Finalist: Lynn Turner's "Wrestling in San Antonio"
Frank caught me by surprise when he showed up with his luggage and those tickets to San Antonio.
"San Antonio?" I inquired. "You mean the Texas San Antonio?"
He was already dragging my suitcase from under the bed and opening dresser drawers.
“Put on a sundress or something. I hear it’s hot down there.”
I’ve learned not to question Frank when he gets a wild hair. I packed some lingerie and a bathing suit and a couple of cotton dresses, threw some toiletries into a cosmetic bag, brushed my hair, put on some Rita Hayworth Red lipstick and announced myself ready.
I held my tongue throughout the three hour plane ride, setting a new world record. We checked into a pink motel with a clay tiled roof, stowed the suitcases in Room 6, and were off again, Frank grabbing my hand and pulling me past the pool and the potted palms, under the archways out to the street. There Frank took off at a good clip with me having to run to keep up.
“This better be good,” I told myself for the umpteenth time. At the second corner, we cut across the street to Uncle Pedro’s Used Cars. Frank stopped, and, as if he were about to unveil the curtain on Showcase Number 2, announced, “Well, there it is. What do you think?”
I was staring at a two-toned baby blue and white Buick with portholes on the sides. A ’53 I think, one of those “classic” cars they restore and show off at Fabulous Fifties parties. “It’s beautiful,” I remarked, moving in for a closer look. I peered through the driver’s side window.
Frank slapped his forehead. “Not the car, girl! The lot! It’s mine! Well, ours. Uncle Pedro, well, he’s dead now, six months, and when they read the will, guess what! He left me the business. The whole business! The used car lot, the property, all the cars, all the money, everything! So what d’ya think? Are you happy? It’s all ours!”
“You mean yours, Frank. Why do you keep saying ‘ours’?”
“Oh, I forgot that part.” He was digging in his pocket for something. Then, quick as a wink he handed me a black velvet jewelry box and bent down to one knee, and before my mind could register, “¡Ay, caramba!” he proposed to me. Just like that.
“There’s a little wedding chapel down the street. I checked it out.” So the rascal had planned this all along!
An hour later we were enjoying our honeymoon at the Old Mexico motel. Enjoying it and enjoying it until pink sunlight streamed through the curtains in the morning.
Frank decided to stay in San Antonio to take care of his affairs while I went back home to pack up my apartment for the move. He saw me to the plane.
“I’ll be back for you in a month or two,” he told me, kissing my hair. “Send me a postcard and let me know how you’re doing.”
"San Antonio?" I inquired. "You mean the Texas San Antonio?"
He was already dragging my suitcase from under the bed and opening dresser drawers.
“Put on a sundress or something. I hear it’s hot down there.”
I’ve learned not to question Frank when he gets a wild hair. I packed some lingerie and a bathing suit and a couple of cotton dresses, threw some toiletries into a cosmetic bag, brushed my hair, put on some Rita Hayworth Red lipstick and announced myself ready.
I held my tongue throughout the three hour plane ride, setting a new world record. We checked into a pink motel with a clay tiled roof, stowed the suitcases in Room 6, and were off again, Frank grabbing my hand and pulling me past the pool and the potted palms, under the archways out to the street. There Frank took off at a good clip with me having to run to keep up.
“This better be good,” I told myself for the umpteenth time. At the second corner, we cut across the street to Uncle Pedro’s Used Cars. Frank stopped, and, as if he were about to unveil the curtain on Showcase Number 2, announced, “Well, there it is. What do you think?”
I was staring at a two-toned baby blue and white Buick with portholes on the sides. A ’53 I think, one of those “classic” cars they restore and show off at Fabulous Fifties parties. “It’s beautiful,” I remarked, moving in for a closer look. I peered through the driver’s side window.
Frank slapped his forehead. “Not the car, girl! The lot! It’s mine! Well, ours. Uncle Pedro, well, he’s dead now, six months, and when they read the will, guess what! He left me the business. The whole business! The used car lot, the property, all the cars, all the money, everything! So what d’ya think? Are you happy? It’s all ours!”
“You mean yours, Frank. Why do you keep saying ‘ours’?”
“Oh, I forgot that part.” He was digging in his pocket for something. Then, quick as a wink he handed me a black velvet jewelry box and bent down to one knee, and before my mind could register, “¡Ay, caramba!” he proposed to me. Just like that.
“There’s a little wedding chapel down the street. I checked it out.” So the rascal had planned this all along!
An hour later we were enjoying our honeymoon at the Old Mexico motel. Enjoying it and enjoying it until pink sunlight streamed through the curtains in the morning.
Frank decided to stay in San Antonio to take care of his affairs while I went back home to pack up my apartment for the move. He saw me to the plane.
“I’ll be back for you in a month or two,” he told me, kissing my hair. “Send me a postcard and let me know how you’re doing.”
September 2, 2007 10:00 PM
This sounds like you! good job!