This early Monday morning Bubba was driving home from third shift at Philip Morris, his CB and two-way radios turned on, his portable phone plugged into the cigarette lighter, Eric Clapton on the CD player. His stainless steel Colt Anaconda.44 with its eight-inch barrel and Bushnell Holo sight on a B-Square base was tucked under his seat within quick reach.
Multiple antennas bobbed on his red 1990 Jeep Cherokee, which Bubba did not realize had been listed in the Used Car Buying Guide as a used car to avoid, or that it had been wrecked and had a hundred thousand more miles on it than the odometer showed. Bubba had no reason to doubt his good buddy, Joe ‘Smudge’ Bruffy, who last year had sold the Jeep to Bubba for only three thousand dollars more than the Blue Book value.
In fact, it was Smudge who Bubba had been talking to on the portable phone moments earlier when two other voices broke in. Bubba hadn’t been able to make out what the two women were saying, but the name ‘Chief
Hammer’ had been unmistakable. He knew it meant something.
Bubba had been raised in a Presbyterian atmosphere of predestination, God’s will, inclusive language, exegesis and colorful stoles. He had rebelled. In college he had studied Far Eastern religions to spite his father, but none of Bubba’s acting out had eradicated the essence of his early indoctrination. Bubba believed there was purpose. Despite all setbacks and personal flaws, he had faith that if he accumulated enough good karma, or perhaps if yin and yang ever got along, he would discover the reason for his existence.
So when he heard Chief Hammer’s name over the cell phone, he experienced a sudden release of gloominess and menacing persecution, a buoyant happiness and surge of power. He was transformed into the warrior on a mission he had always been destined to become as he followed Midlothian Turnpike to Muskrat’s Auto Rescue, this time for another windshield leak. Bubba snapped up the mike of his two-way Kenwood radio and switched over to the security channel.
‘Unit 1 to Unit 2.’ He tried to raise Honey, his wife, as he followed the four-lane artery of Southside out of Chesterfield County and into the city limits.
No answer. Bubba’s eyes scanned his mirrors. A Richmond police cruiser pulled in behind him. Bubba slowed down.
‘Unit 1 to Unit 2,’ Bubba tried again.
No answer. Some shithead kid in a white Ford Explorer was trying to cut in front of Bubba. Bubba sped up.
‘Unit 1 to Unit 2!’ Bubba hated it when his wife didn’t respond to him immediately.
The cop remained on Bubba’s tail, dark Oakleys staring straight into Bubba’s rearview mirror. Bubba slowed again. The punk in the Explorer tried to ease in front of Bubba, right turn signal flashing. Bubba sped up. He deliberated over what form of communication to use next, and picked up his portable phone. He changed his mind. He thought about trying his wife again on the two-way and decided not to bother. She should have gotten back to him the first and second times. The hell with her. He snapped up the mike to his CB, eyeing the cop in his mirrors and keeping a check on the Explorer.
‘Yo, Smudge,’ Bubba hailed his buddy over the CB. ‘You on track come back to yack.’
‘Unit 2,’ his wife’s out-of-breath voice came over the two-way.
Bubba’s portable phone rang.
‘Sorry… oh my…” Honey said sweetly as she gasped. ‘I was… oh dear… let me catch my breath… whew… was chasing Half Shell… she wouldn’t come… That dog.’
Bubba ignored her. He answered the phone.
‘Bubba?’ said Gig Dan, Bubba’s supervisor at Philip Morris.
Trackin’ and yackin’, buddy,’ Smudge came back over the CB.
‘Unit 2 to Unit 1?’ Honey persisted anxiously over the two-way.
‘Yo, Gig,’ Bubba said into the portable phone. ‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Need ya to come in and work the second half of second shift,’ Gig told him. ‘Tiller called in sick.’
Shit, Bubba thought. Today of all days when there was so much to do and so little time. It depressed the hell out of him to think about showing up at eight o’clock tonight and working twelve straight hours.