Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Don't say it!
Married men seem to be almost required to have a friend of whom their wives, and in ssome cases society at large, disapprove. James Record is probably that guy for Ojo. Will Waghorne will be that guy for Snake. Snake is that guy for me.* And Jackie Farquar (spelling?) was that guy for my dad.
White trash, redneck, lousy, choad-nibbling meth-addict is too kind a description. One time dad went out with Jackie and came back with a broke-down 1970-something Datsun 280-Z. It sat in his garage for months, brewing a rift in my parents marriage with every passing day. My dad eventually triumphed by getting the piece of crap running pretty good with a new paint job. I think he got to drive it about three times total.
Anyway, one of the last times dad hung out with Jackie and his band of redneck roughians they were out in somebody's pasture tossing back Milwaukee's Best or Natural Light, maybe a couple Bud Lights that dad took himself. I imagine there was a bonfire, or at least a little campfire fueled by ample lighter fluid from a bottle placed far too close to the pit. The stars were probably stark in the country brightness, with a 3/4 moon shining down so everything was just visible without a flashlight. One guy in his second-best flannel hunting shirt (the red one) asks if anybody needs one while he digs his 13th brew out of the ice-chest. A chorus of affirmation rings out into the still night. Somebody farts. The men laugh.
Then the BBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!! of a high-powered semi-automatic weapon rips the night apart.
Now, my dad used to love to start his morning picking off gophers with a .22 from the back porch, but I'm not sure he was down with military-grade arms. When he told the story about his last night out ever with Jackie Farquar he ended with this quote. "Uzis, buddy. That's how they party."
Posted by Rimas Kurtinaitis at 12:00 AM