Wednesday, December 16, 2009

It's William, to You


William hated it when strangers called him “Bill.” He hated being called Bill more than he hated being called Buddy or Billy. Bill was too common and it was too absolutely ordinary for William’s taste. His grandfather would call him Bill, and he hated his grandfather. His grandfather was common. Grandpa Joe was a farmer, whose clothes smelled of animals and grease. Grandpa Joe gave William the creeps.

But William felt like a farmer now. He was in a field, anyway, and farms were fields. William stood in the remote and abandoned tobacco field, shovel in hand, starring at the fresh earth he had just toiled. He could smell the earth, and it smelled like shit. It smelled like Grandpa Joe, and that infuriated him. His blood pressure was rising again. He could feel his heart begin to race, and his already infuriated state doubled in intensity over a period of only a few seconds. “Fuck you, Joe,” he muttered as he threw the shovel blindly over his shoulder. “Fuck you, and all your redneck fucking friends and family.”

William didn’t know where he was exactly, but he did know where he was by the display on his GPS. He drove to this particular field by happenstance. He was off highway 313 in the middle of god-awful hillbilly farmland about an hour southwest of Richmond. The terrain was rugged, except for the occasional field cleared for farming. He was, he thought, in the middle of nowhere. His Italian suit and BMW contrasted with the scenic landscape, but didn’t notice the contrast. He only smelled the shit of the earth, and the shit on his shoes. He laughed at the pile of crap he had stepped in, and he laughed as he got to his car, unlaced his $300 Forzieri leather shoes and tossed them in the nearby drainage ditch. They landed peacefully next to an ancient and rusting one gallon gas can.

“That fucker will never call me Bill again,” William said as he slipped on his Nike tennis shoes. “Nope, as a matter of fact, he’ll never call anyone anything ever fucking again.”

William smiled as he drove home that late afternoon in November. It was a peaceful November and the leaves were ablaze in full color. He smiled as his GPS gave him verbal driving directions to his home in Norfolk. He even smiled at the service station cashier where he stopped to gas up and buy a fresh pack of Camel Lights. Smoking was so pleasant after hunting, he thought.

“Anything else, buddy” the Hindu looking clerk asked.

“Buddy? My name is William, and I’m not your fucking buddy. Nothing else, buddy.” William said as he smiled a toothy Wall Street grin.

The clerk looked stunned and shaken, and William enjoyed the power of the moment.

“Yes, sir, thank you, Mister Bill,” he respectfully replied as he bowed slightly to William.

William twitched slightly, and in that moment he could smell the stench of Grandpa Joe, shit and grease. William’s hunting trip would have to be extended.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Billy,
You need a drink, my friend. And a romp in the hay would go a long way towards a return to civility. Perhaps an injection of some psychotropic drugs......

Braxton Hicks said...

Okay, who shit on your Wheaties?