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     And speaking of flight attendants, guess who I discovered was living down the road from me in Tucson, Arizona?  My British “main squeeze,” from my sojourn with SAUDIA: Yv’e! 

     The stewardess that demanded sex during prayer time!

     A flying buddy at SAUDIA, who was in contact with her, gave me the heads-up; informing me she wasn’t doing so well.  Apparently her father had wiped out her savings, and, making matters worse, she had gotten married to a ne’er-do-well American a couple of years ago.  Currently they were living in a trailer, parked at his parent’s Tucson backyard, requiring her to waitress in a Mexican restaurant to support them. 

     Yv’e at Tucson – not doing so well.

     This was a far cry from the all-night, London disco party-queen I had known at SAUDIA, dear reader.  How the Devil had this happened to her?

     Not wanting to let a flying pal down, I at once fired off a letter to Yv’e with a round trip air ticket.  She wrote back with her arrival information, and then asked a very peculiar question: “Uncle Petie, what exactly is a Las Vegas?”

     In her vernacular, I was ‘gobsmacked,’ dear reader.  It never occurred to me that the poor British kid hadn’t heard of Vegas!

     Since she already had a “Green Card,” and was in the middle of an amicable divorce, I had Yv’e move in with me at the beginning of January 1987.  While checking her out on what Vegas had to offer, I also had her dropping off applications for cocktail waitress at all the big hotels.  While she was waiting for their response, on her own, Yv’e immediately landed a job at an old school hard-core gambler’s casino in North Las Vegas.

     Now here’s where it gets a bit weird, dear reader.

     I’d usually get up at the ass-crack of dawn (4:30 A.M.) – shave, shower, and be in uniform, stretched out on the modular couch, watching the news with a cup of coffee – when Yv’e would roll in from work.  She’d always work the night shift as the tips were better.

     As she strolled past me – dumping her coat and revealing her skimpy cocktail outfit on her way to the kitchen – Yv’e would also drop a heavy canvas coin sack in my crotch!  Then chuckle as I screamed!

     Wow, dear reader!  That anvil-like bag woke me right up!  No wonder I’ve never had any kids!

     Glancing over her shoulder, batting those beautifully large blue eyes, wiggling that perfect derrière and flashing cleavage, she’d say, “Uncle Petie, be a dear and count me tips.  I’m too knackered to bother.  There’s a fine chap.”

     Yv’e’s cocktail waitress uniform.

     They were all in silver dollars, and I’d stack them up in groups of ten.  During our period together, Yv’e was nightly dragging in roughly $100 to $200 in tips!  Adding this to her salary, and overtime, the sexy little blond Brit was making far more than I was earning as an airline pilot!

     Okay, it’s time for a 1987 reality check, dear reader.  Presently the airline industry was sliding into the shitter again - most carriers were struggling and couldn’t pay for decent help – especially pilots.  Yv’e’s industry, on the other hand, seldom struggled.  Why?  Because no matter how broke people are, it won’t stop them from gambling – all races worldwide are wired nuts in this manner.  And when you expose these ranchers and farmers from the Midwest to a sexy piece of English crumpet, who excels at the art of flirting, showing plenty of cleavage and bum – let’s face it, those buckaroos never stood a chance.  Ka-ching!

     That’s why those silver dollars kept rolling in.

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