Chapter 15

Twice.

And again.

Long dresses keep the vapors under wraps ... so to speak. And I was nervous. So, I tootled again. Tainted methane gas permeated the immediate vicinity.

Okay ... so I was nervous ... I said that ... well, I was. Casco was ‘youngish’ and tall ... sorta Dr. Kildare ... but older ... and I had teen crush on him in the Sixties.

Instead of turning purple, Doctor Casco breathed deeply. He sighed.

“odeur d’une femme,” he said.

We were married in a week.

You know the old saw... ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure?’

Turned out, Doc was one kinky bastard. I wanted kids and that asshole?

... exactly.

Doesn’t matter how many times one drinks from that well ... Kids don’t come from there.

After a whirlwind honeymoon and “No Cigar,” I mentioned that very fact.

“I know,” he said. “Children are messy, expensive and ungrateful. I can drive a Ferrari or have two kids ... I bought a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO.”

“We can’t afford that,” I said.

“Sure we can,” he said, “Our prospective incomes qualified. It’s a very nice example.”

“You Sold our kids so you could buy a USED car?”

“Aw, honey. Don’t be that way. Just think how you’ll look riding in it.”

He was right. I looked great ... driving it ... Daddy got it for me in the divorce.

Dr. Casco got the Chevrolet.

I shall not bore you with the facts. Suffice it to say daddy is a very good attorney.

I did have to move. Divorcées are not welcome at the club. It is, after all, a MENS club and they tend to stick together. Sometimes I get the feeling Daddy is glad I’m gone.

Gone?

Yes, gone. Denver is cold, wet and miserable ... well ... maybe not wet. And miserable is my middle name. So ... it’s just cold.

I picked up and headed west. My personal caravan ... my shiny new Land Rover Defender pulling my slick new 28 foot Airstream followed by two Chevrolet Suburbans with my eight bodyguards and trailed by my Kenworth tractor and semi full of my priceless antiques rescued from my eviction by the club.

Henderson, Nevada looked promising but I wasn’t too sure about Lost Wages ... sorry ... Las Vegas. We kept heading. California told me I had to ditch my apples and Florida oranges if I wanted admission. U turn in the parking lot. and back to Lost Wages. There, someone suggested Carson City, Nevada.

Sure ... why not?

It was recommended that I cross over and head north through California.

I wasn’t having that ... I still had two apples and an orange.

US 95 meanders in the general direction of Carson ... until Alternate 95 took off sorta west and 95 headed north.

<Should-a gone to Fallon, girl.>

“Why? this looks like a perfectly good ROAD!” ROAD was my head meeting the ceiling ... and my seatbelt WAS too fastened!

<Don’t try it.>

“I can’t turn around?”

<Nope. Well ... you can ... they can’t.>

My entourage would be fine ... except the semi ... and I might need a tiny bit of help getting the Airstream backed and filled ... and backed ... and backed ... SHIT! I do just fine going ahead! So ... I did.

It was an exciting ride. Thank god for the cookstove on the trailer. I managed to get everyone fed. And the tire for the semi wasn’t as expensive as I thought. However, the tire truck from Vegas cost the earth for bringing it and changing the blowout.

From Vegas, you ask.

The tire dealer from Carson just laughed when I told him where I was.

Eventually ... I bought a house right on the lake near Stateline ... Nevada.

California? Nope ... ain’t going there.