Hi. My name is Wendell Allison. Hestal is loaning me his diary for a little bit. This is not a true story, except that it is.
Here's the thing. I was out mowing my north half-acre on my red Toro 16-horsepower, zero-turn, mulching, 42-inch-wide-swath mower with a pressurized lubrication system and freshly sharpened blades, when my old friend Bubba drove up in his white, diesel dooley with the best looking Goodyear tires you've ever seen, well except on my Ford F-250 (I'd rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy). And when he stepped down I could see that he was upset because he had forgotten to roll down his window and the tobacco juice stains were all over his shirt. He was beside himself. Hell, he wasn't even wearing his Howerton Seeds gimme cap. He must have left home in a hell of a hurry.
I killed the engine, leaving it on high revs so it wouldn't backfire, and said, "Hello, Bubba. Nice day, huh."
He stopped, spat out his entire chew, took a deep breath and fired a rapid burst the like of which I had never heard from him or anybody else except maybe Preacher Robinson when he gets rolling.
He said, "Gawddammit, Wendell, I'm so pissed I could spit. I don't know what this world is coming to. The gawddammed county prosecutor is either one of those gawddammed eastern atheist liberals or he is on dope. You can't believe what he is trying to do to my boy, Bubby."
I climbed down off my rig and waited; Bubba was ready to explode. He reached for his cap and realized that it wasn't there, so he grabbed mine and slammed it to the ground and immediately began to stomp it to death. I noticed that he was not wearing his spurs.
I said, "Easy Bubba. That's my cap from Bluebonnet Country Club. Tell me what is going on."
So he picked up my cap and stuck it back on my head, dirt and all, and climbed onto my rig. He began raising and lowering the cutting platform. Finally he said, "Well you probably remember a few weeks back when my boy, Bubby, got arrested for driving drunk and getting involved in a wreck."
I nodded that I did remember and Bubba went on, "Well, I know that old man McDonald got killed and all and I know that Bubby probably would have to pay a fine. Hell, he might even have to do a little time, but, Christ, this ain't the first time this kind of thing happened. I remember old man McDonald got arrested for the very same thing once or twice. And I know that Bubby was on probation and that he bypassed the breathalyzer so he could start his car, but hell, boys will be boys, won't they? And, by the way his trial comes up next week and I hope you'll be a character witness again."
I knew that the worst was yet to come. Bubba was beating around the bush to beat the band. Something bad had happened. I said, "Come on, Bubba, tell me what is going on?"
He said, "Well, that same night that he had the wreck, Bubby had a date with Oleta Stagner, you know, the pharmacist's daughter. Well, it turns out now that she is pregnant and she is claiming that Bubby is the father. And she has gone to the county prosecutor and is making some kind of claim under some dammed law that those gawddammed liberal Democrats passed a few years back before we took over the state government. Now it seems that the county prosecutor can make Bubby take some sort of test to prove if he is the father of her kid. The bitch. She is trying to ruin my boy's life. Think what Preacher Robinson and the people down at Sycamore Arbor Baptist Church will say. What a mess. I could just spit."
I didn't know exactly what to say. Here was a fine boy, barely nineteen, and one of the best football players we had ever had, and his life was about to be ruined by some gal who probably led him on so she could trap him into marriage. So I said, "Well, do you think Bubby will have to marry her?"
Bubba was holding his head in hands now. He said, "I'm afraid, so. And he has a tryout scheduled for the TAMU freshman football team. I'd cry, but it won't do any good. Dammit, why won't she just be reasonable and just get an abortion?"
I asked, "Have you talked to her about it?"
Bubba said, "I've talked to her father, you know man to man. But it didn't do any good. He doesn't have a son and the sonofabitch is a gawddammed Methodist. I'm afraid we're sunk. The only thing that I can of think is to offer to pay for everything until the child finishes high school so that Bubby can play college football. But there is a problem."
I asked, "What is that?"
He said, "Bubby has disappeared. I bet he's run off to his Uncle Ernest's down in New Iberia. Maybe that is for the best. He can play for LSU. Man, when you and I were in high school we just didn't have these problems. This paternity test stuff is bullshit."
I said, "Well maybe her father will take the money and then Bubby can come back home. But there is his trial next week."
Bubba said, "Oh, that is the easy part. That will be over in no time at all. He'll probably get probation again."