On boots and bars and motorbikes...

Now before you start calling me a straight up asshole, you’ve got to understand how we two first met. Not that what you might call me matters much. I been called worse. A lot worse. Today, even. If the boot fits, I always like to say, wear that sumbitch proudly. But how we met says an awful lot to how we’ve put up with each other for so long. It says a lot about what makes us tick, how we view the big wide world around us. I didn’t know Bubba at all back then. Seen him around the jobsite a few times, but that was it. We worked different crews in different trades. He was a framer, or carpenter to folks outside the business. Me, I’m an electrician. Were it not for landing on the same floor that particular afternoon—and that dumbass kid—I doubt we ever would’ve said word one to each other. It’s kind of a rule on a construction site: You don’t fuck with other crews and they won’t fuck with you. Makes everything a hellova lot easier, most days. But every crew has its dumbass. Thi