“So R-, you’re officially a father now, how’s that going?” Pete asked R- as R- walked through the door to the trailer.
R- didn’t waste time setting down his cooler and slipping off his tennis shoes in favor of house shoes. The blue cooler with a white lid and handle was bigger than the lunch pails previous oil men likely brought to work, but, then again, so was the man.
“This place is a mess. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” R- noted. Then, ignoring Pete’s initial greeting and question in favor of following a just-launched pinball’s unexpected path, R- asked, “You get a girlfriend over days-off Pete?”
“Na,” said Pete with little effort. “I think I told you I was planning on bowling a lot. Well, one night there was a pretty good looking brunette, but she was with some guys. I couldn’t tell if one was her boyfriend. In any case, I was too much of a chicken to attempt to chat her up.”
“Bowling?” R- said, with no small confusion shaping his face. “You need to go to the clubs. There is nothing like chicks that want dick.”
“Man, that’s what I missed these last two weeks,” Pete began. “Hold that thought, let me get my phone. I need to write this down,” Pete said, smiling as he shuffled sideways past the deep freezer that took up most of the already narrow hallway that led to his room. Returning in a jiff, his movements were a little awkward as he attempted to walk and type on his phone. “Okay, I’m back. So how’d you say it? You said, ‘There’s nothing like chicks that want dick,’ is that right?”
“What? You’re going to blog this?” R- smirked.
“The people need to know. I don’t meet too many people who can surprise me every time they talk. You, my friend, are one of the lucky few,” Pete flattered.
“You know what your blog needs?” asked R-.
Despite his previous positive sentiment, Pete’s disdain for unsolicited advice regarding his blog, in addition to his being tired, caused his mood to take a turn for the worst. “No. What does my blog need?” he asked.
“Pictures,” R- pronounced.
“No. My blog is simply a writing blog. I think pictures are too easy,” Pete retorted.
“Like one of me holding heads–like Taliban style,” R- added, arms extended, hands clenching the imaginary hair of just beheaded infidels.
Shaking his head while attempting to look past R-‘s eyes and into his soul, Pete twisted his tongue between his teeth in a last ditch effort to resist the smile he knew would form no matter what. Fishing his phone out of his pocket once more, he could only say, “You are out of control.”