Something About Sammy. Blaine Sims
to ask for proof of address.
“Nope,” he said.
Let me tell you, flabbergasted is not the correct word to explain my reaction. With a migratory stamp in hand, I returned to the gun shop to fill out a new ATF Form 4473.
I gave it to the associate to photocopy, and within a matter of minutes, I walked out the door the owner of a brand new 9mm Glock Model 43.
Good days fluctuated. Overall, I enjoyed my job. I owned a strong sense of worth and purpose. I belonged to the local Bison Lodge and held a position on the Board of Officers, worked in the kitchen, and served on committees. Many people came into my life. One in particular, Angel. What a saint for tolerating me.
A 100m percent disabled Navy veteran, she is a Godsend. We enjoy a particular musical group and have watched their DVDs several times. She’s joined me at concerts by the group and individual members when they perform solo.
We follow a talented young performer who’s a genuine prodigy. We’ve watched his DVD’s and attended performances by him.
Active in the Women’s Chapter of the Bison Lodge, Angel served on their version of the Board of Officers and countless committees. She ascended through the ranks and in status.
Eventual infighting and internal politics curtailed her involvement after many dynamic years. Of the myriad memories spent with her at the lodge, I recall with hearty laughs the times we performed Karaoke, her lending her support and voice to a poor attempt by me at ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’, along with wrapping up many a night with ‘Day-O’ (The Banana Boat Song).
As in the past, I had an extensive repertoire of selections, but some songs should have been left off my list. One long-time member of the women’s chapter insisted whenever she was present for Karaoke, I had to perform ‘For the Good Times’. I always did it justice.
A male member would sing, ‘Unchained Melody’ as a tribute to his wife, and I would always have to accompany him. I may not be the best singer, but this gentleman’s shower turns off when he sings in it.
Hurricane Irma, then a tropical storm as it swept through Georgia, caused significant structural damage to her house after several humongous trees fell. She evacuated to her mother’s place and remains while going through the bureaucratic process of having a new house built.
We are best of friends, and this lady shouldered and supported me throughout trials and tribulations. A true inspiration, she’s endured more than her share of life’s Hell. A remarkable person, she embodies the cliché “to know her is to love her.” An outgoing, personable, and positive outlook individual, it’s tough to summon the notion of vices.
And I had Kitty Kat. The good Lord and everyone who knows me knew how much this cat meant. Born on the property of the work camp, and present when I transferred from a major institution, we remained together for 15 years.
On one trip to see Cody, we made plans to have dinner at a local restaurant known for their Prime Rib, a favorite of mine.
As they both had gotten off work, he and Heather prepped themselves while Rose watched cartoons. Pulling up a photo of Cody on my phone (taken of a photograph when he was six).
“Do you want to see a picture of your daddy when he was a little boy?” I asked.
“Daddy was never a little boy,” she said.
“Yes, he was,” I said. “Look.”
She stared for a minute, then turned to continue watching cartoons. Over an hour later, as we awaited the arrival of our meals, she pointed across the table at her father.
“You never told me you were a little boy,” she said.
His mouth dropped.
“Um, daddy was never a little boy,” he said.
“You were too a little boy,” she pushed back.
Against my initial judgment, I explained the reason for Rose’s sudden announcement.
In the fall of 2014, Cody underwent back surgery. As a result, he could not work for twelve weeks, and he headed on a downhill spiral. He became addicted to painkillers. A heavy drinker in the past, he started hitting the bottle.
The relationship became heated between him and Heather. Aware of the operation, I didn’t know of his addiction and other problems. Once again, he tossed me aside like trash. What did I do? I struck back with nasty text messages but managed to persevere and continued doing what I needed.
A month or two later, Cody contacted me. He said he didn’t understand how to tell me his marriage deteriorated. He lost his job of 13 years and got charged with domestic violence.
Heather filed for divorce and kicked him out of the house. I rushed to Bluewater Springs and spent thousands of dollars trying to help. For over a year, I spent countless hours on the phone.
We planned for him to drive to Little Oak Isle. For the life of me, I can’t remember the date or the month. My thoughts revolved around the trip might do him good. It would be a short get-away from his troubles.
He indicated he’d bring his fishing rods and relax angling. Impossible for him to stay with me, as the prison regulation forbade overnight guests, I rented a room at a motel an hour's drive away. The least expensive place, yet by no means a dive. The excursion turned into a fiasco.
He called an average of fifteen minutes intervals, asking if he arrived. I slaved through a rough work shift and did not feel well. Exhausted, and with the next shift off, I took a nap.
Sleep came quick, and I remained deep into it longer than anticipated. When I awoke and turned the phone on, calls from Cody and the Bison Lodge displayed. Without delay, I phoned to explain and apologize. He professed he understood. I suggested we get together the next morning.
Cody informed me he needed to leave early. The court ordered he not leave the county without permission. I expressed dismay why he hadn’t told me of the fact but did not receive a coherent answer. He promised to text or call when he reached home.
The next morning, I waited with concern. Close to noon, I received a telephone call from the manager of the motel who advised me something troubled her.
She explained Cody acted strange during the duration of his stay and insisted they towed his car. He could not locate it. I told her I’d drive to the motel.
Upon arrival, I approached the front desk and introduced myself. The employee on duty informed me the manager left the premises, but she’d call her to return. We proceeded to Cody’s room.
The manager unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. Cody lay in bed, and I hollered his name.
“I’m okay,” he said, empty beer cans littering the room.
The manager left, and I queried Cody when he recalled having last seen his car. He had the keys and stated he remembered eating at a wing place the night before.
This revelation turned out meaningless, as many restaurants and joints in the area serve wings. He remarked he walked back to the motel and recollected making a two-mile trek.
We set out to search for his vehicle. I drove through each restaurant and bar parking lot within a two-and-a-half-mile radius. The thought someone stole the car clouded my mind. I disregarded it as a remote consideration because of his state-of-mind and earlier level of intoxication.
We made the decision to get a bite to eat. Cody ordered a Rueben sandwich, and I stuck with my usual standby of a cheeseburger with sautéed onions. Hold the lettuce, tomato, and pickles.
Under normal conditions, I wouldn’t have instructed the bartender not to serve Cody alcohol, but viewed it best. In deference, I refrained from imbibing. We chose iced tea.
The ordeal wore on me, and I did not feel one-hundred percent. Discouraged, tired, and drained of emotion, we headed back to the motel. At one o’clock in the morning, Cody woke me out of a sound sleep.
He