Richard Daybell – Novels, stories and short humor
Our pilot touched down in a daring display of aviating prowess, negotiating the scrub oak, prairie dogs and armadillos. We were in Texas, San Antonio to be exact. Without stopping to smell the roses of San Antone, we headed south through a landscape remarkably like a black-and-white rerun of the Lone Ranger. The yellow line down the middle of the road provided the only splash of color to our sepia surroundings. Barren, yes, but no snow. (They do have signs scattered along the highway saying Watch for Ice on Bridges – probably just to taunt northerners.) Forlorn Cowboy Radio offered up such suitable selections as Ghost Riders in the Sky, the Shifting Whispering Sands, and I’m So Lonesome I Could Shoot Myself in the Head with My Concealed Six-Gun, interrupted occasionally by news of Libyan revolution and runaway Wisconsin Democratic legislators. Actually, I believe Texas was the first state to have Democrats go into hiding, in this case to avoid Republican redistricting that put every single one of them into a tiny district just outside Waco. I guess it’s become a sign of the times: Democrats on the lam while Republicans try to legislate us back to the days of Alexander the Great. But I drift, like the sands around us. We eventually reached our destination where the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico lap up against the southern shores of Texas. Port Aransas is a sleepy little village on the Gulf Coast, where the beaches are patrolled not by Texas Rangers but by squadrons of pelicans flying in perfect formation. It’s a place for beachcombing and birding, sipping cocktails, dining on seafood, relaxing and reading books of scant literary value. It’s hard to imagine that the place will soon go viral as hordes of horny teenagers invade during Spring Break. But we’ll be gone, back to San Antonio to see hordes of Mexican soldiers assault the Alamo.