When I walked in, the receptionist – a twenty something broad with an IQ the size of her bust – smiled at me and asked for my name.
“Will Flynn. I was wondering if I could rent one of those planes over there,” I nodded to the window and the plane that was parked in hangar C, “and of course a pilot. Hoping a gentleman named Ned might be around today to take me up.”
The receptionist with the low IQ smiled as her fingers fluttered away on the keyboard. Her gum popped and snapped as she scrunched her face at the computer screen in concentration. “Well, I got some good news and some bad,” she said, mutilating news into noose. Something I wished I had at that point in time.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Ned’s here, but busy.”
“Fine, I’ll wait.” I said, taking a seat twenty feet away, underneath a painting of palm trees on some distant beach, far from southern Iowa. I day dreamed about sitting on that beach, sand between my toes, enveloped in the shade of the palm trees, swinging back and forth between a pair of ‘em, in a hammock. Outside storm clouds were brewing.