Wilson stepped out of the autogyro and down the steps and onto the landing field.I had never realized just how pear shaped he had sounded over the telephone until his full-on Anjou form bumped itself across the turf towards me. Even though I was one of a crowd about two dozen people waiting to meet those disembarking he bobbled right on up to me.
Was I that obvious?
He didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. I, as I had feared, was at a loss.
“Boise,” he declared, gazing around him. “Boise, Idaho. What will they think of next?” He strode on without beckoning and I shuttled quickly to keep up. As I did, I took a quick glance down at my crotch. No, my fly wasn’t down.
Wilson continued to look around himself in amazement. His bright, animated eyes cataloging everything around him from the grey sky to the brown grass to the urine soaked bum to the pornographic litter that floated in the blue breeze.
“I could spend a month here just stockpiling the smells,” he said.
“Oh, we’ve got some stinks here, yuh huh,” I said. And checked my fly again. It was down. Clancy stopped and spun to face me. His stare was pure. And right into my eyes. Like lasers from the future.
“Your letter,” he said, “was compelling. If a little verbose. But I look forward to jamming the jack with you on this and pumping out out some of that sweet, sweet monetary nectar.”
“Thank you,” I managed.
“No worries. Your fly is down.”
Without pausing he reached down and zipped it up. He spun back and strode on.
I stood there. Frozen. My mind agape.
“C’mon, buckarino, those jams ain’t gonna jack themselves.”
I stumbled after him. Perhaps just like the little Chinese woman had said, things were gonna be alright.