Stinky Bob

By: R. Todd Woodstock
September 9, 2008

The water continued to flow across a smudgy, cracked windshield. It created difficulties seeing past the reflecting lights appearing from the other side of the road; the drizzle was just enough to annoy any driver. Often Bob Rivers wouldn’t be traveling home from the plant at six in the morning, but he was and for good reason—overtime. It just so happened that someone called in last night and he was going to take advantage of the fortunate moment. The fact that Bob had five kids and a wife, who was unable to work, meant one income was tight and with Christmas fast approaching, it was a necessity.

So there was Bob, the hard working man that he is, attempting to pry his eyes open from the fatigue that had put such a weight on his lids. Two eight-hour shifts in a row would wear anyone out and especially from toting over one thousand, ten-pound flanges from cart to cart. Bob was no different; he was pooped. And just as he struggled to keep his vehicle straight on the shiny back roads and keep his eyes open, he thought about how bad he loathed his work and why the hell he dropped out of college fifteen years ago.

Only twenty-two more credits and I would have had a bachelor’s . . . and then maybe onto a master’s, if only I wouldn’t have dropped out--what a stupid-ass? What’s wrong with me, busting my balls for twelve an hour? And then for what, so I can hear my dip-shit of a boss rate my performance as below average. It just wasn’t right, there has to be some kind of change in my life.

As he fought the impeding drizzle, he began to smell the dried perspiration, which had turned his work shirt from a light to dark blue, and it only confirmed why his co-workers called him “Stinky Bob”. Although cruel, it was true. The summer months were always brutal on Bob’s odor, but it wouldn’t matter if the manufacturing shop was only a comfortable seventy degrees, his body couldn’t handle excessive movement without spilling a nasty scent in his uniform shirt. Bob only had to touch the shop floor and the sweaty beads would begin to break free, exposing anyone near to have to put up with his rancidity. Maybe it was genetics or maybe it was his deodorant; regardless of reason, the poor guy stunk.

The radio was a friend for the moment, pouring out hits from the sixties throughout his small, depreciated truck. Most of the songs reminded him of younger years, when he gallivanted around his tiny hometown in his varsity jacket, proudly displaying the large “R” on the left side of his coat. It certainly helped him score with the local babes. In those days, Bob was a glorious quarterback; captain of the Riverside Vikings and calls would regularly flood in everywhere from colleges promising him scholarships on the magnificent way he tossed a pigskin. His record of seven touchdown passes in a game still remains a record today. Yeah, forty pounds lighter and several decades later definitely changed his popularity. It was a shame his juvenile irresponsibility focused on campus partying and police confrontation; his mischievous ways outweighed his goal to truly succeed in life. Now only memories are left of a once golden path of prosperity.

There were only a few more miles to tolerate the blinding, fine rain, before Bob reached home, sweet home, but he was at the point of really beginning to feel the heaviness on his eyelids. The fact that he was traveling down an empty road didn't help matters. The streets were getting worse and more difficult to see, due to the increasing sprinkles as he moved deeper into the rural areas. It was then he cracked the driver window open and started slapping his face to stay alert.

Come on, dumb-ass! Stay awake. Only a few more miles and you’ll get to sleep.

However, it wasn’t long before the sweet songs from the airwaves began to mix in with the memories that danced inside Bob’s head. A pleasant feeling of rest was beginning to cause him to slip from reality. His mind drifted from concentrating on the steering wheel and onto the green football field that entered his thoughts. He was lost in his dreams of running toward the goal line. He could hear the roars from the high school stands. They all cheered his name:

"Way to go, Bobby! Way to go! Way to go, Bobby! Way to no, no, noooooo!"

Suddenly, the vibrations of something rattled under the truck. The jolt caused Bob’s eyes to fly open and he immediately slammed on the brakes. The shiny, black road caused the truck to slide several feet from the initial contact. Bob frantically steered the seemly uncontrollable vehicle, while smoke bellowed from all directions. Within seconds, everything rocked to a stop. Bob sat wide awake, while the haze begun to dissipate and then the radio drew his attention again. Quickly, he turned it off.

Then silence.

Then fear.

Bob could hear his heart beating and the windshield wipers gently swaying back and forth, as he sat wondering what he plowed into on the side of the road. His breathing began to calm, although he was still shaken from the incident. He placed the shifter in park.

Good show, dumbass! Bob whirled around in his tired mind, as he imagined what his comforting colleagues would say to him if they had seen him drift off at the wheel. You sure fucked up this time!

Bob left the engine running, while he slowly climbed out to see the damage. A nasty lump filled his throat, as he noticed a red streak that trailed behind the back bumper. The lump was bigger and increasingly harder to swallow even in the rain.

The fresh, red stripe flowed toward the gravelly shoulder. There was a mound in the short distance, but Bob had difficulties deciphering it. Again, the drizzle was successful in hindering his vision. As he slowly grew closer to the dark heap that lay on the side of road, he sensed that he hit an animal of some sort. Maybe a raccoon? No, it was too damn big for a raccoon. Then maybe a deer? Yes, that's what it was, a deer. A deer had bolted in front of the truck. It had to be.