Bubba

Ok. I could just scribble a bunch of stuff about who I am and what churches I don’t go to and what my politics ain' and what TV shows I will not watch or some such shit but I am sure that would be, at turns, boring or not suitable for the faint of heart.

Oh, or maybe, eh, I could wax eloquent about how there is nothing finer, after a long tedious day of trying to sell turbine lubricating oil to nuclear power plants, than to kick back with a Leinenkugel’s Creamy Dark and some fine aged Swiss with crusty French bread; pop some Wood Brothers on the stereo and just chill on the porch. But that is my escapism, not yours….so get your own cheese, thank you very much!

Or tell you about Bubba’s eyes.

Last Friday he was flooded out. He had moved back into his mother’s basement until his new apartment lease starts in September. Thursday night’s six inches of rain left three feet of water in the basement. All his boxes were underwater. CD’s, DVD’s, clothes, TV, Stereo, futon. And most importantly, all the tapes from the TV show he had made as his senior project last semester. He had financed it, wrote it, directed, produced, rounded up actors, sets, location. I know he had hundreds of hours into it. Looking into his eyes, though, I could see that he felt he had lost everything of his 22 years.

“Major-League fucked, Dad,” he said. His eyes were really hollow.

“ Well, Bubba, it’s not how often you get knocked down--- it’s how many time you get back up.”

I knew it was a cliché and I knew it would piss him off a bit, and that he was expecting me to say something just like that. He was prepared to be pissed.

“That’s pretty lame, ya know, and it doesn’t help at all. I don’t need that shit. Don’t hand me that stuff! You don’t understand!”

His eyes flashed a bit.

“Ok,” I said.

“I mean….I am really screwed! EVERYTHING is LOST! EVERYTHING! What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay at Mom’s….she’s a basket case, too. I’m crashing at Cody’s. I feel homeless…And Tessa is not talking with me….she won’t answer my call’s…I don’t know what is up with her….I didn’t get any security deposit back from the Cherry St house…. I just feel Major-League Fucked! What am I supposed to do?”

“Get on your bike. Go long distances. Do the Larsen Trail. Go shoot hoops till your fingers bleed. Drink lots of water. Don’t try to figure anything out. Just stay in motion.”

I talked with him last night. He was twenty miles out on the trail. He has replaced his basketball shoes, even bought a new ball.

“Hey, Old Man…..I’ll meet you for a beer tomorrow, Ok? We’ll talk, Ok?”

His eyes sounded a whole lot better.