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Picture Credits:
"Oh, My Papa..."
The Silver Bullet wasn't running too good. Lester said that he'd overhauled it over the weekend, but it wouldn't pull a dying whore off a piss-pot, and Bubba knew that either those new glow plugs weren't spec, or Lester had forgotten something. He wasn't in any mood to be having truck problems today, and since they were pouring that bridge at Stony Gap, his ass was grass if he wasn't on time. Those government contractors held an iron fist when it came to pouring schedules, and Sonny Proctor wouldn't take kindly to it, if he was docked for being late. That foreman was the same dumb bastard who had a section collapse last year, after he tried to short pour in the rain.
Bubba was sullen and really not in the mood to argue with anyone. He just kept going over and over the events of the previous night in his mind, and he must have looked at that card a thousand times, in his efforts to see if anything about it just didn't look right. Could it really be daddy? Momma had always said that he was dead. Why would he have just left without saying goodbye to a seven-year-old kid? Even if it really was his daddy, why had he returned now? What did he want? Bubba got the mud to Sonny on time, barely, and he exhaled as he hosed The Bullet down, removing the last concrete remnants from the chute and surrounding area. By the time he got back to the yard, it would be time to knock off for the day. Bunker time.
********
The Bunker was getting pretty full. It was Huntington's most popular tavern, mostly because it was Huntington's only tavern. Buster and Grace were the local equivalent of Sam Malone and Cheers. The biggest difference was that there were about fifteen Norm's. The bar had the immovable type stools that spun when you sat down, and over the course of the years, quite a few of the locals had claimed a particular stool, and depending on his social ranking, could walk in and expect anyone who might be perched at his (or her) stool, to move his ass. Most of the time, this was done without question or incident, as soon as the door opened, and the patrons caught sight of whoever was entering.
Bubba usually didn't sit at the bar. He usually sat in one of the straight chairs positioned against the back wall, right under the poster of Rusty Wallace. It gave him the luxury of seeing everyone who came into the bar, and with the exception of the alcove positioned behind the half wall that led into the dining room, he could see almost all the action taking place.
Sitting there with his elbows on the table, and his hands interlocked, a reasonable person could have been led to believe that Bubba was praying, had it not been for the fact that every time the downbeat of the jukebox would repeat, his hands would tap him on the forehead in response to the rhythm.
Grace brought him a pitcher of beer, and poured him a glass, not stopping to chat, as if she knew he had a lot on his mind. To Bubba, the first few swallows of beer were always the best. He closed his eyes and tipped the glass slowly, feeling the bubbles and zest of the golden liquid fill his mouth. As he swallowed he felt that lingering tingle associated with what someone had told him was the hops. The sensation was wonderful, and for a few seconds he totally forgot his problems, so he quickly filled his mouth again to momentarily delay their return. After about four or five healthy gulps, Bubba leaned back a little and let a belch rip, causing most of the patrons to stop their activities and glance his way. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the spell was broken when Bubba muttered “Ex-cuuuuuse ME!”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Franklin Minifield said, "Good God, Bubba, did you get any on ya?" The whole bar began to cheer and whistle. Bubba just grinned a little, shook his head no, and waved his hand to negate the whole thing. Instantaneously, the bar was back doing what they had been doing, as if nothing had ever happened, but Bubba felt better. He was pouring his second beer when the large black man walked through the front door.
Not too many strangers frequented the Bunker, especially black ones. It was the same man that had visited Bubba last night, driving Abel Strunk (if, indeed, that was who it really was). With great dignity he ignored the stares directed at him and walked straight back to the table where Bubba was sitting.
"Excuse me, sir, Mr. Strunk would like to know if he might join you for a conversation.", he asked. His voice was deep, yet private. He had obviously been trained to be discreet. Bubba looked at him and merely nodded in the affirmative. As the man pivoted and walked away, a well-dressed older man suddenly stood in the same spot.
"May I sit down with you, son?", were his only words.
Bubba put his arm out, palm upward, gesturing his approval. "Free country", he replied.
Abel Strunk lingered for a few seconds, looking at Bubba without smiling. As he sat down, his eyes stared at his lap as his fingers played with the brim of his Stetson. "Bubba, I know this is hard for you. Please, I'm not asking for anything but a little of your time. I want to try to tell you why I had to leave, and why you couldn't know where I was, or even that I was still alive. May I continue?"
Bubba stared at the man, and then a grin came onto his face. "If you can answer one question for me, then maybe I'll let you continue, but mind you, it's not an easy question." The grin was gone now, and the man sat down without being asked. "Shoot" was all he said.
The two stared at each other, and neither posture indicated that this would be amiable. These two were not long-lost relatives seeing one another for the first time in ages. They were sworn enemies who had been brought to the bargaining table, and probably against their will. Bubba tipped his glass up, threw the beer down his throat, and slammed the glass on the table hard enough for the entire bar to look in their direction. Anger was oozing out of his pores as he glared across at the figure on the other side.
"Sooooooo...DADDY...tell me, what kind of a man could walk out on a woman with a six-year-old kid ? What in the HELL could be so important that he'd throw his family away like yesterday's garbage? Oh, so sorry, that's two questions, isn't it? Well, Mr. Big Shot, you can answer either one, but let me warn you, your story better be pretty damn good!"
The man continued to look down at his hat, turning it nervously in his hands, as he tried to formulate a response. When he finally looked up, Bubba could see the pain in his eyes. He looked as if he were trying to speak, his lips would start to quiver and his eyes would move, but no words would come out.
"Bubba, I don't have any easy answers for you, except that all your perceptions of me were true. I was a drunk, an extremely poor gambler, I couldn't hold a job for more than a week at a time, and I didn't have the backbone to stick around and listen to the gossip any longer, especially since most of it was true. I wasn't worthy of having a family, so I felt that the most honorable thing I could do was to leave. No daddy at all was far better than the type of daddy that I was. I didn't want you to see what a vile, loathsome creature I was, and think that all daddies were like that. I knew that if I was ever going to be able to provide anything for you, whatsoever, that I had to leave."
Again, the man's head lowered, and he stared at his hat, and Bubba saw the tears streaming down his face. Twenty years of hate was not going to simply vanish-- Bubba wouldn't permit it.
"Well, well, so now the prodigal son is coming home, isn't that sweet. What do I do now, Pop, kill the fatted calf and give you half my worldly goods? Or perhaps I should just call for another round, offer you a pinch of Skoal and you and I could invite some party girls over. How about that? Hey, I know, I'll just call Mom and have her put up a nice spread for us to come home to.........OH! Damn! I forgot! Mom's dead, isn't she? Yea, I forgot to tell you that, she died 5 years ago, you know, easy come, easy go, but I know that the message probably wouldn't have meant much anyway, you being a big shot and all...."
Bubba stopped there, as he could feel his rage almost spilling over. He wanted to tip the table over and beat the old man senseless, but somehow, all he could do was sit there and glower at him, the veins in his neck and forehead trying to jump out of his skin.
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