Read Bookmaker, The for Free Online

George Clooney; it was pretty good. I did enjoy the novelty of watching a movie, and even the thrill of going to the bathroom, at 30,000 feet. I walked past the coach seating on my way back to first class from the toilet and noticed how they were packed in.
    The connecting flight in Houston was a bit confusing . Eventually I broke down and had to ask for help. I figured it out and arrived for my next flight right on time. I stepped off the ramp into Memphis International Airport, looked out into the bleached-white terminal rife with humanity, moved past the hugging family members, past reunited friends, and past those with anticipation in their longing eyes. None of that was for me…I was looking for Matador. I still didn’t have any other name for him, and even more vexing, I had no idea what he looked like.
    I was looking for a man holding a sign with my name, like on TV, when I felt a tap on the shoulder. “Trent Oster? You gotta be him,” said a rugged, yet somehow distinguished-looking grey-haired man.
    “Good guess, call me Trent, and you must be the…Matador?” I said , hesitant to call a man by an obvious nick-name the first time we met.
    A chuckle, “That’s what they call me. Real name is Mattheus Orslavsky, but hell, you can call me Matador, everyone else does, always have.”
    He had a laid-back way about him that I liked right away.
    “How’d you know it was me?” I asked.
    “You looked as I thought you might,” he answered with a smirk.
    “And how’s that?”
    “Like a young man from California very out of place,” he said, glancing around the terminal. I suddenly felt very aware of how I looked compared to everyone else, with my shaved head, plain-white T-shirt, long black shorts, and Doc Martins. Not a popular look among the denizens of the Memphis International Airport. I told myself unconvincingly that I didn’t care.
    “Just having a little fun , Trent…you’re fine,” he said, laughing.
    “It’s cool,” I answered , still feeling out of place.
    “Any bags?”
    “Got it all right here,” I said, holding up my duffel bag.
    “Let’s go.”
    We stepped out of the terminal into the bright late afternoon sunlight and I began to sweat like I never had before. I couldn’t breathe. This was weather I had never known existed—heat like an invisible hand pushing down on you, then wringing you out like sponge.
    “First time in the South?” he asked as he saw my reaction to the heat and humidity.
    “Yeah, is it always like this?”
    “Not always, but this ain’t unusual. You’ll get used to it. Man has a unique ability to adapt to his surroundings, perhaps our most important evolutionary tool.”
    “Okay…” I said , slowly trying to digest what he had just said, then added, “that’s well and good, I just hope your car has AC.”
    Heading south on US 78, Matador drove the black late-model Lincoln Town Car like he just stole it. We were over the state line in no time, speeding past a blue and yellow sign that read “Welcome to Mississippi, It’s like coming home,” with a white flower I later learned was a magnolia. We sped past a little town called Olive Branch.
    “I drive fast, so brace yourself,” he said as he swerved around seemingly parked cars, his life-worn hands barely touching the power-steering as he pushed it past ninety.
    “I see that,” I said, pretending it didn’t faze me.
    “We’re about an hour and a half from Oxford, so sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
    Actually the scenery was nice–a verdant green. At ten-foot offsets from each side of the two-lane highway were rows of trees that had no end, interrupted briefly by neatly rowed crops, then an occasional lake, and then back to the trees. Once we entered Holly Springs National Forest I felt like I was on another planet. The sights were a welcome change from the concrete, graffiti, and trash of California freeways. I eased back into the plush leather seat and drank in the scenery.
    “So , go