Aintright: An Idiot With A Gun Page 2

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 gettin' settled in for the night.”

  “Just so you know, I'm always right,” she said, shaking her finger in jest, “the problem is you never listen.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Are you sure you're not related to that contrary little British woman that lives in our dash?”

  “Watch where you're going! You're about to hit the hook-up thing.”

  “Oops, that was close,” he said turning the wheel and coming to a stop in the RV slot.

  “Idiot.”

  Part Two: Tooters & Shooters