Who Is Paul Botterman?

II

End of Summer. School and Saffron. TheMissing Girls

Paul Botterman was, for all intents and purposes, non-existent after our first meeting. He came home on a Sunday night, showered and slept, then was back up the following day to work for his job at the Jack Frost Building Co. There were a lot of jokes going on in my head about that. Nonetheless, six days a week. Monday through Saturday. From the crack of dawn until damn near sunset, he was off building houses somewhere. Well, that was all I got when questioning what he did exactly. No details were given except that he had built the houses. My mother gave the simple answer and ended it there as with anything that came with him. Did he hang windows, run electrical, lay floors? He built the houses. You would think she would try to sell him to me as this great man doing God's good work. Instead, she never brought him up unless the kids stepped out of bounds. Or she did. If one little thing was out of place, she missed a spot cleaning, or dinner might not finish just as he was about to walk through the door. Then she muttered his name under her breath like it was a curse with a following about his disappointment and how upset he would be. It made me think of him less as a person and more as a symbol, unlike the rest of us, who functioned and had personalities to interact and appear human. He was just there, looming around us, no different than how you could sense a coming storm when the day seemed content.

Sundays weren't much different when he was around. If he wasn't outside tinkering with his truck, some days with Pete and Jack standing at attention for a learning experience that didn't involve showing or telling, he was inside the master bedroom. What was he doing? I couldn't tell you, having not been gone inside. I firmly believe you should never enter someone's bedroom without an invitation. Mom never dared, and with how little I interacted with the man in those early days, I doubt we would end up chummy enough for him to take me inside and show me his baseball card collection. That was assuming something like that was allowed. I did manage to see inside a handful of times. It looked like a typical bedroom. Do your worst, and you'll likely be accurate. However, there was a small corner where I saw a police scanner and a CB radio. I guess in his spare time, Paul liked to sit and listen to the truckers, helping them with directions or giving them dining advice whenever he had the opportunity. To each his own, I suppose. Although, I only figured out the scanner's purpose when it was much too late for it to matter.

"Breaker, breaker, this is Mud Duck, over." I heard him say a few times. The little knowledge I possessed told me only his handle was Mud Duck. I guess all truckers had some kind of name over the radio, hearing one who called himself Rusty Nail and another named Dutch Easy.

Not gonna lie. I made fun. Took Pete and Marissa to the mailbox one Sunday and said, "Breaker, Breaker, 1-9. Passin' through Ocala sticks lookin' for Mud Duck. This is Cum Hands, over." They tried to restrain themselves but couldn't help it.

I got stir-crazy on one of those Sunday afternoons and went outside for some fresh, humid air. Despite his clear perception of me. Not bothering to engage me further after that first meeting. The decent part of me figured to give it a try. Things don't change unless you change them, right? I was better off doing nothing, considering the conversation that followed. All I asked was if he enjoyed what he did.

"If a man is a man. He enjoys everythin' he is good at." Which was fair enough, I guess. It got weird no sooner than that. "I'm a genius."

I wasn't sure how considering how simple he seemed to be. Never participating in any conversation that involved a small amount of book smarts. The way he talked was almost as bad as a hillbilly with a lisp. Never judge a book by its cover, they say. But this book didn't have a cover. Not one that was clear, anyway. Dumb me had to ask.