Free AINTRIGHT: AN IDIOT WITH A GUN by DL Greenlee Page B

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?”
    “Aren't you the one that's always saying
'expect the unexpected?'” she asked making air quotes with her
fingers.
    “I was applying that to crack-heads,
criminals and convicts where the unexpected is normal; not to life
in a small town.”
    “Maybe life in this small town's not
normal,” she said.
    “You may be right,” he said putting the
motorhome in gear, “but all I care about is