Mesa Flats Resort Predators and Politics

DESERT MUSEUM Larry Armstrong and Kurt Jensen sat in Gretta. Kurt had slumped his limbs over the driver’s seat facing Larry, who was sprawled out in the first seat. The sun was bright on another mid-morning as the two vocally sparred with each other over future outings for Gretta, the old but renovated and cherished Mesa Flats Resort bus. Kurt, Gretta’s appointed driver and ever master mechanic, treasured Gretta. “This year the Grand Canyon is too far for the old dame,” Kurt said, wiping what looked like a tear drop from the speedometer glass. “Besides, we went to the big hole last year; we even camped, if you remember.” “Well how about the observatory?” Larry asked, admiring Mt. Lemmon from his bus seat window. “Gretta is no longer a mountain climber. She’s old and likes flat ground. I can’t take responsibility for her nose bleeds at nine thousand feet.” “There’s the Desert Museum,” Larry suggested, watching gray clouds disrupt the blue sky. “Bingo!” Kurt came to an upright position, but he was facing backward. “Not too far, relatively level.” “And a good outing for our people,” Larry added. Kurt switched on the ignition as an answer. He pressed the windshield wipers and spray. “Do you know how many times I’ve been to the Desert Museum?” “Take a good book.” “I don’t read books. I read essays, poetry and politics.” Larry narrowed his eyelids and stared at Kurt. “I didn’t know that about you.” “No one asks. They leave me sitting on Gretta or near the bus and go have their fun.” “What kind of poetry?” Larry asked as he sat up. “Good poetry. One of my favorites is ‘The Hound of Heaven’ by Francis Thompson.” Larry shook his head. “You sit in Gretta and read poetry?” “Essays and politics too.” “Essays are from books,” Larry remarked, still in shock. Kurt shrugged his shoulders. “What is the best poem you have ever read?” Kurt thought about that before answering. “Shakespeare.” “He wrote plays,” Larry replied, still staring at Kurt. “He wrote poetry too.” “Won’t argue with that. You’re willing to take a chance on Gretta taking us on the road for an excursion to the Desert Museum?” Kurt turned on the windshield wipers again. Larry had their next excursion planned. He had accomplished that without the fine assistance of Marge, the consummate event planner. In a matter of days, some of the Mesa Flats Resort residents had responded to the bulletin board notice and their Newsletter concerning the invitation to a free trip on Gretta to the modern, exciting, mostly outdoor Desert Museum. They assembled in front of the club house. There were Gail, Burt and Gloria Myers, Sissy, and Seymor Hathaway. There was a number of others. Larry, of course, signed up for the excursion; it had been his suggestion. Marge ignored the event, she was not included in the selection of the destination, nor the planning. It was not going to be an event, according to her thinking. After the group excursion to Egypt two years ago, and many tourist bus rides with a guide swinging a microphone, Larry had a loud speaker system installed in Gretta, much to the board and Digger, Gail and Seymor’s protests. Once aboard and in their seats, he had a captive audience for a speech, soliloquy, or guided tour. He justified this intrusion of noise as a justifiable communication system to use with fellow passengers. He was not paid for talking to them, so it was not an act of greed. Gail, Sissy, and the board knew better. Larry collected through ego trips. “Good morning,” he said into the over modulated system. He played with the dials, coughing into the mike. At last satisfied with the level of the audio system, he continued. “Thank you for trusting in Kurt Jensen, myself, and especially Gretta, to transport you to the Desert Museum. The bus trip is free, but you’ll have to purchase your own ticket to the museum. Be proud to support our Tucson attractions. They need it. Any questions about the trip?” It was eight a.m. on a Tuesday morning. As the traveling audience in Egypt had been, most of this group was sleepy. One tiny voice broke the silence. “What are we going to see?” Lile Wagner asked. “You will love the museum. There is so much to see and experience, all kinds of plants and animals and even a humming bird sanctuary. It’s all around you,” boomed the voice of Larry Armstrong. There were no more questions as they preferred the relative quiet bus interior to the microphone. They were outside the city on the long, seemingly empty road except for the tall saguaro standing like sentinels. Then it ended. The bus stopped suddenly; Larry looked out the front windshield to see several men holding rifles aimed toward the bus. His cell phone touched his ear immediately. They fired into the air like banditos, learned from the early movies they had watched. Kurt opened the bus door as directed by the gun brandishing men. The leader entered, followed by six armed men. One knocked Larry in the face with a gun butt. “Nobody calls out! Don’t touch your phones! You die if you try!” The leader moved up the aisle. “Put your hands to the ceiling. Anyone who refuses will be shot.” Several sentences penetrated the air, spoken to the invaders in rather broken Spanish. It was Seymor. One bandito, recognizing the Anglicized Spanish, shot through the roof. Gretta had sustained her first physical insult. She would never be the same. The leader pointed his rifle at Kurt and motioned for him to drive forward toward the South and the border. The leader smiled. “You take us where we want to go!”…