Velociworld

CUBA

I'm going to talk about the past because my present is far too volatile; I'm going to say something that could get me in trouble, eventually.

There was this fellow named Roger B- who lived up in Effingham and did occasional work for Dad on the farm. Roger could drive anything. Backhoe, bulldozer, combine. He dug lakes for us, harvested our corn and soybeans, clean-scraped woods. He once piled up two woodpiles the size of those Texas A&M bonfires clearing land for us. We let those huge piles of pine, oak, and lighter knot (sorry, I can't say fat lighter; it was always lighter knot to me) dry out, and we had a couple of hellacious bonfires two winters in a row. The whole north side of the county showed up for those bastards. I remember one in particular. It was about 5 degrees Farfegnugen, and my sisters were standing by the fire in white plastic 1966 go-go boots. How cool is that?

Back to Roger B-. He had a wife named Cuba. What you would call extreme buxom. Anna Nicole Smith reflected in carnival funglass. Bleached blonde hair (of course!), massive, pendulous breasts, and two ass-cheeks the size of bachtrian camel humps. Those cheeks looked like two possums fighting over an apple core in a croker sack. They had lives of their own, independent of Cuba and each other.

My father used to laugh mightily over Cuba's ass; never, of course, in front of Roger. Roger B- loved that woman. Worshipped her. She was his Goddess. Never mind that every broomsedge Lothario in the county with even less teeth than sense wanted to rodeo ride her, cellulite craters be damned. He loved that woman.

I'm pretty sure Cuba was faithful to Roger; I'm not so sure the old man didn't try to play separate the possums a few times. May have succeeded. I have no idea, being too young. Roger was apparently oblivious to the attentions lavished on Cuba, as I recall. Those were his possums at the end of the day, after all.

Here's to Cuba, Roger, and True Romance.