Billybuc and Hot Buttered Buns

I sit on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a drying layer of sweat and stare at the computer screen across the room.

Running my fingers through my hair I struggle with the decision to participate. Behind me, Maxine prods me with her toe and moans. She’s either having another bad dream about hot buttered buns being outlawed, or she’s ready for round two.

In front of me, my monitor glows with the image of four pictures--four pictures that are haunting me.

Damn it! Why hadn’t I read the details of the contest the first time? If only I had taken the time to read through the entire article instead of speed browsing it, as is my customary habit, I would have noticed what the winning prize was going to be; an autographed copy of William D. Holland, A.K.A. Billybuc’s “The 12/59 Shuttle from Yesterday to Today”. And now here it is less than an hour from the deadline. It’s bad enough that if I wanted to complete this thing that I would really have to rush, but now Maxine is beginning to wedge her toe into an area that tells me that she is definitely not dreaming--or is she? After all; wasn’t it about hot buttered buns?

I want that book. I need that book!

Behind me, Maxine whimpers, “C’mon Poopsie. Come back to Mama.”

I turn and leer at her, and she must notice the hesitancy in my eyes because she begins to slowly pull the sheet up over her thighs…higher…and higher. One of Billybucs recent articles comes to mind; “Are you a Giver or a Taker”. Oh yes, I’m definitely feeling like a giver right about now.

Oh, God! Get a grip, man. I put my fists against my eyes. Think about the book, man. Think about the book!

I stand and walk toward my desk but turn to face Maxine before I sit down.

“Please, Sugar Muffins! Just let me write this one little story and I’ll be right there.”

Maxine flings the sheet aside and jumps to her feet. Her entire body flushes with anger as she stands there glaring.

She didn’t know it, but at that moment she had me…oh yeah…I was done! But she didn’t realize it, so she just huffed at me and then stormed out of the room wearing nothing but her…well, wearing nothing at all. As the last of her bounced through the doorway, I too suddenly began to dream about hot buttered buns.

I turn back to my desk and sit in my leather chair, instantly wishing that I had donned my undies. Rocking from side to side until the leather finally quits pinching, I stare at the four pictures that the author of the article, Billybuc, has posted. I take a deep breath.

Why, Billy? Why? As if the randomness of the subjects in the photos wasn’t difficult enough, he also wants them referred to in the order that they are displayed.

Oh, you’re lucky I’m not in Washington picking apples right about now, Mr. Buc!

Okay, get a grip. You can do this. I study the four pictures: boats moored to a dock, a Jay Bird, a cement mixer in a shed, and the Winged Victory Statue in Olympia Washington…and I draw a complete blank.

Knowing it’s time for drastic measures, I reach into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet next to my desk and pull out my trusty little flask. I unscrew the cap, tilt the bottle back and take a deep slug. After doing my imitation of, Jack Nicholson’s character, George Hanson from the movie “Easy Rider”, I sprinkle a little of the rot-gut on my fingers and commence to anoint myself.

I don’t know if it was the result of swallowing the whiskey, or dowsing myself in it, but it must’ve worked, because as I sat there trying to catch my breath and uncross my eyes, the inspiration hit me! It was like a light shining down from heaven, and the entire story began to unfold before me. I had an image in my mind as clear as day: Otis Redding and Ronnie Van Zant trying to combine their hit songs after drinking home-made wine that had been fermented in an old cement mixer on Memorial Day. Yes!

I lean forward in my chair, and once more the leather bites into my rear end which oddly enough makes me think of Billybuc again. I jerk my fingers toward the keyboard and prepare to start typing when from my peripheral I notice the time; 12:01 AM.

Ahhh! Damn you, Billybuc!

I collapse forward, and my forehead hits the keyboard spelling the word, “jhhgfg.” Believing that I have just accomplished one third of a haiku, I lean back, defeated, resigned to the fact that I have been disqualified from winning the book.

“Ah, what the hell,” I moan to myself. “I guess I’ll just buy the damned thing!”

From the kitchen I hear Maxine rattling some pots and pans. I guess I’ll head that way because if I’m not going to be working on a story for Billybuc, I might as well have myself some hot buttered buns!