty Cadillac as the carnies drove off to plan their assigned escapade.