Read Online Nothing but Blue Skies by Thomas McGuane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thomas McGuane
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silhouetted at the crown against the stars and foothills.
He walked into the dining room of the Holiday Inn and waited for a seat. There was one gentleman reading
USA Today
, a Northwest Airlines crew of pilots and stewardesses, and June Cooper. Frank hoped the waitress would take him to an empty table before June spotted him, but no such luck. She seemed to realize that that might have been his hope and flagged him to her table grimly. Frank went over and sat down.
“Join me,” she rasped. “You don’t have that many friends, at least not at this hour.” June was a striking forty-year-old with almost black hair and blue eyes, an amazing combination. She had blown in from Oklahoma twenty years before as a veterinarian’s assistant, gone through three marriages to three previously married men and ended up with a successful Buick agency of her own, a gleaming single-story showroom and office that scattered its inventory of sparkling Buicks across one of the most valuable commercial lots in town. Her last husband hadn’t made much of it, and it seemed, after a decade and a half as a barracuda, June’s real gift was in running a business. She once told Frank, “The way I was raised, the only business open to women was marriage. I opened a chain. Right?”
“If you don’t want to sit with me,” she drawled, “don’t have breakfast at the Holiday Inn. I eat here every day.”
“Got you.” He liked June very much but she was so shrewd that he feared her seeing how dilapidated his spirit had become since Gracie left.
The waitress arrived and filled Frank’s coffee cup.
“He’ll have bacon and eggs and hash browns,” June said. “Eggs over lightly.”
He nodded. “I ought to eat a bowl of cereal.”
“You can have cereal at home. This is where we turn our backs on the things we do at home.”
Frank looked around the room, gathered in the footloose merrimentof the Northwest crew, the bleak movements of the waitress, noted the silver cast of the windows as sunrise commenced. He lifted his coffee cup.
“How’s your love life, June?”
“I’m sublimating. And you?”
Frank thought, actually thought, about his current situation. He could hardly tell her that after learning he had peered at her from an apple tree, Lucy had virtually shipped him to the Arctic Circle. Nevertheless, he told her the truth: “My love life is nonexistent too.”
“I don’t love anyone,” said June, pulling the little square of foil off the marmalade container. “Life is a highway and love is the potholes. I don’t say it’s good, but that’s how it is.”
“How about the Buick Family? I see on television there’s this nationwide thing called the Buick Family.”
“I don’t love them piss-ants neither.”
“So what do you do?”
“Occasionally, I get some sleepy type to go to bed with me. There is a burst of excitement but then they sense my needs are fairly much physical, and that’s all she wrote. We get a good bit of turnover. I do try to keep several of these donkeys on line, however.”
Frank’s breakfast arrived. “What about surrogate children?”
“I still have that dog, what’s his name, Jake. I still have Jake. I’d hardly call Jake a surrogate child. He’s supposed to be a trained retriever. But what is there to retrieve in my life except possibly self-esteem, and I can hardly expect Jake to do that. I have a niece at Oklahoma State, a real bum. She tried to work me for a car, but it didn’t take and I no longer hear from her.”
“Everyone used to have one of those overtrained water dogs. They were socially required.”
“Exactly, Frank. I noticed that when I came up from Oklahoma, but to no avail. I married three duck hunters in a row. Quack, bang, quack, bang. Such a life.”
“Now I’m too excited to eat,” said Frank.
“Is it the thighs?”
“Not really. It’s more like seeing things as they are. Kind of like the old acid days.”
“Well, it gets you rolling in the
He walked into the dining room of the Holiday Inn and waited for a seat. There was one gentleman reading
USA Today
, a Northwest Airlines crew of pilots and stewardesses, and June Cooper. Frank hoped the waitress would take him to an empty table before June spotted him, but no such luck. She seemed to realize that that might have been his hope and flagged him to her table grimly. Frank went over and sat down.
“Join me,” she rasped. “You don’t have that many friends, at least not at this hour.” June was a striking forty-year-old with almost black hair and blue eyes, an amazing combination. She had blown in from Oklahoma twenty years before as a veterinarian’s assistant, gone through three marriages to three previously married men and ended up with a successful Buick agency of her own, a gleaming single-story showroom and office that scattered its inventory of sparkling Buicks across one of the most valuable commercial lots in town. Her last husband hadn’t made much of it, and it seemed, after a decade and a half as a barracuda, June’s real gift was in running a business. She once told Frank, “The way I was raised, the only business open to women was marriage. I opened a chain. Right?”
“If you don’t want to sit with me,” she drawled, “don’t have breakfast at the Holiday Inn. I eat here every day.”
“Got you.” He liked June very much but she was so shrewd that he feared her seeing how dilapidated his spirit had become since Gracie left.
The waitress arrived and filled Frank’s coffee cup.
“He’ll have bacon and eggs and hash browns,” June said. “Eggs over lightly.”
He nodded. “I ought to eat a bowl of cereal.”
“You can have cereal at home. This is where we turn our backs on the things we do at home.”
Frank looked around the room, gathered in the footloose merrimentof the Northwest crew, the bleak movements of the waitress, noted the silver cast of the windows as sunrise commenced. He lifted his coffee cup.
“How’s your love life, June?”
“I’m sublimating. And you?”
Frank thought, actually thought, about his current situation. He could hardly tell her that after learning he had peered at her from an apple tree, Lucy had virtually shipped him to the Arctic Circle. Nevertheless, he told her the truth: “My love life is nonexistent too.”
“I don’t love anyone,” said June, pulling the little square of foil off the marmalade container. “Life is a highway and love is the potholes. I don’t say it’s good, but that’s how it is.”
“How about the Buick Family? I see on television there’s this nationwide thing called the Buick Family.”
“I don’t love them piss-ants neither.”
“So what do you do?”
“Occasionally, I get some sleepy type to go to bed with me. There is a burst of excitement but then they sense my needs are fairly much physical, and that’s all she wrote. We get a good bit of turnover. I do try to keep several of these donkeys on line, however.”
Frank’s breakfast arrived. “What about surrogate children?”
“I still have that dog, what’s his name, Jake. I still have Jake. I’d hardly call Jake a surrogate child. He’s supposed to be a trained retriever. But what is there to retrieve in my life except possibly self-esteem, and I can hardly expect Jake to do that. I have a niece at Oklahoma State, a real bum. She tried to work me for a car, but it didn’t take and I no longer hear from her.”
“Everyone used to have one of those overtrained water dogs. They were socially required.”
“Exactly, Frank. I noticed that when I came up from Oklahoma, but to no avail. I married three duck hunters in a row. Quack, bang, quack, bang. Such a life.”
“Now I’m too excited to eat,” said Frank.
“Is it the thighs?”
“Not really. It’s more like seeing things as they are. Kind of like the old acid days.”
“Well, it gets you rolling in the
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