Wilbur almost gets stoned
The shouts echoed across the ledges and over the pasture. Wilbur the Alpaca Farmer and Junior, squared off in the cove, were having a fierce screaming match. Distance blurred their actual words, but the message was clear: Wilbur was pissed at his son and everyone in the ’hood knew it.
Junior and his pal Josh were in big trouble. The night before, while the rest of Wilbur’s family and guests partied around the Fourth of July bonfire, J & J visited each camper and tent site and stole whatever beer, booze and pills they could find.
When the collective thefts were reported to Wilbur the following morning, he went looking for the little bastards and found the two crooks passed out in the pool hall on the second floor of the red barn. Surly and haggard, Junior denied all charges, then he and his pal jumped into the beat-up work Gator and zoomed toward the shore. Wilbur hopped into his Gator and followed in hot pursuit. Both vehicles disappeared behind the huge rocks on the other side of the farm pond and lower alpaca enclosure.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” asked Thomas. This dude – a straight-edge, Christian, Midwestern business acquaintance of Wilbur’s – had brought his quiet wife and wholesome kids to Wilbur’s farm to celebrate America’s birthday, Eastport-style. And from the look on his face I could see he was regretting his vacation decision. “This seems pretty crazy,” Thomas said, his brow wrinkled in worry.
“Yeah.” I sighed. My constant involvement in Wilbur’s melodramas and histrionics was exhausting. If I’d known my position as alpaca herdsman would require being involved in the lunatic side of a multi-millionaire madman’s life, I wouldn’t have taken the job. “I guess.”
“How do we get over there?” Thomas asked. The screaming had taken on a different pitch. More like howling. “And I mean quick.”
Since both Gators were already in use, it left only one ATV: the six-wheeled amphibious machine we called the Yellow Submarine.
“Let’s go,” I said, climbing into the rig. “And hold on tight.”
(The Yellow Submarine’s nickname was an exaggeration, of course. The lemon-colored thing didn’t actually go underwater. It floated and rode on the surface, propelled by extra-knobby tires that were supposed to act like a half-dozen paddle-wheels. During our maiden voyage in choppy and cold Cobscook Bay, three months earlier, Wilbur and I decided the rig was probably better suited for swamps and streams, not ocean. Wilbur, who didn’t own a boat because he didn’t know how to swim and was scared of the water, ended up using the $20,000 vehicle as a glorified golf cart. He parked it prominently atop a pasture hill.)
Gripping the motorcycle-like handlebars, I opened her throttle and the Yellow Submarine roared. Her speed over land always surprised me. Thirty-five m.p.h. in an automobile on a road is boring; the same pace across meadows and beaches in an amphibious ATV is breathtakingly exhilarating. I often drove the Sub at high speeds, so I trusted the low-riding suspension and super-fat tires to keep us from flipping over. Thomas, terrified, held on for his prayer-filled life.
The tide was rising fast. The route Junior and Wilbur had taken was now under a foot of water. No problemo for the Yellow Sub. Didn’t even have to go afloat to make it across. Thomas had expected we’d slow down to cross the water. He yelped when I gunned the engine.
Once back on dry land, I slammed the brakes. A couple hundred feet away, across a tidal zone littered with rocks and boulders, stood Wilbur and the two thugs. Junior picked up a stone the size of a softball and threw it at his dad. He missed by a mile. He found another rock and whipped it. This time his aim was better, but he still missed.
“Oh my goodness!” Thomas exclaimed, grabbing my arm. “Let’s get over there.”
•••
“ABOUT FRIGGIN’ TIME,” Wilbur wailed as we arrived on the scene. His face was dirty with anger and mud. “I’ve been shouting for you for 10 minutes.”
“Well…” I started.
“Never mind. I want these sons-of-bitches off the land. NOW!” Wilbur pointed at his son and Josh, who were standing in a stupor. “And never allowed back!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Junior said, dismissing his father with a wave of his hand. “You wait until I tell Mom.” He paused for a second. “About your Indian girlfriend.” He nodded. “So fuck you!”
I expected Wilbur to explode. Instead he stood there, shaking his head. Sadly. Pensively.
“So there,” Junior said, grinning widely. “Hah!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wilbur sighed. “So you better watch what you say and…”
“Yeah well…”
“Don’t friggin’ interrupt me,” Wilbur warned, pointing at his son. “Because I’ll take care of you. I’m gonna cut you out of my will. So there. Hah!” He nodded, then pointed at me. “Crash, get these jokers off the property, ASAP. And I’m taking the Yellow Submarine.”
He climbed aboard, started the engine and drove into the rising tide.
•••
Thomas gave Junior a ride back to the fortress in Wilbur’s Gator via a gentler route. Josh and I took the work Gator and headed toward the front gate.
“Dude,” he said, blinking. “I left my stuff on the pool table.”
I turned and drove to the red barn, marched the kid upstairs and watched as he grabbed his bag. Back in the Gator, I delivered him to the front gate at the main road. Josh lived in public housing nearby, so he didn’t have far to walk.
“Listen, you’re lucky we don’t call the cops for the stealing you did last night,” I said. “So we’re giving you a break. But I’m telling you, DO NOT COME ON WILBUR’S LAND EVER AGAIN. Got it?”
The kid just stared at me. Then yawned and nodded.
What was happening to me? All I wanted from this job was to make 10 bucks an hour tending livestock. I’d turned into a bully. A real dickhead.
I should have counseled the lad. Told him to stay away from Junior, ’cuz the rich punk was a mess and bound to get him in real trouble. Explain how life was more than just pills and booze. But I didn’t offer any good advice. Nope. Just grabbed the kid’s backpack out of the Gator and tossed it on the ground by his feet.
“Get out of here,” I growled, like the lowly, scummy henchman I’d become. “Or I’ll kick your ass.”
Visit crashbarry.com for info about Crash’s upcoming Tough Island: Live performances in Belfast, Bridgton and Southwest Harbor.
