Screwed, Blued, and Tattooed

Uncle Bubba was driving his ol’ pickup truck through town with the radio on. He was just running an errand, you know, aimlessly driving with a few mundane thoughts drifting through his somber brain. He barely noticed the commercial innocuously buzzing on the airwaves. It was something about a tattoo parlor but it didn’t click in his consciousness until the tag line said, “If you love it, ink it.”

“Oh my gosh!” Bubba thought, “There ya go!” You see, that sums up the conundrum that’s been perplexing him for some time. It seems that these days, everyone from teenagers to middle aged, and that middle is ever so close to the far bottom of the “over the hill” age, has some patch on their carcass tattooed. And here’s the question; do they get the tattoo to accentuate the body part, or do they get the tattoo to cover up the body part? LIke, what is it they are trying to show off; the bizarre choice of personalized artwork or the hair’d-over kankle or flabby scapula back-flap that it adorns? In Bubbie’s view, he don’t wanna see either! What is it about a woman’s protruding, jello-like spare tire that makes her stamp it like a USDA approved side of beef and then display it for all the world to see? What statement is she trying to make? “Hey, look at me! I am a lazy, unfit, overeating glutton, and proud of it! And I celebrate the marvel of me by permanently inking my flesh to show you!” Uncle Bubba digresses. He’s lived long enough to know that he will never know some things. Heck he’s even got a few old tattoos himself, but in his era tattoos were a statement of nonconformity. Isn’t THAT ironic! A tattoo branded a man a rebel.

In Bubbie’s view, a tattoo is a personal choice. And with all choices, they come with the responsibility of ownership and living with the resulting consequences.

Just Another Day

It’s not yet twilight and Uncle Bubba is in his old Ford pickup headed to work. As he drives towards town the full moon is still high in the western sky and some dirty pink clouds are faintly waking in the east. Bubbie’s thinks about how seldom good things come at the early morning hours of a day but don’t it all change in an hour; for the birth of a new daybreak is starting to glow as he turns his wheel to the right and starts the long drive over the usual two-lane highway. The sky glows golden dressed in pink and corral underneath gray clouds and a pale blue sky.

At the next red light Uncle Bubba sits among the other vehicles, waiting. He looks in his mirror at the drivers behind him. Ladies are checking their look in the visor mirrors while others sit with blank stares. They are all someone’s unsung hero; tired, overworked, underpaid, under appreciated. They have children, spouses, parents all depending on their loyalty, their diligence to face another day at work. No one is going to shoot a documentary about their life. No one is going to give them a prestigious award for honor, or a beautiful gold medal for courage. No, they are doing what they must to have what they have.

The light finally turns green and Bubbie drives off with a soft song playing on the radio. A smile crosses his lips at a fond thought of Sweet Pea. He rubs a tired eye and sips hot black coffee from a travel mug and wonders what the day will bring. In Bubbie’s view, it’s a shame that we don’t know more about our neighbors and what small thing we might do to make their mundane days just a little bit better.

What Goes Around...

It has been a while since I’ve visited Uncle Bubba so I stopped by to catch up on things. I hopped up the couple steps of his porch and knocked on kitchen door. No answer. So I walked around back and found him in his vegetable garden.
“Well, hello stranger!” he barked as he saw me walking toward him. He had that old familiar grin that was so nice to see. Uncle Bubba’s eyes were about the size of double-ought buckshot and just as hard. They sparkled when he spoke like the fireworks in his brain might break containment and give you a flash burn. I always figured that was because he knew a lot more than he was tellin’ and that’s probably just as well ‘cause I won’t get it anyway.
“I am pickin’ some vegetables to go with some venison steaks I’m cookin’ for dinner. You’re eatin’ some with us so they don’t go to waste.”
How could I argue a direct order? Being that it was early fall and deer season was weeks away, I didn’t seem inclined to ask if the steaks were frozen or fresh, though I know they were the latter.
“You seem to be in good spirits.” I quipped.
“Yeah well,” Bubbie said, “I’d come through a rough patch. You know that sometimes work can get a man down.” He paused, “Not the work so much as the bull that goes around on the job. Every once in a while it gets too deep; you know what I mean? This last go-around got to me more than I thought so I decided to throw it all away. Life is good man! Too good to waste on the pinheads of the world!”
Bubbie let out a roaring laugh, cracked open a cold beer and took a swig.
“My good times are a higher priority than making my boss happy. I’ll do my job and do it well... but I don’t have-ta like it.” Bubbie added, “It’s what I do, not who I am.”
With that he laid out the red steaks on his grill with a expertise that would arouse a French chef. After another beer he tilted his head back and looked up into the clouds. As he paused the corners of his mouth curled slightly in grin. He kept his head tilted back, his beady eyes in a full on squint as he spoke, “Don’t forget to look up several times a day and see the big picture.“
And with that, Sweet Pea hollered out of the kitchen window that the table was set and when the steaks were done, it’d be time to eat and I wondered why I stayed away so long.