Billy Bob Pruitt by Ricki T Thues

 Billy Bob Pruitt by Ricki T Thues

 

Billy Bob Pruitt was at his desk in the American Gun Distribution Company. It was a plain, undecorated cubicle in a room drowning in telephone sales calls. He was dressed in the unofficial uniform of the company: blue jeans, flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. His belt was loose, and his shirt was tight. He was sweating ‘cause the gad dang office was never cool enough. Cheap son of a bitch of a boss. CP Performance’s website was on Billy Bob’s computer.

“That’s a dang pretty chrome exhaust kit.” He gave a long, loud whistle in his head.

He was about to check out the price when there was a slap on the back of his head.

 

“What the…” Billy Bob started to say as he whirled on his boss, standing behind him with his arms crossed.

“CP gonna start sellin’ guns?” asked Ottis Plunkett.

“Ah, ya never know, boss.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You’re buy’n something for that souped-up speedboat of yours. If you weren’t my brother-in-law, I’d fire your ass right now.”

“It’s almost quit’n time,” looking at the clock, “give me a break.”

“I’ll give you a break, right on that dim head of yours. You can’t afford that boat anyway.” Ottis read the clock: 5:01. “Get out of here.”

 

Billy Bob shut down the computer and bolted for the door. He took the stairs to the parking garage by twos. Getting out of the office never came too soon. He climbed into his custom lifted  F-450 truck and burned rubber on the slick concrete garage floors. The truck fishtailed onto the street, and Billy Bob was free.

 

On the freeway, traffic was heavy with after-work rush hour, but it did not slow Billy Bob down. He tailgated one car after the other until a too-small space opened up. He wove across all three lanes, both American flags flying in the wind. “Get outta my way,” he yelled at old ladies, young drivers, and average commuters. If they didn’t pull over for him then, well, they were just idiots.

 

It was a miracle that no policeman saw him, no fenders were scraped, and no one died. Billy Bob’s driving was not expert. It was just lucky.

 

When exiting the freeway, a ten-year-old on a bicycle rolled off the road into a ditch to avoid the truck running the stop sign. “Stupid kid,” he said, shaking his head.

 

As he pulled up to his house, he saw his kids’ bikes and toys in the driveway, so he parked on the street. He looked at his watch and said, “Saved eight minutes today!”

 

He kicked kid debris off the walkway as he marched up to the front door.

 

When Billy Bob opened the door, his two kids, 10 and 12, were right there yelling at him.

 

Brandy Lynn screamed at the top of her lungs, “Hunter hit me, daddy!”

“She hit me first,” was Hunter’s wide-mouthed answer.

 

“Both of you go outside and pick up your stuff from the driveway. I can’t park with all that mess.”

The children shook their heads, stomped their feet, and dragged their feet out the door.

 

Tammy Jo was standing in the hall, her mouth a thin line. “How was work?”

“Oh, that mistake of a brother of yours was in a bad mood. He’s always holding you over me at work. Just because your father owns the company.”

“What did you do this time, Billy Bob?”

“Noth’n. I was just looking at parts for Overdraft.”

“That’s about the best name you could’ve given that boat of yours, ‘cause our checkbook is overdrafted to hell.”

“It’s all about aerodynamics. When you’re flying down the lake at eighty miles per hour, you gotta get over that wind draft. See… Overdraft, it’s science.”

Tammy Jo just shook her head. “We gotta figure out how to pay for Brandy Lynn’s teeth and Hunter’s karate lessons. Not to mention the food and the mortgage. You need to back off on the Overdraft’n.”

 

Billy Bob pushed past his wife to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and stomped into the den. He sat at the computer, switched from the Fox News page to CP Performance’s website to check the price on that chrome exhaust kit. “OO-we that’s pretty.”

 

It never occurred to him that he could have lost his job, could have been in an accident, or might have killed the kid on the bicycle. Instead, Billy Bob wondered why he bothered to save eight minutes on the drive home.