Islands in the Prairie continued...
Pat walked up just in time and asked, "You saw 'CATS?' Were the tickets part of the prize?"
"No, I read the play and always wanted to see it, so when I got to London and saw it on a marquis sign, I just went and bought a ticket."
Well go figure. Guess you can't judge a theater patron by his chewing tabacco.
~THE LONG WALK BACK TO THE AIRFIELD....
Pat and I left The Cowboy Dancehall & Saloon without ever discussing the two imminent questions of the night: One — How would we get back to the airfield? Two — Where would we sleep?
I never worry about such details until necessary, and apparently Pat had the same lack of concern. Ground transportation and lodging are foremost on most air travelers' minds and they can't begin to explore a town until they have keys to their rental cars and have settled into their reserved hotel rooms. I was expecting Pat to bring up the subjects but he didn’t and I wasn't going to. I thought it was kind of funny, but pretty neat at the same time, that neither one of us felt the need to discuss our circumstances, what others would consider a predicament.
We knew the situation: It was two in the morning and we were in downtown Laramie, without transportation back to the airfield. We were both exhausted. Chances were slim that Laramie had taxi service, especially at two in the morning. The few patrons that were left in the bar looked too drunk to even think about catching a ride with any of them. And between the two of us we had about five bucks left on us, having locked our wallets in Pat’s Cessna, so that ruled out motel rooms.
Without a word about it, we began the five mile walk back to the airfield down the long pitch-black road west. To keep awake and to take our minds off our aching feet, we told each other ghost stories and Pat warned me not to step on the rattlesnakes that come up to sleep on the warm asphalt at night. That comment woke me right up and kept my feet moving.
In the far distance to the south, silent heat lightning from a thunderstorm flashed often, looking like bomb explosions on the horizon. We guessed that storm was at least a hundred, maybe two hundred miles away. During our long walk back, only one car passed us.
We made it back to the airfield at three-thirty in the morning. Now where would we sleep? Again, without a word about it, we walked over to the huge, 1950’s airport limo that was parked on the ramp. It had four, long vinyl bench seats. The driver's front window was open. Pat reached in and unlocked the back doors and we found our home for the night. Pat took the second bench seat. I took the fourth.
~