Читать книгу Something About Sammy - Blaine Sims - Страница 7

Born Samuel Kevin Wilson in Bismarck, North Dakota, on November 13, 1992, 34 years and five days after me, he is a fellow Scorpio.

His mother was 18. I’m not aware if she gave birth out of wedlock, if Sammy met his father, or how his childhood panned out. As do I, he has blue eyes.

While a minor, his family moved to Georgia. They lived in Bluewater. Before the move, his mother married a Nicholas Pangborn.

Uncertain if this took place before or after the relocation, I discovered a criminal court record for a Nicholas Pangborn in Bismarck, North Dakota, so it had to be prior. This man adopted Sammy, and his legal name changed to Samuel Kevin Pangborn.

After graduating elementary school, Sammy attended Bluewater High school and enrolled in the college preparatory program. One of the first schools in the state of Georgia to offer a computer science and information technology curriculum, he jumped at the opportunity to sign in his junior year. He decided to pursue his degree on-line through Georgia Southern University.

The marriage didn’t go well. Domestic violence occurred, and the marriage ended in a bitter divorce. I have wondered if Sammy suffered physical or sexual abuse from this man. I think his relationship with his mom is stable.

On occasion, I heard Allison refer to him as “Little Samuel,” not to him, but me and others. While a record from an arrest in 2013 at 20 lists his height and weight, he’s put on a few pounds. By no means fat, he’s what people call solid. He carries a bit of a belly (I surmise from the beer), yet in no way is he flabby.

“He works at Wal-Mart,” Allison mentioned a few times in general conversation.

As it turns out, a few years passed, and he now works for an information technology company.

To my understanding, he’s talented at his job. He graduated from college with a Bachelor’s Degree in information technology and comes across as above average in intelligence. Of course, intelligence does not correlate with common sense.

In the summer of 2018, a new bartender worked a Saturday to cover for Allison on her regular scheduled off day. I visited the local Bison Lodge earlier, an infrequent occurrence.

I experienced a cooped-up perception at home, and the lodge opened two hours before Rusty’s. After three beers, it was off to Rusty’s. This new bartender is stands over six feet tall, a sizeable lady, and well endowed.

She’s in her fifties and transmits an attitude she’s God’s gift to the world. I am not fond of her, and neither are a slew of others, including Allison and Sammy.

When it came time to leave, I got in my car. I parked close to a curb, as the car to the left extended over the line. As I backed out, the front passenger tire hit the curb. I pulled forward and tried again, concentrating on not colliding with the curb.

I cleared the area but hit a pickup truck parked in the row behind me. The right-side bumper struck the right front side of this vehicle’s bumper. I did not hit it hard, and it amounted to more of a rub. I parked and returned inside.

The bartender saw me coming.

“Who owns the black pickup truck?” I asked with trepidation.

“It’s mine,” she said. “Why, did you hit it?”

I confirmed I had, and we stepped outside. She glanced at her truck.

“We’ll talk later,” she said.

I could not see any damage to her vehicle, and mine didn’t appear to have much.

The next day and on, I took light-hearted ribbing from others, Allison, and Sammy included. Now, my car is a black 2017 Toyota Camry. Sammy’s is a white 2013 Hyundai Elantra 4-door sedan license plate ***-*** (VIN - *****************, 1.8L L4 DOHC assembled in Mexico. The internet is a fantastic tool, isn’t it!).

Sammy made jokes such as, “Don’t hit my car!” and, “I don't want any black paint on my white car!”

One day, I pulled into the rear lot and parked next to his. When I entered, and after he gave the usual, “You're late!” I told him I parked next to him.

“Oh, no,” he shouted in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t hit it on the way out.”

When it came time to leave, I stood and whispered goodbye.

“Don't worry, Sammy,” I said. “I’ll pull out real slow.

I placed a drawn-out emphasis on real.

I heard “whhhaaat?” as I walked out.

The jukebox blared. Allison selected songs; I chose tracks, and Sammy played tunes. Sammy acquired the app on his phone and sent selections to the machine. One I chose a lot is “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen.

A twist concerning this song is I’ve told people it’s my favorite. In truth (and it’s not easy selecting a favorite song), it’s “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. Sammy, at times, chose “Glory Days” without me asking. He said he blasted it in his car.

I’d go to the men’s room, and he’d be inside or came in while I took care of business. Now and then, he belted the words, “Glory Days!” Pardon me, I go on record as saying he can’t sing. And neither can Allison.

Not that I have a claim to fame myself. I never intended to enter because he was — just time to pee! At no point during these meetings did I sneak a peek.

Sammy and I sat the usual two seats apart. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and the conversation stayed limited. I watched television, and his phone was up to his face. Out of the blue, I heard the words from his mouth.

“You can touch me, Andrei,” he said.

Make no mistake — he articulated those exact words. I did not imagine it. He can deny it to the end of time, but it wouldn’t change the fact he spoke them.

“What?” I responded.

Again, the words flowed soft from his mouth.

“You can touch me, Andrei,” he repeated.

I stayed silent and attempted to decipher the purpose and meaning of the words. After the day, I began to touch him. A pat on or a quick rub of his back. I grabbed his upper arms from behind and squeezed them as I gave a goodnight spiel.

I noticed another song played when we were both present and not any other time. It’s “Do You Think I’m Sexy?” by Rod Stewart.