The Cutting Room Floor

The completed manuscript for the compiled memoir of Robin Old's remarkable life went to the publisher this week. Depending upon priorities at St. Martin's Press, the book should be in stores by the end of next summer.

Here's a piece that was considered but didn't make it to the final manuscript:

Epilog:

The drive up Rabbit Ears always seemed to make him feel younger. As the road wound upward out of the Yampa River basin he seemed to shed years, aches and worries. The sky seemed bluer and the air fresher as the black Mustang turned the last left hander just after the summit and he anticipated the peaceful run through the wooded park ahead. He had thought his dad would show up this time, but he hadn’t made it for some reason. Then things began to look a bit unusual. The expected right hand bend wasn’t where he thought it should have been. The road eased slightly right and then back to the left entering a stand of lodgepole pines. Maybe he had forgotten this section. Highway 40 continued a gradual climb as he dropped the transmission down into third gear. Something was different.

Slowly, almost without a perceptible change in the pavement, the road seemed to become much smoother. The trees gave off the most beautiful scent and he could hear the birds singing with the top down. The sunshine seemed incredibly intense and he was feeling better than he had in an incredibly long time. He didn’t mind the strangeness of the road; it seemed as though all was as it should be. He looked over the gleaming polished hood and ahead there seemed to be a bit of mountain fog drifting over the road. He slowed a bit and moved on.

It seemed that the foggy patch didn’t last long at all, then he was in a grassy meadow and ahead the road took a hard right hand turn at what appeared to be a huge golden entryway. Two men were standing at the gate. They were of indeterminate age, but clearly strong and fit. Each slightly over six foot and Robin thought momentarily that they reminded him of his own prime. They waved and summoned him to stop. As he pulled the car to the shoulder and started to get out he realized that he was wearing a clean, freshly starched, Nomex flying suit. Somehow it didn’t seem strange in the least.

The two men at the gate were unusually dressed, but their garb did nothing to detract from their demeanor. They seemed to exude power, grace and confidence. However they were costumed they were clearly men of stature to be respected. The one nearest the gate entrance was apparently wearing a jerkin of chain mail and a doublet of white with a large red cross. He resembled nothing so much as a knight of medieval times. The other had long flowing black hair and was clothed in a gown of shimmering gold cloth, but the scabbard holding the jewel-hilted broadsword at his left hip allowed no questions of his masculinity. Maybe there was some sort of costume party going on?

Robin approached, wondering what this place was and how he had found it and why he was in a flying suit. He began to get an inkling of what was going on, but wasn’t yet quite sure. He approached the gowned figure and extended his hand in greeting, “Good afternoon, I appear to be lost a bit. The name is Olds. Where am I?”

The mailed knight grinned and the gowned man smiled as he shook Robin’s hand. “Don’t you have any idea where you are? Remember how you got here?”

“I came up Rabbit Ears on US 40, but must have made a wrong turn.”

“No, you made the proper turns, but it took you a lot longer to get here than simply coming up the highway. Some say it takes an incredibly long time to get here. Others do it fairly quickly. It depends upon where you start.”

Robin began to ponder what he saw and how he felt. He looked at the golden entrance and then at the two men. Could this be what it seemed? “Would you be Peter?” seemed like a logical question considering.

“No, Robin, I’m not St. Peter. He’s down the road a bit further at the main entrance. I’m Michael, and this is George. We’re here at the annex to welcome you.”

“Really? George of dragon-slaying fame? And, you’re the Michael that cast out ol’ whatzisname? What is this place?”

“This place has many names, some call it Valhalla but I’ve got to confess that we’re woefully short of Valkyries to lead you in. You’ve pretty much got to find your own way around here. As for who we are, that dragon business is pretty much a metaphor for bad things and my friend George tends to exaggerate it a bit when he tells the story. As for me, let’s simply say that the casting out activity I was involved in took a lot of help from my friends. When the boss said you were coming, we thought it better that some warriors be here to welcome you rather than having you face Pete. He can sometimes seem a little bit stodgy to new-comers.”

“So, this is what I think it is? I made it?”

“Yes, you made it. I think you’ll like it here. There are a lot of folks have been dying to meet you…oops, excuse the pun. I didn’t mean it but as an archangel, I occasionally slip up on how sensitive man is to the issue of his mortality.”

“I could hardly take offense to anything you say, sir. I’m honored, and I’ll confess that I’m very surprised to get here. Who’s here?”

“Lots of folks you know and even more that you know of. We’ve got Luke and Immelman and the Baron here. There’s Galland and Bader and Gabreski as well as Bong and McConnell and I can’t even begin to list who all else. It would take too long, and we’ve got eternity! Why don’t you come on in and meet the group. It’s right through that gate, and the stag bar is always open. The boss just got us a great single-malt that’s quite literally heaven in a glass. Just don’t start any MiG-sweeps on your first night in the place, OK.”

“I guess I can live with that…oh, I see what you mean about terms up here. I’ll try to be on my best behavior, but as you probably know I occasionally get carried away. Will the car be OK on the shoulder there?”

“We’ll take care of it, Robin. We also do valet parking.”

He passed through the gates and began to understand Magee’s vision of “footless halls of space.” It seemed to stretch endlessly before him, yet his passage was smooth and swift. He saw a broad doorway ahead and from within the sound of voices came. It was a familiar song. They had just reached the crescendo when he entered the vast room. “The women all muster to view that great cluster…” Heads turned to see who had arrived, but not a beat of the song was missed as the voices soared.

“And they stand and they stare at the bloody great pair…”

When it ended, one of the men turned and raised a glass his way. “Let’s say hello to the new guy!” he led, “Heellllooooo, Asshole!”

Another voice and another glass raised, “Let’s say hello to the asshole! Heellloooo, Robin!” It seemed that all of the customs he was familiar with were still in play. He was home at last.

And so the pantheon of warriors gained yet another. The stories were told, the whisky was drunk and the songs were sung. It was a pretty good duty station. They even got to fly.