#46 Badgers and Rascals
Starting the badger farm had been Glenn's idea. We'd been best friends since childhood. We'd spent over four decades working for the same company and upon retirement, we had packed our lives into a couple of U-hauls and together with our wives and pets, we had moved to Florida to live out our remaining years in peace and warmth while savoring the smell of salt water and the taste of cheap beer. For nearly a year life was good and retirement was everything we had dreamed. That is, until I broke my hip the night that we all got drunk and ran Evan's boat into the pier. The subsequent emergency room visit and hospital stay had depleted my retirement funds so thoroughly that Glenn, out of the goodness of his heart, had taken it upon himself to include me in a business venture that he insisted would prove very lucrative.
I however, was skeptical from the start. "The demand for badgers can’t be that great" I would argue. "Malarkey!" Glenn would counter. In spite of my objections, and after several days of deliberation and incessant cajoling, I finally relented. What remained of my retirement fund, I begrudgingly lent to Glenn who wasted no time using it to purchase a sandy tract of sparsely vegetated land.
An old dilapidated barn stood in the center of the property surrounded by a few scraggly pine trees and an unhealthy tangle of grass and sand spurs. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps the other side of the property was in better condition. I was advised not to walk until my hip had mended suitably and thus I had been confined to a motorized, three-wheeled scooter that the doctor had informed was called a "rascal." As if I could not read the chrome letters on the side of the machine for myself. At this particular moment, my rascal had become hopelessly stuck in the sand and so I had been denied a complete tour of the premises. Glenn stood there in front of me pointing and waving his hands around as he tried in vain to help me visualize all of the elements of a fully functional badger farm. His voice seemed distant as I sat there chewing on the stem of my pipe and pleading with God to either get my rascal unstuck or humor me with a heart attach of un-survivable proportions. He granted me the former and I scooted back to the van while Glenn followed, still engrossed in his lecture. Glenn must have sensed my disappointment because I did not see much of him for the next few days.
It was Sunday afternoon when I woke from my nap to find Glenn shaking me and grinning from ear to ear. I tied my bathrobe, mounted my rascal, and followed Glenn to the garage. "You’re gonna love this" Glenn said. I could not believe what I was looking at. "You know, badger prices are pretty volatile." Glenn had to yell to be heard over the screeching and hissing. "By the time we get the barn fixed, they could cost twice as much so I …" "Dammit, Glenn!!!!" I screamed. I turned the rascal around and coasted back into the kitchen. "I’m gonna get cages to keep them in." Glenn was trying to reason as he took big steps to avoid the badger poo. Glenn followed me into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
I was irate and trembling aboard my motorized chariot. I yanked the throttle. The rascal lurched forward, tires squealing. "Why!!?" I screamed as I shot across the kitchen. Glenn was stunned and unable to react. There was a tremendous crash as we sailed through the bay window accompanied by the rascal and Nemo, my wife’s Cayrn terrier, whose leash had been snatched up in the rascal’s left rear axle during takeoff.
The severity of the ensuing impact was immense. The thick juicy Bermuda sod had failed to provide even the slightest bit of cushioning and I could tell by their unnatural positions, that both of Glenn’s legs were badly broken. Nemo, on the other hand, was fine…just a little shaken. I was pinned beneath the rascal. I was too exhausted to move and so was Glenn. We lay there in silence staring at the sky. I had some pretty serious lacerations on my forehead from the glass. Nemo whimpered as he licked the blood from my face. Glenn moaned. Neither of us could move and Nemo was still tethered to the rascal so he couldn’t go for help. "Am I going to die here like this?" I wondered.
I could hear it, faint at first, but unmistakable. It was Rachael’s golf cart. I had to drag myself around to the front of the house and warn her. It was no use. I could hear the suspension squeak as the golf cart entered the driveway, I could hear the garage door rattling as it began to open. I could hear Rachael shrieking as badgers scattered into the neighborhood. I stared at the sky and wished for death. Glenn’s ribs must have been broken because he was having trouble speaking. "Frank, you bastard…" Glenn paused to catch his breath. "I never bought that property. The badgers aren’t even mine…" He wheezed and grimaced. "I won the lottery and I was just having some fun, you a-hole!" Glenn’s New England accent always grew thick when he got angry. "Does Rachael know?" I asked. "No" he replied. "Good, good! Don’t say anything." I chuckled.
I however, was skeptical from the start. "The demand for badgers can’t be that great" I would argue. "Malarkey!" Glenn would counter. In spite of my objections, and after several days of deliberation and incessant cajoling, I finally relented. What remained of my retirement fund, I begrudgingly lent to Glenn who wasted no time using it to purchase a sandy tract of sparsely vegetated land.
An old dilapidated barn stood in the center of the property surrounded by a few scraggly pine trees and an unhealthy tangle of grass and sand spurs. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps the other side of the property was in better condition. I was advised not to walk until my hip had mended suitably and thus I had been confined to a motorized, three-wheeled scooter that the doctor had informed was called a "rascal." As if I could not read the chrome letters on the side of the machine for myself. At this particular moment, my rascal had become hopelessly stuck in the sand and so I had been denied a complete tour of the premises. Glenn stood there in front of me pointing and waving his hands around as he tried in vain to help me visualize all of the elements of a fully functional badger farm. His voice seemed distant as I sat there chewing on the stem of my pipe and pleading with God to either get my rascal unstuck or humor me with a heart attach of un-survivable proportions. He granted me the former and I scooted back to the van while Glenn followed, still engrossed in his lecture. Glenn must have sensed my disappointment because I did not see much of him for the next few days.
It was Sunday afternoon when I woke from my nap to find Glenn shaking me and grinning from ear to ear. I tied my bathrobe, mounted my rascal, and followed Glenn to the garage. "You’re gonna love this" Glenn said. I could not believe what I was looking at. "You know, badger prices are pretty volatile." Glenn had to yell to be heard over the screeching and hissing. "By the time we get the barn fixed, they could cost twice as much so I …" "Dammit, Glenn!!!!" I screamed. I turned the rascal around and coasted back into the kitchen. "I’m gonna get cages to keep them in." Glenn was trying to reason as he took big steps to avoid the badger poo. Glenn followed me into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
I was irate and trembling aboard my motorized chariot. I yanked the throttle. The rascal lurched forward, tires squealing. "Why!!?" I screamed as I shot across the kitchen. Glenn was stunned and unable to react. There was a tremendous crash as we sailed through the bay window accompanied by the rascal and Nemo, my wife’s Cayrn terrier, whose leash had been snatched up in the rascal’s left rear axle during takeoff.
The severity of the ensuing impact was immense. The thick juicy Bermuda sod had failed to provide even the slightest bit of cushioning and I could tell by their unnatural positions, that both of Glenn’s legs were badly broken. Nemo, on the other hand, was fine…just a little shaken. I was pinned beneath the rascal. I was too exhausted to move and so was Glenn. We lay there in silence staring at the sky. I had some pretty serious lacerations on my forehead from the glass. Nemo whimpered as he licked the blood from my face. Glenn moaned. Neither of us could move and Nemo was still tethered to the rascal so he couldn’t go for help. "Am I going to die here like this?" I wondered.
I could hear it, faint at first, but unmistakable. It was Rachael’s golf cart. I had to drag myself around to the front of the house and warn her. It was no use. I could hear the suspension squeak as the golf cart entered the driveway, I could hear the garage door rattling as it began to open. I could hear Rachael shrieking as badgers scattered into the neighborhood. I stared at the sky and wished for death. Glenn’s ribs must have been broken because he was having trouble speaking. "Frank, you bastard…" Glenn paused to catch his breath. "I never bought that property. The badgers aren’t even mine…" He wheezed and grimaced. "I won the lottery and I was just having some fun, you a-hole!" Glenn’s New England accent always grew thick when he got angry. "Does Rachael know?" I asked. "No" he replied. "Good, good! Don’t say anything." I chuckled.
posted by Reckless at 9:22 AM
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