Don’t know about you but work just seems, I don’t know, busier than it used to be. Granted, I never had a three-martini lunch. But I did used to play golf. On company time. And my boss knew. He encouraged it. That’s back from the era of secretaries and punching out at 5 p.m. on the dot.
Those days are long gone.
Maybe that’s why I love Saturday mornings in the office. The pace is slower and I can turn on some tunes and enjoy the genius that is Roger Miller. What? Scoff if you must, but have you ever considered the brilliance behind lyrics that told us we can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd? Just saying.
At any rate, I was deep into the third or fourth verse of do-wacka-do (Google it) and was in rare voice when, you guessed it, John Hammer appeared in the doorway like a dark cloud blotting out the sun.
“Great Christopher Columbus and the Santa Maria!” I yelled. “Could you at least cough or something when you get close so as not to push me over the edge of cardiac arrest!”
As usual, Hammer just stared. I swear there’s a hint of a smile when he sees me jerk like a bluegill that just swallowed a worm.
Something was different this time, something behind that great big mountain of a man that is John Hammer. I wasn’t sure because it’s hard to see anything past a man who must be at least 6-5 and pushing a neck size that’s uncomfortably close to my IQ.
Hammer saw me looking.
“Timmons, this is my cousin. He’s visiting from over in-“
“Timmons! Is that you?”
I could hardly believe it. The man who just interrupted the Hammer was none other than Bubba Castiron. I met Bubba at our newspaper in Noblesville and to say there was a village missing an idiot would probably be an insult to all good idiots everywhere.
“Hey Bubba,” I managed. “How’ve you been?”
“Whoo-eee,” Bubba said in a voice as different from Hammer’s gravelly rumble as I could imagine. “I didn’t know you worked here. Shoot-fire, the boys been asking about you since they ain’t seen you around for a little while.”
Little while?
“Bubba, I haven’t had an office over there in five or six years.”
“Heck, Timmons, we just figured you were taking a few too many martini lunches, know what I mean!” he cackled.
I was going to explain about those days-
“If you two could shut up a second,” Hammer cut in. And when Hammer says I should do something I try hard to never make him say it twice.
“I heard that the folks over at MUFFY could use a little help.”
That caught me by surprise. Sure, I was used to Hammer stopping by. He usually had some point to make – more often than not dealing with politics, and as far as I was concerned, always on the money. This show of support for one of our charitable organizations in need was unexpected.
“Me and the Mrs. figured we’ve had some good times,” Hammer said. “So we just thought we’d try to help out a little bit. Here’s something that we’d appreciate if you would get to the right folks.”
“Absolutely, John,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it a lot.”
And with that, he turned to leave – and ran smack into a goofily grinning Bubba. I heard Hammer let out an exasperated sigh. Bubba just giggled.
And now that Bubba knew how to find me, I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen the last of him either.

Two cents, which is about how much Timmons said his columns are worth, appears periodically on Tuesdays in The Paper. Timmons is the publisher of The Paper and can be contacted at