The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

You’d probably think we call Budweiser Bob Budweiser Bob because the beer he likes to drink is Budweiser. But you’d be wrong. We call him that because he wouldn’t be caught dead with a Bud even if he were crawling across the Mojave Desert in August, out of water on a 120 degree day. He’s a microbrewer and he sees the big national breweries as bullies who have brainwashed or beerwashed the masses into buying a pale substitute for real malt beverages.

Actually, Bob’s name isn’t Bob either, it’s Ron. Which, at least to me, makes the joke more humorous by a factor of three and a half. Especially when you consider we got Alaska Bob and Guitar Bob and Biker Bob and Indian Bobm plus a few other Bobs we haven’t prefixed with a handle yet. Lots of possibilities. Be Bob a Loo, he’s my baby. Be Bob a Loo I don’t mean maybe.

I know — we ought to quit doing it —-they hate it. Guitar Bob plays guitar, but not very well … so when somebody says oh, you’re Guitar Bob, he knows they think he’s a virtual Eric Clapton. Alaska Bob used to work up on the Slope at Prudeau Bay. He doesn’t anymore so he no doubt figures it’s time to drop the 49th state from his name. Retiree Bob would work, except all the Bobs are retired.

Bob #1? Bob #2? Bob A or Bob B? I couldn’t ask their moms why they couldn’t have been a little more original when they had these guys. Bob!? Jeez. It’s like the people who name their dog Pooch or Mutt. Or their cat Kitty. Nothing wrong with it, I spoze. Other than too damn many Bobs and Toms and Bills. I’m just trying to clarify the classification system, de-obfuscate the taxonomy, bring some modicum of order to the confusion of anarchic appellation. Okay, except for Budweiser Bob…

Hits: 90

Hits: 40

Hits: 56

Right after college I decided to be a bum. Worked awhile at a dog pound, drove city buses, did a stint as manager of a restaurant, then went into a slow retirement. One of my gigs was as an inventory specialist. Roll into a grocery store with my team of fellow specialists, count the cereal boxes and aspirin bottles, pretend it’s accurate, give an accounting to the manager who, half the time, asked us to ‘fudge’ the numbers anyway.

One Friday night we headed to Rockford, Illinois from our home base in Madison, Wisconsin. Chico drove, for which he got a dime a mile extra. Six of us piled into his rat-trap jalopy, no seatbelts, no radio, no working speedometer and by dark we rolled into Rockford. Chico took a sharp left, my passenger door flew open and I was hanging onto it for dear life before the guy next to me hauled me back in. Chico said, “Forgot to mention it, but that door’s broke.”

We finished up our inventory at a small chain grocery, adjusted the number for the manager and piled back in Chico’s Cadillac. About half an hour later an Illinois State Trooper had us pulled over, who knows for what of many possible violations, and Chico got out to deal with the cop while the rest of us sat quietly like Guatemalan immigrants. Chico came back, handed me a yellow ticket and pointed at the glovebox. I put it in with about two or three dozen others. “Chickenshit,” was all he said.

At the last tollbooth about 2 in the morning he pulled up to the toll taker and handed him a buck. The guy in the booth surveyed the six of us long-haired motley losers before handing Chico his change. “You look like smart fellas,” he said with a smirk. “What’s a six letter word for skirt. Ends in G.” He tapped his pencil against his yellowed teeth.

Chico tossed the change in an ashtray with cigarette butts and joint roaches. “Sarong,” he said and put the car in gear. The toll taker looked at his crossword, looked back at Chico and us, the only car that time of night, shook his head in disbelief and said, “Thanks.”

We drove off across the farmlands where everyone but us slept their dreamfilled nights away. I quit the next day, never worked a crossword puzzle or a full time job again my whole life. Chico, who knows…? Probably a CEO now.

Hits: 60

Hits: 37

Hits: 54