Ben Nutty Slings the Blues
Ben Nutty’s pockets bulged with quarters, dimes and nickels, giving him a jingly, lop-sided gait as he lurched off of a Southwest Airlines jet at the Las Vegas International Airport.
The trip from California, though only a short flight, had been rather stressful. Ben’s wife, Leena, had been hoping for a warm, relaxing desert weekend helping her mother celebrate a milestone birthday, but Ben, currently between freelance gigs and with little else to do since losing his corporate communications job nearly two years prior, had somehow convinced her to allow him to tag along.
“Perhaps I’ll hear the siren song of the creative muse amongst the wail and clatter of the slot machines,” Ben had said, hoping his colorful prose would convince her he meant business.
“Just remember that we’re going for mom, not so that you can chase your ‘muse,’” Leena had told him, already beginning to regret her decision.
“Of course, of course, the old dear will be first in my thoughts the entire weekend,” Ben assured her.
Ben had agreed to handle the travel arrangements, and hence they found themselves sprinting through the Oakland airport five-minutes prior to departure. Once on-board, while Leena struggled to accommodate her carry-on luggage, Ben sat mulling over potential cocktail orders and eye-balling the still-boarding passengers in search of a suitable third seatmate for their row.
“Ah, she’s perfect,” thought Ben, as a young woman of indeterminate Asian lineage made her way down the aisle. At about 110 pounds she fit the key factor Ben sought in a seatmate. That she be attractive was a less important, albeit hopeful attribute, however one of his numerous phobias was to be wedged beside a thick, malodorous individual. The young lady heading toward him was far from thick, and, in Ben’s mind, exuded a soft hint of cherries and almonds.
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