The Interview
by Bob Ruehrdanz
Monday August 1st - Oakland International Airport
“Are you sure about relocating to Alamosa?” asked Marge as we waited in line to board our flight to Denver.
We had met at a picnic three weeks before. She stood in the lemonade line, chatting with another woman when her eyes caught mine. I felt a thump in my chest and our eyes flickered in recognition. I walked straight to her side and never left. It was not a crush, a lustful happening or even a wild thought. It was love.
“Yes, Honey, I know nothing about food processing, but I’m serious about trying for their marketing position." She looked pensive. "Why?
“Well, for one thing, I’ve never been to Colorado before,” she said. “And is there water near Ala-whatever it is?” She asked, studying a map of Colorado.
“Alamosa,” I said before she located it. “Ever hear of the Rio Grande River? Well, it goes right through Alamosa. Everything will be fine, Honey. You’ll have your water and the beautiful Rocky Mountains.” I hugged her, “You’ll love it.”
Moments later, a trim and efficient Flight Assistant announced, “We are now boarding passengers in rows 32 through 44.”
As we moved forward in the line, a pretty woman in an airline uniform stepped before us and said with a British accent, “Awfully sorry, but the plane is full.”
“What do you mean it’s full? You haven’t called half of the row numbers!” Marge twitched at my side.
The flight assistant shrugged her shoulders, smiled and said, “Because they sent over the wrong size plane?”
Marge tugged at my arm as I almost dragged her back to the ticket counter. Clearing my throat loudly, I announced, “I want to speak with the manager!" My eyes narrowed and my lips twisted into an angry scowl.
Suddenly, the manager stood before me and asked, “How can we be of assistance?”
I waved my arms and sputtered something about the “Wrong-sized plane,” But he stared at me blankly. I tried again; “Sir, I have an appointment in Alamosa at seven thirty tomorrow morning and because your airline sent the wrong plane, we’re going to miss a very important meeting.” He blinked.
I was about to try a third tack when, to my surprise, the manager picked up a phone, had a short conversation, looked at me and said, “Sir, our airline wishes to apologize for the inconvenience, and I’ll make the necessary reservations for you on our next flight to Denver. Please check-in again with our agents in Denver. Have a nice day."
Marge took the new tickets and pulled me away. A small group of smiling passengers who experienced the problem broke into applause.
As we disembarked in Denver, an airline agent met us at the gate. “Because our airline has caused you a delay, we will provide you with meals, drinks and accommodations for the night at the Stouffer House in a fine room at our expense. An airport van will pick you up and take you Stapleton Airport in the morning. And again, we apologize for any trouble we might have caused you. Have a nice evening.”
I started to say something and Marge quickly put in, “Thank you very much.”
Tuesday Morning August 2nd – Denver, Colorado
“I LAY-EFT MY SWEEEETheart in Texas,” screamed the clock radio. I jumped out of bed and started to run. The clock radio blinked “4:00 am.”
An hour later, we checked out, and piled into a shuttle-van with three other couples and raced to Stapleton Airport.
As we walked hand in hand toward our gate, Marge looked at the waiting plane and said, “Yikes, I haven’t flown in a plane with propellers in a long time what kind of plane is it?”
“It’s a Convair twin-engine job. They use this type of plane for flying to some of the smaller airports around the country. There was. . .”
“That’s fine Dear, all I wanted to know was what kind of plane it was,” as she white-knuckled the armrests.
The perky stewardess appeared at our row holding a donut and a cup of coffee. Marge reached up to take the breakfast offering as I studied the seat back for a pull out tray. Finding none, I asked, “Where . . .”
“Here you are sir,” said the stewardess, handing me my own cup of coffee and a donut.
Marge exclaimed, “There are no foldout trays!” as the engines roared to life and we bounced down the taxiway towards the runway juggling hot coffee and sticky donuts.
Minutes after take-off the pilot announced, “Good Morning, this is your captain, uh, there’s a slight problem with the port engine, and we’re returning to Denver.”
With engines and passengers screaming simultaneously, the pilot executed a sweeping 180-degree turn. We landed and rolled up to the maintenance hanger still holding our coffee and donuts. Marge glared at me; I wasn’t sure what she expected, so I put my donut in my mouth and held her coffee as she ate.
A mechanic, who appeared to have just graduated from high school, wearing a greasy jumpsuit, and sporting a goatee, rolled a big “A” frame ladder over to the troubled engine. He demonstrated his vast mechanical skills by beating relentlessly on the propeller hub with a large pipe wrench. When the hub had been sufficiently bludgeoned he yelled, “Try it now.”
A whirring sound followed and the pilot announced, “That should do it, folks,” and we took off for Alamosa.
Hours later, the pilot, sounding oddly relieved, excitedly announced, “Lookie there. It’s Alamosa!” and banked the plane over hard, swooped down, landed and taxied to a building with a big “ALAMOSA” painted on top.
Inside I said, “Look for a tall guy with a big hat,” I said as we scanned the crowd.
A moment later, a man strode into the building wearing a ten-gallon hat, silver-tipped shirt collars, a bolo tie, jeans and snake-skinned boots. He came over, and said, “Howdy; you must be Bob.” Then, he nodded to his left and said, “This here is my Little Lady.”
His Little Lady looked like a character from the movie “Oklahoma.” She wore a long gingham dress with puffy sleeves with matching bows on each side of her short blond hair. To complete her ensemble were a pair of shiny black Mary Janes on her feet.
I tried to introduce Marge to them, but Art and his Little Lady were already out the door.
At breakfast, Marge whispered to me, “What’s her name?”
I shrugged and whispered, “Didn’t you hear him – it’s Little Lady?” Marge stifled a giggle.
After we’d eaten, Art said, “Bob, the first thing we got to do is take my Little Lady home, so she can get her house work done. Then we’ll get Marge checked into a motel and then you and I will scoot over to my office.”
As I sat in his office, Art told me, for three hours, how he built his food packaging empire. Suddenly, he said, “It’s lunchtime and a few of the board members want to meet us,” as he bolted for the door.
Lunch consisted of piles of Nachos, beer and hand shaking and no questions regarding my background or qualifications. Finally, Art said, “Did I ever tell y’all about the time . . .” The board members quickly excused themselves, which appeared to be the signal to vacate the premises.
Back at Art’s office, he was winding up another three-hour lecture when he looked at his watch. “Goodness, it is 5:00 and we have dinner reservations. We gotta hurry now, the Little Lady and I will pick you and Marge up at 5:30,” as Art raced me to his car.
At five-thirty, Art and Little Lady were waiting for us in the motel parking lot. While driving north, Art informed us about the irrigation systems used in the spinach fields. Marge and I held hands, more out of fear, trying to enjoy the colorful sunset over the Rockies as Art barreled over rough roads at eighty-five miles an hour.
At The Ranch, a beautiful restaurant nestled in the Rockies, we ordered a round of drinks while everyone studied the menu. Art told the cocktail waitress,” I’d like a Jack Daniels neat and a Shirley Temple,” as he nodded to his right, “for my Little Lady. Marge and I ordered ours. When the drinks came, Art proposed a toast and everyone raised their drinks. Marge held up an empty glass and signaled the waiter for a refill. We ate in silence enduring another Art-style lecture.
On the way back to Alamosa, we leaned back against the headrests and looked up at the beautiful night sky sparkling above the wide-open spaces.
Wednesday Morning August 3rd – Alamosa
After three non-stop hours of blathering on about food packaging at his office, Art sputtered to a stop and asked, “Any questions, Bob?”
“Can you tell me about you’re . . .”
Art looked at me, then at his watch and said, “Hey! The Little Lady and I want to give you and Marge a tour of the town. Let’s go!”
While Art drove us through town, he asked Marge, “Are any of your children of college age?”
Marge responded, “One of our daughters is . . .”
Art said, “Marge, that’s great, let’s take you by Adams State University. By the way, does she swim?”
“She’s a lifeguard at . . .”
“Damn! They held the Miss Spud Contest a week ago.”
On the way to Adams, we came to a bridge and I nudged Marge and said, “Look Honey, it’s the Rio Grande.”
She leaned across me toward the open window and down at the flow of water, which trickled as if someone had left a garden hose on. She punched me in the arm.
As Art neared the University, he exclaimed, “Oh Lord, you have a plane to catch!” He made a swift ‘U’ turn toward our motel. As his car rocked to a stop he said, “Me and my Little Lady have an appointment to buy a new TV.” Then he added, “Think about my offer and let me hear from you.” The Little Lady waved as the car squealed around the corner and disappeared.
With her mouth hanging open, Marge waved and said, “Goodbye?” to an empty street.
At the Alamosa Airport, a woman security guard sifted through our luggage intent on finding dangerous weapons. Finished, she grunted, “Nothing,” forced our bags closed, mindless of the clothing sticking out around the edges. We grabbed the bags, boarded the plane and found three empty seats in the last row.
Marge and I watched as a wild-eyed flight attendant stomped aboard and began throwing tiny packages of mints at the passengers shouting directions, “You, with the magazine, buckle up!” and, “Sit up!” She moved down the aisle and yelled, “I’m quitting as of right now! I’m fed up with this stinking airline!”
She came down the aisle to the one remaining seat and bellowed, “I’m not going to take this stuff anymore,” and threw the last handful of mints at Marge and sat down next to her.
The flight was unusually quiet with passengers unwilling to risk summoning the stewardess for fear of inciting a riot!
Upon arrival in Denver, the flight attendant bolted from her seat and vanished out the door. We retrieved our bags, checked in at our connecting flight, found a cocktail lounge and sat down with a sigh. Marge leaned forward, rested her chin in her hands and asked, “Honey, Are you going to take Art’s offer?”
I took a deep breath and said, “Nope.”
She flopped back in her chair, threw her arms skyward and said, “Thank the Lord!” and burst into tears just as the waitress arrived.
The waitress stopped, took a step back, looked at sobbing Marge and huffed at me, “You son-of-a . . . !”
[We were married the following week, August 12, 1977].
Bob was born in Chicago and raised in Evanston [and lots of other places] with many relatives. Spent time in the Army and has traveled a lot. Bob writes short and novel length stories. Bob is old but eager to learn. Contact Bob.
