Venison Tastes Gooahd!

Not quite a week and already 850 miles on the trip counter.

I drove the pretty roads back to Oswego, back to my new friends, back across the landmarks I’m getting used to seeing. Bubbi met me at the town Burger King and came upon me in the parking lot, a huge smile on my face as I played back the video of Bob and I. He grabbed me in a giant bear hug and I could smell the wonderful mix of cologne, leather, and Ivory soap.
I pulled away with a quick, "You ready?"
"Yeah, let’s go."

I followed him past Oswego Speedway and realized just how roundabout little towns can be. In Laurel, when you tell someone, "I live in Laurel", that usually means it takes 10 minutes at the most to get their house from any point in town by car, perhaps 15. In Oswego, "I live in Oswego" could mean "I live in Oswego. Meet me at the Burger King and then follow me to my house. See you in 25 minutes." I thought this drive would never end. I followed that kid through neighborhoods, up hills, past rivers. Finally we got to his modest house and I parked in the gravel drive, taking everything of electronic value with me for fear of it being stolen. Bubbi laughed. "You’re in Oswego. Nothing happens here."

I still wasn’t taking any chances so I lugged it all inside. Once there we stared at each other, wondering what to do next. I was FREAKIN’ STARVING, so I did the polite thing when one is a guest in a house and said, "I’m FREAKIN’ STARVING!!! Let’s make dinner!"

When one indecisive person and one houseguest put two heads together to pick what to make for a meal, it’s usually a long, drawn out process. I didn’t want to step on his toes in his own house and vice versa, so it took awhile, during which I began to feel faint until finally my hand landed on a Ziploc bag of frozen meat in the freezer and I announced "This!"
And then, "What is this?"
"Venison!" he shouted. "Yeah, let’s have that and rice."

I’d never had the stuff and I took a quick glance at the deer head mounted on the wall, the one wearing the big red pimp hat. "It’s not that one, is it?" I asked, cautiously and low. "Because I don’t think I could eat it if it’s looking at me."
"No, I shot that one years and years ago."

For some reason, the fact that he had killed that deer really bothered me, and I looked at him cockeyed. Maybe if he had just bought the mount, I wouldn’t have cared. But he had shot it!
"But look at it! How could you kill something so beautiful?" I continued.
"‘Cuz it tastes gooahd!" he drawled in that upstate New York way.
"Bubbi! That deer is dead! It is not alive anymore! Because of you! You!"
"You’re right, now get over here and taste this seasoning salt, it’s the best."

I gave up the fight when it became obvious that no amount of high-pitched pleas and cutsey pouting stances were going to change the mind of this man-monster, not when he’d been raised to think shooting a gorgeous animal were as natural as tying one’s shoes. So I stirred the Rice-A-Roni pilaf (one of God’s gifts to man; if you haven’t had some, try it) and tried to avoid eye contact with the 10-point buck on the wall. We goofed around and laughed with his roommate and I really enjoyed the feeling of playing house for a day. I got to cook, clean, set a table and feel like I belonged somewhere for the first time in a week.

At one point, I turned to Bubbi and, in my best Uncle Rico voice, said. "You wanna see my video?" He looked at me like I had four heads but agreed and I showed him the video of Bob and I rocking out. I was a little apprehensive of what he would say about my singing voice but he was kind, saying, "That’s cool." Derek Robinson, man of few words.

So we sat down and I ate venison for the first time ever. Personally I thought it tasted like liver but I damn sure wasn’t going to tell Bubbi that, at least not a second time after I said it once, quietly, when he asked me how it was and he said, "What?! No way!" I laughed. It was actually pretty good, especially the rarer pieces. Some of them came out pretty done and we had a contest to see who could chew them faster. I lost.

Then we finished up and he got mad at me for trying to do the dishes. We tried making a cake for some reason; I don’t know, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. But after we got all of the equipment out we realized there was no shortening in the house, as well as no oil, so I said screw it and went to the car to grab my meager DVD collection. I keep the whole library in the front pocket of my suitcase, if that gives you any indication of its vastness, or lack thereof. I didn’t think Bubbi would make it through all of Yoga Booty Ballet Workout I, especially since I didn’t have a second resistance ball for him, so I just brought in "Anchorman" (classic), "American Splendor" (subversive, true story classic), and Jim Jarmusch’s "Coffee and Cigarettes", which I bought but still haven’t watched. I eventually eliminated "C&C", thinking it would be over Bub’s head, but it ended up not mattering since he fell asleep 20 minutes into "American Splendor" anyway.

And that was our night. Nothing special, although I caught Bubbi staring at me blankly a few times. When I asked him, "What’s on your mind, sunshine?", he answered "Nothing." His couch had some annoying wooden supports in between the cushions that weren’t all that comfortable but it was better than sleeping in the car. Although I had resisted at first, I was ultimately glad I stayed another night in the area. I sort of wished that Mikey was with us but I had a feeling Bubbi didn’t feel like sharing his new friend, so I didn’t bring it up.

The next morning, I woke up around 8 and got in the shower. By the time I was out, Bubbi was dressed and was making me breakfast! He cracked me up when he couldn’t find any cheese for the omelettes and his roommate had put it in the freezer. Two tired people, pre-morning coffee, debating the outcome of putting a frozen block of cheddar in the microwave = always good for a laugh. He had already finished making the bacon and trust me, I learned no one can make bacon as well as a pork farmer. I wondered for a second what it had smelled like when his family’s barn had burned, if it had smelled like bacon, the scent so often associated with warm family mornings and good times, if that odor had wafted over them as they inspected the charred damage of their livelihood, suddenly taking on a darker context.

He made me coffee and we chowed. I ate the whole thing so as not to be ungrateful but felt like a pig when he just finished half of his and said, "I’m full." Girls always feel stupid things like that. He kept doing that blank stare thing but still wouldn’t tell me why. Then I loaded my car back up with electronics, strategically since that’s the only way everything will fit, and we said our goodbyes, his chin on top of my head while I buried my face in his shirt.

"Thanks for coming back. You be safe now. Just drive safe. And call me if you need something" he said.
"Thanks, you too. You’re a sweet, sweet guy. I’m glad we met."
I pulled back to look him in the eye.
"Don’t let people push you around, Derek", I said quickly.

Then I climbed in my car and he in his truck and I followed him back out to Rt. 104, where he pulled over and I drove past, honking and waving as I did, listening to Pete Yorn and not knowing if or when I would see this gentle giant again.