Under the Wire

If you are lucky you will have a “Bob” in your life. If you are very lucky, having a “Bob” in your life won’t get you killed or seriously injured. I met Bob many years ago. This means we were both considerably younger and thus possessed the accompanying younger outlook on life. We were invincible, occasionally invisible and always on the lookout for our next great adventure. Older readers will recognize and remember this time of your life. Younger readers might not since you are at this point living it. One word of caution to you. Watch out for Bob.

Bob had answered an ad in a magazine for a cowboy job on a neighboring ranch. The prospective employer wasn’t much of a rancher, but that was OK because, at that time, Bob wasn’t much of a cowboy. They both changed quickly. Bob drove into town in an old red Chevy pickup sporting California plates. He talked like a New York street kid and seemed to know a little about nearly everything. His bushy mustache and bowed legs made him look like a cowboy but it was a hard sell with the Brooklyn accent. I instantly liked him and Bob seemed to like me. I taught him as much as I could about cows, horses, ropes and such. I really tolerated him because he was so interesting and hard to figure out. He claimed to have been raised on the streets of New York and once lived in a bowling alley, working as a pin setter before machines did that, sleeping on a pool table. I had trouble believing his story but he did shoot pool like he just might have lived on a pool table, after all.

He once told me he’d been married five times before his present, very nice wife. Bob then ended that story by saying they all had died from eating poisoned mushrooms, all but the fourth one. She had died falling from a building. “Wouldn’t eat the mushrooms,” he solemnly added.

Somewhere in our friendship I ceased being the teacher when I realized Bob knew a whole lot more about life than I did. I became his student. That’s when the problems began. On a trip to check cattle we wound up in a pool hall where he coaxed the owner into a pool game. Upon making a very tricky shot that seemed to amaze all three of us equally, he got the owner to bet him our lunches against Bob making the same unlikely shot again. With a profound look of surprise on his face, he made it again. The equally amazed owner fed us well. After lunch, Bob walked over to the pool table and made the same shot six more times. I had never before or since been kicked out of a pool hall.

On another trip turned adventure, we found ourselves, instead of the pasture we set out for, in a nearby town. Bob was craving Tacos he said. I wasn’t much into them so I dropped him off at a taco stand and drove across the street for a more sedate burger and fries. After getting my bag of burgers, I pulled back over to the taco parking lot driving slowly looking for Bob. There were lots of people but no bushy haired, bow-legged cowboy. Suddenly, out from between two cars, a figure dashed and plastered himself to the front of my slow moving pickup. I slammed on the brakes and jumped out. Rounding the front of the pickup there laid Bob sprawled out on the pavement, surrounded by a very concerned crowd. I knew I hadn’t been going fast enough to hurt him. He had to be faking. “Get up Bob,” I instructed. There were a few sounds of concern from the crowd. “Bob”, I said more sternly, “Get up.” He didn’t move but the crowd pushed in closer. “This isn’t funny, you jerk,” I muttered, nudging him not too gently with my boot toe. Bob didn’t move but a very loud sound of disgust for me rose from the crowd. “Someone hold that guy, I’m calling the cops and an ambulance,” I heard a voice in the crowd shout.

As if by cue, Bob sat up, looked around as if dazed and then stood up. As I and the crowd watched in awe, he picked up his tacos, walked to the passenger side of my pickup and got in. Calmly he sat there, staring straight ahead, munching on a taco. Barely two steps ahead of a very angry crowd, I made the driver’s side door, got in and left fairly quickly. Bob never said a word.

Eventually, he became more of a cowboy than the job needed. Bob, his understanding wife and kids loaded up the red Chevy and headed West again. We keep in touch with Christmas cards. He’s doing well in California and even though I miss him sometimes, I’m glad he’s there. I got to know him and still escaped with my life.

Thanks Bob.