Third quarter of the basketball game and grandma waves goodbye as she climbs aboard the helicopter. Only a single propeller tops that copter but she hops its skid anyway. West Virginia leads comfortable against Cal and I turn from the TV screen to lean against the doorjamb of Teig's 24-Hour Auto Repair and Rural Route Emporium. I'm Teig: Karl: Wrench-turner and quondam impresario.

I wave adieu to dear grandma, remarkin' with my overlydeveloped starlet-sense how unusually impossibly attractively young she looks there amidst that tableaux. She resembles photographs I've seen of her from the 1950s, when she first began to age but still dressed her hair chic in a bouffant. That's how grandma looks there seat-belted. She's wavin' to me kinda lachrymose like, from the back seat of that broken helicopter.
        
Alright.
        
Then the diesel engine of the flat bed truck to which the helicopter is chained gurgles to life. Seems to me that means grandma should be leavin' any time. And whadya know, there they go; dern, bouncin' out of our parkin' lot's potholes and onto Rural Route 50.
        
I lean back from the door and stretch my neck to check the score on the TV. West V still winnin', still beatin' smart those big britches California snots. This is the big game, you understand. The championship. Season's been a dream ride for the Mountaineers and looks like they'll snatch that trophy after only a half game of true fight. Four minutes, says the screen. With WVU plus twenty. But my attention is strayin' plenty now, ya see, resurrectin' those byroads of my yesteryear boyhood. Guess I'm already missin' grandma.
        
What the hell, Ralph back there's probably sneakin' an eye on this game anyway instead of replacin' that flywheel on that Yota. He can fill me in later on the final score and all the champagne and kazoos. Seen enough of that backslappin' in my backstage days, anywho. Me, I'm gonna mount the faithful Datsun and catch up to sweet ole Grandma.
        
Alright.
        
The up and down two-lane road of corkscrew slopes retards the ten-ton truck enough that I catch it right quick. Gassin' around it, I feel like its pacer, or maybe like an intrudin' competitor in some unequally matched race around Monte Carlo. Ah, Monte Carlo! Weren't those the days!
        
But Grandma needs a scout, see. I can sense this. A bouncer. A bodyguard. Someone to clear her path, to lead the way, to break trail. This helicopter trick is slick, you betcha. But how she thinks she'll get to heaven on that broken propeller I cannot imagine. I believe in the woman, though. Without one iota of hesitation, I believe in'er. She'll figure it out sure. And she looks so young there. And the youthful always wield that magical kinda resourcefulness.   
        
But then my cellphone commences to squawk. 
        
Steerin' the corkscrew by my left hand, I lift the phone with my right. It's the First National Bank. I'm bouncin' checks, accordin' to the guy. Says they delivered photostats of the offendin' documents right to the very passenger seat of my Datsun. I glance over at the heavy bundle. Yeah, yer straight, says I, saccharine kinda, with a polite kinda irony.
        
I ring off in a miff.        
        
Hefty wad of a bundle there and I'm gripping it now with gnarling knuckles. Dozens of overdraft notices easy. Hot angry I get, see. Pinch-face mad. Never have I bounced one single check, see, in my entire livelong life, see. Not even while bussing dancing girls up and down the Riviera, see. Open an account with my daughter, see, and voila checks are bouncin' like basketballs.
        
I squinch my lips.
        
It's them drugs, I bet. She's doin' them godoxious drugs. Some fop caught her eye, probly, and plied her high with herb, probly, and by now she's probly poppin' him full of poppy. Gotta be. And on my sweaty dime. I bet that's what's sappin' her pizzazz, too. Too young to be sheddin' that sparkle like she is already. Haggish, by God. More crone than starlet. And bouncin' like basketballs! This the big game or what? Somebody hire me a helicopter!        
        
Alright.
        
When I check my rearview mirror again Grandma's gone. Instantly I miss the woman somethin' pitiful; but also I feel a certain pride for how she managed to get that chopper to fly. So long, dear beauty. Save me a spot next to God, s'il vous plait.          
        
Later Ralph tells me how West Virginia lost at the buzzer, heartbreakingly.