Approaching retirement, Boomer's father had purchased an Airstream motor home with the notion that he and his wife might spend their golden years touring the United States. "We'll drive this sucker from sea to shining sea," he said "And not miss a one of your favourite TV shows, " added Mrs. Petway.
Alas,midway through his retirement party, at the apex of merriment, Mr. Petway collapsed and died. His widow sold their house and moved in with a sister, but not before signing the Airstream to Boomer.
"What the hell am I gonna do with an eight-ton silver egg? Boomer wondered.
His metaphor was apt. Except that it had a cockpit with a steering wheel, Airstream's motor home looked almost exactly like its famous trailer. Which is to say, it looked like the ovoid deposit of a metallic dragon-bird, the hard-boiled cackleberry the Statue of Liberty was about to peel for her breakfast. Silvery as starlight, bulbous as a porpoise nose, the Airstream was an elongated pea, a bean, a sausage skin inflated with mercury, a land blimp, a lemon (in shape, not performance), the football of the titans.
Each morning before he went to work, Boomer would stand in his driveway, hands on his hips, scrutinize the Airstream, and shake his head. Some days, if he wasn't late, hungover, or both, he would circle it, tracing its curves in the dust with his lame foot. One morning, a funny picture popped into his mind. From then on, every time he saw the motor home, he thought of that image.......there, ignoring work orders and the hoots of his assistants, he spent a month fabricating a pair of giant metal drumsticks and two stumpy metal wings, then welding them to the motor home body in appropriate positions.
"There," Boomer said. "If that ain't the spittin' image of a roast turkey, what is?"
"You've goddamned ruined a highly expensive piece of equipment," his buddies accused. They were embarassed for him.
Calmly now, he packed every thread of his wardrobe (six pairs of jeans, five Hawaiian shirts), his welding paraphernalia, and collection of spy novels into the forward storage bin. He loaded on a cargo of Pabst. And then he aimed the glimmering breast of the thing northwestward.
"If Ellen Cherry's not with me on this," he said, "I'll just motor on down to Mexico and tequila myself into a stand-up fossil."
The only thing that interested Ellen Cherry more than sex-in her five years in Seattle, she had drained the night drops from at least eight swains, none, she discovered to her dismay, half as satisfying as Boomer - was love. And art. Well, sex, love, and art intermingled when Boomer eased the remodeled Airstream into her apartment house parking lot.
Its honking drew her to the kintchenette...
"I made it for you?" Boomer yelled. "Made it for you, little sugar britches!"
"Wahoo!"
After combing her curls with the most convenient implement, which happened to be a tofu-encrusted chopstick, she raced downstairs. Oblivious to the shotgun drizzle, incandestcent with surprise and wonder, she circumambulated the outlandish turkeymobile. Hand in hand with its creator. Around and around they went, in a glow of amused admiration, until they had practically worn a path in the wet asphalt.Eventually, he swept her up in his arms and carried her into the belly of the beast. Her panties were off before she hit the bed.
He tricked me, Ellen Cherry was thinking now. With art and sex, he tricked me into love.
