Hardly any of us Schultz’s slept a wink last night, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our new-to-us 1970 Airstream Sovereign. We hired Bobby DeCola of Burnsville, NC to do the tow and he sure made it look easy. This video doesn’t show the 270 degree turn he took without a flinch at the bottom of the driveway, but he handled the hairpin up above nicely and backed The Beacon (as we’re calling it) next to Dad’s wood shop with ease.
We spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning surfaces, vacuuming, sweeping, and washing windows. As we worked, we discovered things that needed repair in equal measure to cool features we hadn’t noticed before. The vintage stereo has an 8-Track player, for instance, and the kitchen lights have a retro switch with dimmer installed. Also: the cutting board is custom fitted to go over the second sink to double the amount of counter space when needed, the bathroom has two swinging doors, the bedroom has an accordion sliding door, and built-in brass-plated round halogen lights adorn the curves in the walls in just the right places. The carpet in the bathroom needs to be torn out, the fan over the stove looks rusty, the pipes are cut underneath the kitchen sink (we knew that), some wood trim needs securing, and one bed needs a new board under the mattress.
Tomorrow, we’ll get the propane tanks filled and test the stove. We’ve got our fingers crossed that the manual will arrive in the mail soon. In the meantime, we’re using Bob Livingston’s top-rated RV Repair and Maintenance Manual.
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From “The Naming of Things” in Monthly Fiction by Katey Schultz
Jet was tired. Bull-screwed, hound dog tired, as the cab driver spun out, left him heaving against the entry sign to Appleglen Apartments. He curled a tight fist into the dappled apple image inked along the border of this month’s banner: Voted Laurendale’s #1 Apartments for Seniors. Appleglen. Jesus, even the name sounded like a remake of a remake, precisely how his entire summer felt, what with his girlfriend, Sweetie, gone and all the hot sunrises of a Carolina summer thick with that same, choking, humidity.
He toiled up the stairs to his second story apartment, fingering the keys, clumsy at first, then aligned them with the lock by sound and feel. Even drunk he knew enough to piss first, drink water until he had to piss again. He set his keys on the counter, let loose his belt, the button on his scrapped Levi’s, filleted the zipper in one fell swoop and the fabric dropped to his ankles.
“Christ,” he said to the dark apartment. “Damn shoes.”…(read more)