Bus Of Fools

By Mark Lind-Hanson

In Bus Of Fools, Guru Abbryggdd, the co-creator of the OtherNet, attempts to regain his family's lost estate and place in the House of Lords. Joined by the pretender to the throne of England, the "terrorist" Bonny Black Prince, they join forces to recapture their respective places in history and society. Along the way Guru meets a number of American tourists, in Paris on a week-long bus tour, at the intersection of belief and incredulity.
They include: Andrew Dempster, Marin County bookseller and his poet wife Fern, out for international recognition; Inez McGillicuddy, elderly painter haunted by memories of an old friend; Hugh Baggs and his wife Ramona, quintessential "ugly American" swimming far out of his element; Tunny Bachlund, SoCal resident released from a painful job and out to see the world, and Dale Holloway, hedonistic yuppie with an appetite for kicks...
Bus Of Fools is the first solo (published) novel by Mark Lind-Hanson, and a sequel to Third Eye Patch. A separate sequel by co-author Kevin Donohue , DeathCo, is also available at Smashwords.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Lind-Hanson
• Release date: Aug 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301218479

Mark Lind-Hanson

Mark Lind-Hanson is a guitarist, songwriter, and composer, born in San Francisco, and lives somewhere in Silicon Valley.

Book preview

BUS OF FOOLS

by Mark Lind-Hanson

Bus Of Fools by Mark Lind-Hanson

Copyright 2013 Mark Lind-Hanson

This is the Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

All characters, places, organizations, applications, and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real places, organizations, applications, and events, is purely coincidental.

No trees died in the production of this book, only electrons.

All attempts to reach a copyright holder for the cover image have been unsuccessful. Appropriate correspondence is welcome in that regard.

For Mel

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER16

CHAPTER17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 1

Guru leaned out the cottage window and breathed deeply the chill Normandy air. It was now June, the schools were out, and kids were running down the country road outside, yelling and kicking cans. Seagulls and stormy petrels made long chains of divers which plunged into mackerel shoals and came up, bills full of silver flipping catch.

From the other side of town he heard the tolling of an early evening church bell- matins, the local brotherhood of vintner monks would be dedicating their gratitude of another day to the glory of God and the vine.

His hosts, Roget and Desiree, had been putting him up for the last three days. So far he had been on nine walks, in five directions, and a five mile radius, to the west, south, east and southwest and southeast. And he now had a good idea of how the town of Villers-Sur-Le-Mer was laid out, and where the basics were. He also had a bird’s eye view of his hosts and how they fit into their own community and how he, this expatriated, benighted, sophisticated Welshman could only manage the long stay which the campaign in question would necessarily need.

Roget was a kindly bloke, one he had met through a more colorful acquaintance, he’d made seven years back in Paris, a hustler by the name of Trixeme. Trixeme survived (as only a native Parisian would have known, and haggardly) by con scams, small dope deals, bookie bets on the Monaco Grand Prix and Le Tour De France, as well as if things were tragic- the occasional pinched and pawned tourist camera. He had hustled alone for so long that the lone wolf in him seemed determined to take by fang the ever-striving inner gentleman. But he now had a new girlfriend, the first in ten years, Claudine, and now Claudine was the sum of all his most concerted efforts. Keeping Claudine happy was his new mission- having a passion and a woman to live for made Trixeme a dangerous man.

Guru Abbryggdd had come over from the states hot on the heels of his extraordinary solar engineering and cyberspace developments, the Akhenaten solar array, Two-Headed Worm Blocker universal anti-virus monkeywrench, and the OtherNet with Boffin Syznic, as well as some very extraordinary developments related to a product by an American inventor, Mike Chen. These extraordinary developments had blown his cover, and he was anxious to regain it. They had also given him a liquid wealth totaling over a billion dollars. This he had wisely invested, and made substantial contributions to a number of worthy causes, and he was yet thrifty, and biding his time by not making any more moves than he needed. By taking time to live in Normandy and build up a base of local and Welsh contacts, who might develop into an effective political cadre of allies, Guru’s dream of regaining his family’s political legacy in the United Kingdom had come under the scrutiny of the Crown, as well as had other Crown Pretenders. Such as the Bonny Black Prince, a figure both shady and spectral.

The two stories however could not have been more different. Guru and the Abbryggdd clan had been deprived of their seat in the Peerage, House of Lords, after his great-grandfather had been censured by the Lords, for going native after a number of seasons spent in India. For becoming sympathetic toward the Indians, as well as (it had oft been rumored), having taken a mistress (or three) from among them as well, Lord Abbryggdd had been forced to step down. He returned to India, broken in heart and spirit, the family castle (Keep Abbyrggdd) had been claimed within two more generations by the National Trust, and he died in Pondicherry, a broken man.

The Bonny Black Prince, however— nobody really knew who he was. He might be one of three individuals (Scotland Yard had narrowed it down thus far) and he might be legitimately a relative of the Queen, at that, yet, his public persona was as stealthy as a man in a Guy Fawkes mask. Protesters in various cause marches would prominently display on picket signs his logo, an upthrust middle finger in a clenched fist surrounded by a black circle. He was sometimes rumored to be speaking and rousing rabble at Raves either in Chelsea or East End but every time Scotland Yard got close he would vanish. The games the press were playing with them now! Guru was but hardly a blip on the radar, until all that blew down over in the States. And now, here he was, feeling a little like Charles I must have felt, as he prepared to make his own cross-channel return.

And the kids scattered in five directions as Roget pulled in to the driveway of his fixer-upper neufchateau, stepped up to the threshold, wiping his boots on the thick mat and gathering his strength for another evening of drinking and darts with the Welshman.

Roget enjoyed having his guest, not to say so would have been not telling the truth. Conversely he was ever jealous of Desiree, having cost himself this house, a kidney stone, and a flounder even to be mated to her. The problem was that Desiree was affectionate- too? With the new guest, or at least, so Roget felt, she might lead him where neither of them ought to go.

Desiree had spent her own afternoon in the capacious attic of the cottage, sorting through more of the detritus of the prior owner, a number of such items they had uncovered had gained them a great deal of credit at the local antiquarian.

Roget entered the hallway and smiled at the dog, hugged Desiree (when he caught up with her, eventually) and tipped his hat to the Welshman. Guru responded with a lift of the teacup, sitting in the armchair, gazing at the ocean. A cypress leaned eastward on the rocky facing which was the protection of hope for the Mobiele family against the squalls of the Channel.

Roget, an architect and futurist urban planner, had come upon this cottage while in the process of what was both an opportunity and a means of keeping him out of the hair of the central office of his firm. Desiree had made it a point she had always wanted to live by the sea, her down-country background set so far from the sea, it had become a romantic icon in her mind by the age of thirty. Now that she was thirtyfive and into settling, Roget did the smart thing- he buckled.

Guru had barely made it out of the States on the tail of a giant scandal which had driven the former US President into an enigmatic and ignominious early retirement due to a closeted addiction to crystal methedrine, which had fueled paranoid fantasies, and launched a number of horrifying episodes of civil rights abuses and false flag war scenarios. Guru was only all too happy to turn his back on the USA, for his own life had been in jeopardy at the time, as well. With his future uncertain, but his financial security well established, he wanted now only to return to Wales with dignity. This was what had brought him to Normandy, as earlier princes and heirs to the British crown themselves had once means of recourse.

The Mobieles were an up and coming couple in the culture of the northern coast. Roget had left Paris, although not in heart, and Desiree was still enchanted in her satisfaction with the rurality of Villers-Sur-Le-Mer. Roget’s project- which was a major set of urban improvements to the nearby town of Trouville-Sur-le Mer, had had high ratings from the Gilde du Architects Nationale, and the thumbs up in full from his boss. And he had had few problems with organizing his contractors, who had begun ascertaining the blueprints, budgeting and calendaring the project, and soon, they would be ready to break ground. So in most things he was quite content. He was also very, very lucky to have Desiree, who kept him well fed and entertained. On rare occasions, they would entertain their friends Trixeme and Claudine, but the new house guest took priority.

Guru hoped he did not have to make a nuisance of himself for long, however, and considered, at times, rental of his own little cottage in the town. This was something also he’d be looking into. For now, it was expedient, and polite, to accept Roget’s hospitality.

Because the Bonny Black Prince was still an unknown factor in his ultimate goal (they had not yet met) and Trixeme was his connection, Guru swallowed his revulsion of Trixeme’s life and ate the bitter pill, and would continue, for as long as neccessary. But he preferred Roget -because Roget at least, earned his living honestly…

He was reading Persnickity Wicket, when Desiree entered from the upstairs bedrooms, her bare feet clammy and flat against the tile floor. Two in the afternoon, and time for her wake- up tea and tonic. This time of year always did this to her… if there was little to do out of doors, she preferred to stay in the shade and if preferable, doze off. She would go up into the attic on occasion, of course, now that she was familiar with its dust. The attic window which looked out to sea was small, but someone had set a viewing chair there, clearing away all the boxes of papers and assorted phenomenon new owners of an old house inherit.

Desiree had her hair up, braided and tied in something of a crown around her forehead and pinned in the back. All she needed were laurel leaves and she was an invoking Spring maid. Such fond memories Guru had, of the eistedfodds and all the little girls dressed in sylphlike gauzes. Beyond innocence, this was pure light essence itself. The transmission was loud and clear. Desiree’s skirt left nothing beneath to imagine, as there was nothing beneath. Where was Roget? He was in town working, maybe having another pass at his Marianne, and now Desiree’s eyes moved to meet the dark stranger’s.

He detected a hint of seduction in her voice as she carefully set out the tea service for two, pulled biscuits from the cupboard, and boiled water. She looked into his eyes.

They tell me that you are waiting for the time for you to get your turn. They say you are petitioning the Queen for your family’s Peerage. I say good luck, but god damn you, if you think politics will save you. The tone of her voice belied the hair raising in goosebumps on her arm, as she gripped his. I want to make you comfortable, here in Normandy. We have a lot, in just a little. Guru sometimes thought it would just drive him mad unless there were sunny days, day in and day out with nothing but the ocean to the left and the pull of Paris and urbanity to the right- coming, slowly year by year, up through the hedgerows and spreading out from the populous places. How did she do it?

How do you manage to stand the stifling boredom of a place like this? he asked.

I don’t imagine it to be much different from a place like Wales, actually. She laughed, lighting a cigarette. The tea was steaming and not yet turned to a boil. She watched him like a mongoose watches a cobra, and maybe that was reassuring to him.

Outside he heard the noise of a squeaky wheelbarrow and several voices arguing in French.

Oh don’t pay it any mind. Those are the neighbors, they’re moving a bunch of old bricks over to their place to put in a backyard patio. Once they saw what Roget did to this place, they all feel outclassed. So Mr. Tendine over there, and his forty thousand thieves (I mean, his helpers) are moving all the red bricks they can from the former sheep croft out in the meadows that-away.

This is not so far from Wales, so to speak, answered Guru. She poured the tea from a ceramic pot into the cups set on the table. The wind was coming up, but it was still clear outside. She pulled his arm again, and pressed her breast against it, rubbing a nipple gently against it. Soon he got shivers up his spine. What was this girl doing? She was a married woman, and happily, or so, everybody claims. What does she want from me? An afternoon quickie while he’s away, or just a little bit living on the edge out here…

Desiree pulled the edge of her long skirt up around her knee, sitting in a chair near the kitchen. Smiling, she said little, but Guru kept on thinking. I don’t know what to do, quite. Back in America there’s that Marsha, she’s been on me like white on toast since the Syznic affair- I’m not even sure I want to spend another hour with her, let alone a week, month, or even the rest of my life. I just got out of all that, and why do I want to be in anything else- whatever- other than what my plans are… life is rarely ever the way we plan it, but a cat can at least try to have a little control over where he’s headed. Still, a warm nipple on the elbow was bound to have struck a nerve she was after, and maybe she wasn’t wrong.

I would like to give you some advice about what you are doing from my perspective she said, (although the last word came out pair-spec-tif, in her heavy Burgundian accent).

I want you to know we are happy to house you here, but we do hope there will be no- what you call- disappointments, in terms of le police, no? Even if there is the slightest scandal, Roget’s boss Garconteaux will probably have his head. Roget has not been behaving around the office, shall we say.

Ah, thought Guru, that’s it. Husband plays around so she plays fair game. I see.

Well let me not be drawn into it all so quickly, if I might… Guru put on a little bit of a joke-smile and said nothing, while all the while, still looking out toward the grey seas of the Channel.

I know about Roget’s dealings with a few of these people these what you call Princelings, yes, like the people you were talking about at dinner the other night? Those English raver-rockers, and that Bonny Black Prince fellow.

Guru remained silent. He needed to know where Desiree was leading with this. One did not mention the Bonny Black Prince without some seepage of dread into the conversation. The Black Prince was a character on the London nightclub scene. Few had actually seen his face without his characteristic disguise-mask, that of Captain Hook from Walt Disney's Peter Pan, but he was a ubiquitous figure in the headlines recently. And that damn logo of his had been spray-painted on walls from Brixton to Brighton, from New York City to Redondo Beach. It could never have been suspected that there were more than one Bonny Black Prince, even if in reality there were three. Or who indeed, was actually responsible for his appearance- was he a creation of MI5 and Buckingham Palace, was he the real thing, or was he something else, a character no less, bound up in suspense, with a pair of imposters?— whom nobody could explain, either. Where all the support had come in for the OtherNet to begin with in the UK had been in large part because of efforts by and on behalf of the Bonny Black Prince. One reason Guru had always been suspected by the authorities. But it had never happened in reality, actually, not even just yet.

And that was one goal of Guru’s journey here to Normandy- to link up somehow with the Bonny Black Prince, join forces in their mutual quests, get beyond the Interpol watch and the Scotland Yard investigation and the sixty or so different countries who had put Guru on their own no safe conduct lists because of his involvement in creation of the audacious, anarchistic OtherNet. (Only the government of France had seen through the paranoia spread regarding Guru’s innovation by American propaganda- they had immediately signed his request for asylum, and he was enjoying Normandy now with official sanction and protection). Guru didn’t exactly want Scotland Yard hopping the pond after him just yet, either.

It was not Guru’s plan originally to do this. The BBP had been declared a terrorist and national nuisance by members of Parliament, after (first) holding up a top-seater coach at gunpoint and relieving a number of Yanks of their MP3 players. (This, he said, was toward the cause of live music in London nightclubs, and less of his own dj-dub rap style scat prose over humpty-dump putt-putt music).

Less techno, he cried, more shrill Marshall stacks! Next, he had laid pamphlets up and down the halls of a number of British banking houses, which read Invest in the New Investiture- Support BBP as the Rightful Prince of Wales!. This stunt did, however, capture the attention of Scotland Yard, who were now actively considering placing him under investigation for treason.

Such was the storm which Guru was running to, if he was running out of one big one behind him in the United States. Being Welsh afforded him a means of (blighted) existence between both the US and the UK as a non-threat, in so far as his H1B visa afforded him a status of personal value through his engineering and development skill. To have that as well as the political hot breath of the intelligence community worldwide upon his neck was a lot. That’s one reason he hoped that he could have this shelter, as it might have been with the Mobieles in Villers-Sur-Le-Mer.

Guru laughed and told Desiree, No need to worry. I have yet to meet up with this supposed Prince myself, although I have been perhaps working myself up to it. My time until then is going to be pretty quiet. Although we do expect a visit from a friend — one or two maybe- from the Table Foundation, at some point. It’s my hope that Syznic will, in fact, get in touch with me once he’s out of his coma…

Boffin Syznic, multi-billionaire tech-tycoon, lay someplace in the southwestern United States, in a semi-comatose state in which his inner self was as free as anyone else in the world- only there was no in and out and astral travel involved in Boffin’s plight. Incommunicado even to the other members of the Foundation, Boffin and Mimi Syznic were as far from the grid as they could have possibly hoped for… this fact itself was disheartening to Guru, who would prefer even a dead Syznic to a Syznic in limbo, at this state of the world. Oh well. We must do what we must do in this life.

Desiree did enjoy the strange, dark-haired Welshman sitting in their living room and who had been living there some weeks. He had arrived in early May, now it was early June. The Mobieles had been primarily renovating their house and yard on their weekends, and if Guru wanted to see the town, it was more likely he would see it by himself if the couple didn’t take him out, that is, leave their own pursuits and put themselves over the top for him. Desiree, it was noted, rarely came to the kitchen until mid-afternoon, her sleep of the centuries a daily event. In those hours however she read, she sewed, she noted all the things around the estate that need caring for, and she dutifully had a list each Saturday morning of things Roget must definitely have done by that Sunday night, if he expected to get sex early on Monday morning.

All the same, for Guru, the Mobieles were the perfect hosts. He didn’t mind walking into the town at all, and made it a habit to stop in at the local pub if he did. He just didn’t do it every day…

CHAPTER 2

Andrew and Fern Dempster showed up on time at the airport, tickets in hand. Andrew had been waiting for months now for the time off, and now that he had it, he was happy to get the show on the road. They were part of a package tour of Paris which would include sightseeing, plus, since it left from London on the same day it would arrive, afforded them no time in that large city- but Paris would more than make up for it.

As they checked in their luggage and began the long trek through the TSA line into the terminal, another couple- just as encumbered- struggled up behind. Hugh and Ramona Baggs were haggard and frazzled, more because of grief than because of financial worries. Hugh had won the ticket in a lottery, quite by chance, but the lottery came a week after the death of their young son Alvin, from a long-term brain lesion and hematoma. Hugh figured that if anything or anyone might distract them from their inconsolable despair, it well might be a trip to someplace he never expected to be able to go.

Mrs. Inez McGillicuddy, artist and reclusive widow, arrived in her turn and sped through all the obstacles easily- her sex and age were a guarantee she would receive little undue scrutiny. Dale Holloway, on the other hand, who showed up looking like a refugee from a bad Brad Pitt film, his hair a tousled frizz, his beard a six-day scrag, got pulled aside on his way through the magnetic beeper. The agents took his laptop and him into a back room and questioned him an extra sixteen minutes, with a brain scan for hostile intent upon him the entire time.

Tunny Bachlund was on his way to London via the air terminals of LAX, and would be meeting the tour at the London rendezvous. His part in a major lawsuit against his employer had won him small fame, and a little bit of cash from the parties who had been plaintiffs. His decision to fly to Paris was one of naiveté and innocence. He had heard many things about Paris. Few shocking enough to turn him away, and besides, he had always hoped he could see the Mona Lisa herself in person, and contemplate the reasons behind that pure and enigmatic smile.

At this point, none of the travelers had a clue that they were destined, each of them, to end up together on the same package tour. A week or more in Paris with an open ended return reservation prepaid. Paris on the tour, and after the tour, as much of France as one could stand it. It seemed it would be a turning point for each of them, as much as they had hoped for, and for as much as they might happen to stand.

The wait for the plane was uneventful. Andrew stuck his nose into a Sherman Alexi novel and kept it there the entire time until the boarding was called. Fern sat beside him, scribbling poetry into a brand new blank-book. Inez McGillicuddy took the time to work on a sketch for a new painting, one of a series she hoped to undertake when she arrived back in the states. Hugh Baggs sat, arms folded, sneering at the terminal denizens, while his better half Ramona filled in a crossword puzzle. Dale Holloway, seeping indignation like a broken oil filter, spent the time checking out the news on his laptop.

Down in Los Angeles, Tunny Bachlund picked up a copy of GQ at a news stand between check-in and the boarding gate, and romanticized about the female models he found inside. Paris! To think he was actually going there! The entire journey was a huge adventure- two years ago before, during all the hubbub with the case against his amusement park employers, who would have thought he would have ended up on the sunny side of fortune, and even ever been able to entertain such a notion?

As they boarded the plane in San Francisco, the Dempsters took a seat on the left side of the cabin, and Andrew stored their carryons in the space up above them. Hugh and Ramona Baggs did the same, on the opposite side. As the cabin filled up, Mrs. McGillicuddy found herself up against a window, with the heavily perspiring Dale Holloway next door as a seat mate.

Young man I hope you will remember next time you sit next to a lady that you remember to keep your arms to yourself! The gangly Dale had attempted to stow his luggage while seated, and in doing so, had inadvertently bumped the elderly woman with an elbow in the process. This is not beginning very well, was the thought on both their minds.

Andrew pored over notes on his Blackberry. There were a dozen things back at the office needing doing he was only too glad to be escaping from. Fern pulled up a pair of earphones from the seat pouch before her, crammed with twice-thumbed copies of the airline's charter magazine Flight Paths and disappeared into the channel offering 50's rock and roll. Across the aisle, Hugh managed to pull out a paper edition of the San Francisco Chronicle and began reading an article about homelessness. Ramona mainly kept her thoughts to herself, primarily grieving. It had only been three months since Alvin had died of his hematoma. If this was going to in any way distract her during the healing process, that was not off to a good start, either. Ramona felt an intense loneliness inside. Both of them together had poured so much of themselves into his cure, which never came. And if there was any way that mercy could have played a part in it, it could only be that Alvin was finally beyond pain, beyond mortal hopes. Sometimes she could see his laughing face in her mind, and it seemed he was trying to tell her Be happy, I'm free now. But those times were always followed by her own thoughts how horrible it was such an innocent, kind child like Alvin could be ripped from the world all too suddenly.

Hugh didn’t pay much mind to Ramona's thoughts. He was usually grumpy enough, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from offering some grumpy comment regarding the newspaper article. His feelings were that too damn many of these people came to San Francisco anyway, from wherever, because they were dysfunctional where they came from. They were just as dysfunctional there. And few of them had the problems of a hematoma such as his son had! Maybe if more of them had strokes, they could clean off the City's streets. But that was Hugh for you.

The jet took off and headed north toward Seattle and then the Pole. They might make it to London on the next morning, where for sure they would find themselves, disoriented, and looking for the man with the sign who'd hustle them all to the tour bus.

In the air two hundred miles to the south, Tunny Bachlund reclined in his seat watching Raiders of the Lost Ark on the plane's wide screen at the head of the cabin.

Every so often the pretty stewardess would roll through with her tray of drinks and packages of peanuts. His copy of GQ stayed rolled up in the pocket of his carryon bag.

Beside him, drowsing and seemingly dead to the world, sat a woman of indeterminate age- neither four years younger nor four years older than himself, wearing an I ♥ LA t-shirt and a pair of spandex workout pants. Tunny was looking forward to Paris. Paris! How nice this would be, to see part of the world he had only dreamed about, or worse, never comprehended one day he ever could see! The very kindness of the Chavez family, to give him that $4,000! Just for going into court and telling the truth about the stupid amusement park and the stupid accident! Fly Your Own Car! Indeed! Old Mr. Leighton Waldfetter, sitting in the courtroom behind his toothbrush Hitler-mustache, grinning and sneering at him as he testified... Tunny felt redemption. Old Mr. Leighton Waldfetter could go fuck himself! Well, thought Tunny, good things can come to those who wait. I really am pretty lucky, after all.

When the beverage cart made its way down the aisle on the plane carrying the drinks destined for the Dempsters, the Baggses, Mrs. McGillicuddy, and Dale Holloway, it passed by Dale and Inez first. She chose a ginger ale. Dale, being ever the hopeful intoxicant, asked for one of the vodka sour pre-mixed bottles. Before Inez even had her napkin set and her seat table down, Dale had guzzled his entire bottle— chugged it, even. Dale had his own grief to deal with. He had broken off a long-term relationship with a woman who had loved him, but expected him to grow up, and another with a woman who didn’t expect him to grow up, necessarily, but at least pay her some attention the way she paid it to him... Besides, being from Carolina, he had been a poor fit for San Francisco, or so he thought. Being a bank teller wasn't quite hip enough for the West Coast, and Dale had suffered the hugest loss of his life, when his prized guitar had been stolen, and he had been evicted- all within twenty four hours! His idea of flying on a tour to Paris was just as spur of the moment. What else could he do with his disposable money? The idea of settling down now was just silly— he was free of both women, he didn’t care to play banker any longer, and if life was short, he would answer a dare with a resounding I don't care! He was no Great Gatsby yet, although he lived as if it were so.

Andrew and Fern both asked for a beer. They both drank Sierra Nevada Pales. The Baggses made do with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a premixed margarita. Ramona was looking forward to the European way of thinking. Hugh could give a shit about all that. Hugh was going to let them know what a Real American was like! At every chance he could. Holding all that dough in his pocket, he felt like the king of the world.

The plane headed over the state of Washington into Canadian airspace. Hugh looked down on the landscape, thinking about all those sissy jerks who fled the country to beat the Vietnam draft. He'd survived all that, himself, not by enlisting, or getting drafted himself, but they had kept him out of all that by virtue of his heart murmur. There had never been a real episode, but since they detected it, it wasn't going to let him get out and rub out Commies. Maybe some of his bitterness had to do with that. Certainly there was a lot to do with Alvin, but Hugh had more or less grown into a curmudgeon by default. If not him, who? Someone else would reap his karma. So Ramona put up with him all those years, and they struggled to keep Alvin in happiness as well as a good education— damn, that kid was the brightest thing since Einstein! But it was all academic, now.

Andrew had