I Gotta Go, Now!

I Gotta Go, Now! by Gary Benton
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Two days before the opening of deer season me and Bubba were sitting at my kitchen table sipping on cola’s and eating moon pies. Since my divorce, almost seven years ago, I live alone and enjoy my freedom, especially my outdoors time. While I have a woman I care about, Bubba has been married to the same woman for over thirty years, so he envies my way of life. Now, unlike some men, I keep my place clean and you’ll very rarely even find a dirty dish in the sink. Since I spent over twenty-six years in the military, well, I can assure you that I know how to clean or paint just about anything.

I walk over to the sink, rinsed out my glass and said, “Come on, Bubba, let’s go outside and I’ll show ya my new deer stand I bought at Willie’s Hunting Supplies and Bridle Gowns.”

Bubba stood, leaving his dirty glass and plate on the table, and as he walked toward my front door he said, “Shore, he’s got some dandy stuff in his place.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Bubba, ya forgettin’ something?”

He stopped, gave me a mean glare and replied, “The glass and plate?”

“Uh-huh,” I said and then continued, “I ain’t got a wife and do my own cleanin’ and I’m not cleanin’ up afteh ya. Yer a big boy, a real big boy.”

“I’ll do it, but I don’t like it. And, ya leave my weight problem out of this conversation. The doctor thinks I got a thyroid problem.”

“I didn’t ask ya to like it, I asked ya to do it. The only weight problem ya got, son, is a see food problem. Ya see any food and ya eat it.”

The rest of the evening was spent discussing what we’d need for the coming hunting trip, who would drive, me of course, and where we’d go. Bubba promised to be ready to go right after work on Friday and I’d pick ‘em up. I knew he wouldn’t be ready, but I didn’t say anything to ‘em about it. See, if you want him to be some place at five in the morning, ya tell ‘em ya need to be there at four, that way ya’ll get there on time, maybe.

Friday was cloud covered and the threat of rain or snow was very real. The winds were light, but the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees in the last hour. I pulled up in Bubba’s driveway and was met by about twelve mixed-breed dogs, all barking at the same time and jumping on the door of my truck. I got out, stretched and looked around the place. I saw an old 55 Chevy Bubba had bought way back in 1973 to fix up, but all it was now was a rust bucket. There were a good dozen fifty-five gallon drums scattered around in an almost artistic manner, two fridges with the doors off, an old gas stove, and enough scrap wood to build a two bedroom home.

The door opened and out stepped Bubba, “Howdy, Gary, ya ‘bout ready to go?”

“Yep, ya ready?”

“Nope, I gotta feed the critters and chop some firewood first.”

“Ya feed the critters and I’ll do the wood.” I replied, expecting something like this. The last time we had to finish placing pink flamingos around the yard with Maude telling us where to put each one. I thought more than once were she could put one.

Finally, an hour late, we arrived at our campsite. Bubba was fuming over the goat he has, because as he bent over to fill a pail with chicken feed the goat saw too good of a target to resist. Bubba thought the impact his head made on the barn wall gave him a concussion, but I was more worried about the goat. Anything hitting that man’s rear-end real hard is in facing a serious natural gas danger.

“I’ll tell ya what,” Bubba spoke as we unloaded my truck, “if I don’t get a deer, by golly, I’ll have goat.”

“Bubba yer actin’ like a kid. I remember the time ya relieved yerself on an electric fence, ya didn’t tear miles of fence up did ya?”

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