As far as the old man was concerned, Bubba Roy was an accident waiting to happen. Just a matter of time. And the time was nigh, he thought. Next thought, you have never known, never known, what the fuck a nigh was. His wife would probably just look it up on one of her newfangled technological things. The old man, no idea about fangles of any age.
Being something of a scientist, Bubba Roy didn’t seem to require any instructional manuals. Once he got the sofa out on the front yard and the table for the ash tray and beer bottles, turn up the music, place was nicer outdoors, so his mother would join him. Imagine a pale zombie kabuki dancer in shiny short-shorts and a fluorescent tank top.
Bubba Roy did all the wiring himself. Which apparently pulled out when his mother tripped in the dark. She couldn’t see so good. That explains the new Polynesian lights.
The old man had a pair of binoculars for bird watching. Turd watching now, he chuckled. Sometimes he amused himself.
Lot like reality television. Like Duck Dynasty meets one of those scientific guys looking for aliens and shit. Bubba Roy should have his own show. He had gone around the neighborhood telling folks he was something of an electrical engineer – self-taught – and did they have any small appliances needed fixing. The old man wanted to tell Bubba Roy about his wife’s broke vibrator. Thought better of it. That was a Ray Romano move.
If his missus, if she killed him, the old man, who would get rid of Bubba Roy? As chairman of the Neighborhood Beautification Committee, it was clearly his duty. Fearing the glare of stringent and uncomfortable enforcement, the old man had limited membership to one. Wouldn’t want to break any sunshine laws. And nobody to testify against him.
So the old man just watched through partially opened, almost closed blinds. And before you knew it, he wasn’t retired, he was on a stakeout.
Bubba Roy, he’s got a power saw, soldering iron, a gas grill, a lawn mower, a hoist, anything could happen. A drill. That’s all so dangerous. Hope he’s careful, the old man said.
Once every three years, a couple died of natural causes. In a fire maybe. Or a gas leak. He liked that better. Sometimes a gas leak followed by fire. Which usually meant !explosion! And very little evidence. The fire was too personal, inhuman, and he just couldn’t bring himself to go pyrotechnical all over somebody’s ass. Except for special occasions, the old man thought. Like that guy on Kelly Ridge who swerved to hit the sand crane. Exploded into a ball of grey feathers, crumpled stick figure. Drove OUT OF HIS WAY to kill another living creature. Well, if he could do that, so could the old man.
And when those deaths were mentioned, the deaths, he pretended his hands were clean. They thought it was an act. Which tells you something about your local law enforcement. Actually, house fires are fairly rare. That’s why they’re such at hot topic in the news. Plus a conflagration involving the loss of human life gives good video.
The old man thought of Joan of Arc every time he heard somebody died in a fire. Always thought Joan deserved better. Not that she needed it.
The old man and his wife watched a drama starring Richard Dreyfus as a pretty credible Bernie Madoff. Sixty billion dollar ponzi scheme. And he bragged he was the greatest crook in history.
Bullshit! What’s wrong, honey?
The old man hadn’t realized he was talking aloud. Was this becoming a problem, he wondered. The greatest crook in history doesn’t get caught. The greatest doesn’t die in a jail cell, playing cards with forgers and purse snatchers. Think about it, people. You got caught. That’s not great.
Would you like me to get you a beer? Please.