His own siblings would describe him this way: “Spending time with Prime was like the last few miles of a marathon. Hurts like hell, but you push your way through it.” His friends, who would all eventually become acquaintances, would describe him as “not a bad guy” or “that’s just Prime.”
Prime could enter a room and remove the balance of conversation ever so methodically. In no way was he calculated or malicious in his intent to communicate, but Prime could change the direction of a conversation so subtly that people would fall away or refrain from many topics.
Prime was the king of malapropism, and with some of his many acquaintances, it was a form of entertainment. Prime knew enough but knew nothing, causing him to pontificate. Hal, who Prime would always call “My best friend Hal,” would call interactions “conversations of almost.” Prime would become the brunt of humor for the evening. Still, Prime would mistake it all for interest in himself, and his self-esteem would rise falsely, only leading to more malapropism and conversations of almost, which fed both monsters.
The ride home from the gathering that early evening in July was familiar. Prime had a few beers, a bit of smoke and felt he was okay—driving should not be an issue. The county roads were winding, with little to no traffic except for an occasional piece of farm machinery. Prime had to go through a small, unincorporated village with a village constable. Prime had met him a few years back at the Lions Club chicken barbeque. His name was Jeffery Miller, but everyone called him “Mills.” Prime was glad he knew Mills as he slowly drove through the village. Prime wanted no commotion going home, but given a choice of getting pulled over by a town constable or a county sheriff, he would choose the constable. The young county sheriffs always seemed angry, and, Prime was convinced, seemed to be looking to create incidents instead of serving and protecting.
Entering the village, Prime was surprised at the number of trucks parked in front of the corner tavern. “Dick’s,” the name below the Pabst beer sign always make Prime smile. ” What a aligatorical name,” Prime would say to himself. No one was around to laugh at what he said. Even though Prime didn’t patronize Dick’s, he knew most of the men who did, and they definitely fell into that category. Prime laughed to himself, wondering how much Real Tree camouflage was being worn in Dick’s.
A mile out of the village, Prime sped up to 55 miles an hour and, following a slight curve, slammed on his brakes so hard it caused the leftovers and the change in his cup holder to fly into the windshield. Prime could not believe his own eyes.
To Be Continued
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