Nothing by Chance Read Online Free PDF Page A

said.
    “No. Never heard it.”
    “Ah … Paul? You ever stop to think that Stu, young Stu, probably doesn’t know any songs from the war? What were you … born about … nineteen forty-seven! Good grief! Can you imagine anybody born in NINETEEN FORTY-SEVEN?”
    “We’re three caballeros …” Paul sang tentatively, looking at Stu.
    “… three gay caballeros …” I went on for him.
    “… three happy chappies, with snappy serappies …”
    Stu was mystified at the odd song, and we were mystified that he wouldn’t know it. One generation trying to communicate with another just half-way down, in that office-bunkhouse on a morning in Wisconsin, and getting nowhere, finding nothing but an uncomprehending smile from our parachute-jumper as he belted his white denim trousers.
    We tried a whole variety of songs on him, and all with thesame effect. “… Shines the name … Rodger Young … fought and died for the men he marched among …”
    “Don’t you remember that song, Stu? My gosh where WERE you?” We didn’t give him a chance to answer.
    “… Oh, they’ve got no time for glory in the infantry … oh, they’ve got no time for praises loudly sung …”
    “What’s next?” Paul was hazy on the lyrics, and I looked at him scornfully.
    “… BUT TO THE EVERLASTING GLORY OF THE INFANTRY …”
    His face brightened. “SHINES THE NAME OF RODGER YOUNG! Shines the name … ta-ta-tata … Rodger Young …”
    “Stu, what’s the matter with you? Sing along, boy!”
    We sang Wing and a Prayer , and Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition , just to make him miserable for not being born sooner. It didn’t work. He looked happy.
    We began the hike to town for breakfast.
    “Can’t get over that,” Paul said at last.
    “What.”
    “Stu’s starting so young.”
    “Nothing wrong with that,” I responded. “It’s not when you start that makes your success in the world, but when you quit.” Things come to you like that, barnstorming.
    The card in the café window said Welcome Travelers-Come In , and above it was a neon sign with the paint gone from its tubes, and so saying.
    It was a small place, and inside was a short counter and five booths. The waitress was named Mary Lou, and she was a girl from a distant and beautiful dream. The world went gray, she was so pretty, and I leaned on the table for support, before I sat down. The others were not affected.
    “How’s the French toast?” I remember saying.
    “It’s very good,” she said. What a magnificent woman.
    “Guarantee that? Hard to make a good French toast.” What a beautiful girl.
    “Guarantee. I make it myself. It’s good toast.”
    “Sold. And two glasses of milk.” She could only have been Miss America, briefly playing the part of waitress in a little Midwest village. I had been enchanted by the girl, and as Paul and Stu ordered breakfast, I fell to wondering why. Because she was so pretty, of course. That’s enough right there. But that can’t be—that’s bad! From her, and from our crowded opening at Prairie du Chien, I was beginning to suspect that there might be tens of thousands of magnificent beautiful women in the small towns across the country, and what was I going to do about it? Be entranced by them all? Give myself up to bewitchment by ten thousand different women?
    The bad thing about barnstorming, I thought, is that one sees only the swift surface, the sparkle in the dark eye, the brief glorious smile. Whether it’s all emptiness or an utterly alien mind behind those eyes and that smile, is something that takes time to discover, and without the time, one gives the benefit of the doubt to the being inside.
    Mary Lou was a symbol, then. Without knowing it, knowing only that one of the men at Table Four has ordered French toast and two milks, she has become a siren upon a murderous shore. And the barnstormer, to survive, must lash himself to his machine and force himself to be spectator only as he drifts by.
    I went all