Venice veteran, George Wilson, clockin' in at ten sharp.
POSTCARD FROM
BILLY RUNAWAY
"It sure is hot-damn hot," Jack
Dempsey thought to himself. He walked
into Vern's Desert Oasis, fished a cold.
sixer of Old Milwaukee Talls out of the
ice box and took it to the counter.
"Hi ya Jack! How ya doin'?" It was
Vern. Jack liked Vern and all, but the
man could talk for days if he had a mind to.
"I can't complain, Vern. How 'bout
yourself?"
"It's the heat, Jack. It's killin' me.
Damn hot 'round these parts in the sum-
mer, ain't it? Say, how's that new pipeline project comin' along? You're
the new day Foreman, ain't ya?" Vern seemed to know everything.
It's part of the job when you're the owner
of the only liquor store/market for fifty
miles in any direction.
"I'm the new foreman, sure enough,
but I won't be for long the way things are
going now. Every morning we got a
helluva job to do. Someone's puttin' duct
tape and stickers all over the top of the
cylinders. It's the damndest thing-just
can't figure it out. Takes one of our men an extra hour on the ladder
just to clean the whole mess up." The two men exchanged puzzled
looks for a moment, then Vern changed
the subject.
"Say Jack, my sister Louise is gettin'
married next month-are ya comin' to
the wedding?
"Sure Vern, I'll be there." Jack cut the
conversation short. "What's the
damage, Vern?"
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot. That'll be
$2.99. We're having a sale on those this
week." Jack picked up the beer and
headed for the door. Vern called after
him, "Jack, you take it easy out there to-
day. It's hot-damn hot..."I