My friend, Booger Bill

It’s usually a three-hour drive back home from Chapel Hill, but today it feels even longer. Bright rays of morning sun beam through my car door window, the heat warm on my face despite the cold November weather outside. I try to focus on the road, on the radio, on the billboards lining the highway. I even try to think about helping Mom cook all the Thanksgiving food during break, something I’ve loved to do since I was a little girl. But my mind is elsewhere. It’s the first time I’ve gone home since the accident. I couldn’t make it to the funeral because of midterms. No matter how much I pleaded, “Not a chance in hell you’ll miss your midterms, Hannah,” Mom had said. Missing the funeral tore me up inside, a sleepless night or two plagued with remorse. But my friend would’ve understood, or at least I tell myself he would’ve. As I drive, I can’t help but think of him. I can see his happy face. I can hear his voice as clear as a bell. That makes me smile.

*

By the time I was born, William “Bill” Plyler was already 30 years old give or take. I didn’t know much about his life before my childhood, but what I did know I had learned from Mom and Daddy. Mostly Daddy since he had grown up in our hometown of Maryville at the same time.

I knew that he was born in the same small country house that his family had lived in for generations.

I knew that even at an early age, according to Daddy, it was clear that there was something off with him, something just not quite right. He talked a little differently, took longer than most kids to do simple things, and had eyes and ears and a nose and a mouth that seemed too big for his face. Daddy had put it to me once that, back then, no one knew what to do with someone like that. He said he acted fine and could function alright, but was just a little slower than most, a couple wires in his head not connected.

I knew that he made his way through most of school, but eventually dropped out when he was 16 or so and went to work as a custodian at the fiberglass plant. Daddy worked there as a forklift operator.

I knew that, at about the time he started working at the plant, his parents abandoned him. They had up and left in the middle of the night. When he got back home from his night shift, he found their closets emptied, their car gone from the driveway. They left no indication of where they went or why, not even a note saying goodbye. And I knew that he’d been on his own ever since.

I knew that one day, when he was at the Food Lion getting groceries and such, a couple of older women he recognized were struggling to empty their buggies onto the conveyor belt. He tried to help them by picking up a few things, then accidentally dropped them, breaking glass jars and smashing fresh produce on the ground. One of the ladies was livid, yelling “You’re such a booger, Bill! Go on now, get out of here!” She meant it callously, that he was a nuisance, someone that always caused trouble. But Bill didn’t understand that. Instead, he must have taken it with some kind of pride or affection or something, because from that point on, “Booger Bill” was his name. I always wondered if people at the Food Lion that day who saw the exchange spread the nickname, or if Bill did himself. Either way, it stuck.

*

My first real interaction with Booger was one that I still hate thinking about to this day. I had to be about 9 or 10 years old when it happened. Everyone knew that he always hung out at the Chevron station near the high school, or “The Corner” as everyone called it. He’d spend hours each day standing outside, the unofficial host for those coming and going, kind of like the greeters at Wal-Mart. You could always tell if he was there, too, even if you couldn’t see him, because his moped would be parked right up front. I had seen him many times before, and I will admit, he scared me as a kid. It wasn’t the kind of fear a child has of a monster or anything, the fear of something that was dangerous. Instead, it was a fear of something, or someone, that I couldn’t understand. My brain couldn’t make sense of so many things about him. His loud voice. His bulbous face. The way he was almost aggressively friendly, like how a puppy gets a little overeager when it gets excited or wants affection. Even the way he stood frightened me, always awkwardly hunched over a bit. Looking back, it was the posture of someone that had done manual labor for most of their life. His overall appearance didn’t help, either. Aside from his bull head and odd facial features, he was unusually skinny, yet had a perfectly round pot belly. And he always wore jeans that were far too big for him, sinched at the waste with a belt. It reminded me of Halloween when my sister and I would make a scarecrow and we had to tighten the pants as hard as we could with a belt to hold everything together.

Mom and I stopped at The Corner our way home from school. It was a hot spring day. I remember I could smell fresh cut grass across the street. When Mom was pumping gas, I asked her if I could go inside and get a drink. She gave me a dollar bill, and I was on my way. “Hey, Mr. Hank,” I said to owner behind the cash register as I walked in, the bell over the door ringing.

“Why hello there, Miss Hannah! Don’t you look pretty today! That’s a mighty fine headband you have on there,” he said holding onto his overall straps. His big round cheeks were as red as ever, his smile so warm and kind it made me believe I really was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. I walked past the candy bars and chips and made my way to the drink cooler in the back. There were so many drinks to choose from, but like always, I pulled out a frosty glass bottle of Cheerwine. I went back to the counter and paid Mr. Hank, him giving me back a quarter in change and popping the top on my bottle. “Thanks, Mr. Hank, please tell Mrs. Paula I said hi,” I said as I pulled my drink from the counter and buried the quarter in my pocket.

“I sure will, Miss Hannah. You come back, now.”

Sipping my Cheerwine, I pushed the screen door open and stepped out. That’s when I saw the shiny black moped. Before I could process what that meant…

“Hi, Miss Hannah! Hi, Miss Hannah!,” an almost deafening voice shouted from right over my shoulder. The sound was so startling, so close and sudden, that I dropped my Cheerwine. The bottle shattered on the ground. Red drink splashed everywhere. I ran a few steps away before I stopped and turned to see what, or who, it was. It was Booger Bill. He must have gotten to The Corner shortly after I went inside to get my drink. He was standing in his usual spot, beside the door, ready to greet all visitors that came by. I stood there staring at him. My heart raced. I remember breathing hard, almost panting like a dog. I could feel something wet and sticky on my legs. It had to have been the Cheerwine. I must have looked honest-to-God terrified, because I remember the expression on Booger Bill’s face so vividly, the image still crystal clear in my mind. He lowered his head, his eyes looking slowly up at me then back to the ground. His huge toothy smile fell into a frown. His eyebrows lowered. He bit at the inside of his cheek a little bit.

“I… I’m real sorry, Miss Hannah. I didn’t mean to scare you none,” he said.

Mom walked over and took me by the hand. “Oh, bless your heart, Bill. It’s fine. She just got startled is all. And those bottles are always slippery from all the frost.”

But as we walked back to our car, I remember looking over my shoulder at him. He hadn’t moved an inch. His face hadn’t changed at all, still looking like he was on the verge of crying. His shoulders slumped so far forward it looked like he might just fall over.

I laid in bed awake that night thinking about him. I had always been kind of scared of him to that point. But for the first time, I felt like I began to understand him somehow. He wasn’t some great unknown, some kind of strange or inhuman mystery, something unidentifiable. It was clear to me for the first time that he was a person, one with feelings and emotions, one that I had possibly misunderstood up to that point. I remember rolling over and looking out the window at the full moon, grey and dim, almost overcast in a way. As I closed my eyes to go to sleep, I felt a tear run down my cheek.

*

The next few years after the Cheerwine incident are kind of a blur to me now. Or perhaps my brain just chooses to block out those middle school years that are awkward for all girls everywhere. There are a few times, though, that I can recall seeing Booger Bill. None of them were anything significant, no real interaction. But each time I saw him, I made sure to wave, even smile perhaps. Because there was no more fear. I was no longer unsettled by him. If anything, I was curious.

It was my freshman year of high school when I finally decided to speak to him. I remember it like it was yesterday. One chilly Friday night, our football team was playing our rival, the Brewster High Yellow Jackets. When I got in line at the gate, I noticed Booger Bill’s worn out moped parked in one of the handicap spots. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, loved Maryville High School sports more than Booger Bill did. He loved them all, but like in so many small southern towns, Friday Night Football was king. He always seemed to talk to people more than he watched the game, working his way through the crowd like a politician shaking hands and kissing babies.

A few of my friends and I sat together about halfway up the stands, not far from the group of men that Daddy always sat with. At the end of the first quarter, after greeting every person he could, Booger Bill came up the stairs and into Daddy’s section. I tried to watch the game and be present with my friends, but I couldn’t help looking back at him every so often, especially since his voice was so loud you couldn’t help but hear him. The first thing I remember was how bright his eyes shined, his huge smile covering his face, laughing for what seemed like the entire time. Looking back, I’m sure it was because that was one of the few places anywhere that he felt wanted, felt a part of, felt that others cared about him. In that group, and at games in general, he had friends. He wasn’t alone.

I remember hearing Booger Bill say something to his pals about his heart hurting lately, talking about some kind of pain in his chest. I’m still not sure if he meant he had actual chest pain, or if he meant he had been sad. One of the other men asked him which one of his hearts was giving him trouble. Without hesitation, Booger Bill patted on his puffed-out chest with both hands and yelled “both of ‘em!” All the men in the group howled laughing, including Booger Bill. The best part of it all was that they weren’t laughing at him – they were laughing with him.

Just before halftime, I went to the concession stand. At the back of the line was Booger Bill. I must not have noticed him head down the stairs in the stands. I decided it was finally time to talk to the man who so strongly held my interest. I stepped in line behind him, but he didn’t notice me. Or at least I don’t think he did. He could have just been ignoring me. I closed my eyes briefly and let out a slow breath, then tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around quickly, and I remember his reaction when he realized it was me. He was frozen in place, wide-eyed, his mouth open, finally gulping and exhaling “Oh, hi… hi Miss Hannah,” like he had been holding his breath before greeting me.

“Please, you can call me Hannah, Mr. Bill.”

“Oh. Well, thank you… Hannah,” he said, his eyebrows pinched a bit, still looking back and forth from my eyes to the ground. “You can call me Booger.” His voice was much softer, quieter than I had ever heard him to that point.

“Sounds good, Booger,” I smiled at him, wanting to be as polite and calm as possible. “You enjoying the game so far?”

“Oh yes Miss... I mean, yes Hannah, I sure am. I hate those Yellow Jackets!”

“Me too. They’re the worst!”

With only a few words, he transformed completely. His smile, his distinct loud voice, his bright eyes all came back in an instant. I’ll never forget that.

“I know that’s right! The Mustangs’ll win, I know they will!,” pointing to his faded green Maryville Mustangs t-shirt under his denim jacket. He wore that same shirt to Maryville games for as long as I can remember.

As we both stood there smiling and shuffling forward in line, I remember his smile fade slowly from his face, and that same nervous look returning. I didn’t know what had happened or what might’ve caused it. I hoped I hadn’t done anything. Finally, he said “Hannah, I… I want to say that… that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Booger?” I genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I’m sorry I made you drop your drink. I’m sorry I scared you.”

A chill went through me, hitting me like a ton of bricks. I felt my eyes get misty. I couldn’t close my mouth. I couldn’t stop looking at this man. My brain tried to process it, how long he had been carrying onto that, the burden of something that was nothing. I tried to find the right words. “Oh, Booger. No. No, it was an accident. There’s no need to be sorry.” I reached out and touched his arm as he kept looking at the ground. “Like my Mom said that day, the bottle was slippery from all the ice on it. It was my fault. Don’t you worry about it. I promise.”

And then he said the words that changed both of our lives forever.

“Does that mean you’ll be my friend?”

“I would love to be your friend, Booger.”

*

For the rest of my high school years, Booger was one of my best friends. Every day when I got out of school, I walked over to The Corner to meet him. He was always there, already waiting for me. I often wondered how early he got there. Each day, we’d sit on the bench out front and have a drink together, sometimes a snack. We both always had Cheerwine. Each year on our birthdays, we’d share a treat – a strawberry Moon Pie on his birthday, a Hostess cupcake on mine. We’d put a candle in it, then split it right down the middle.

After the first year or so, I talked my parents into letting Booger come to our house for certain holidays, at least the ones when there was a meal to be had; Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4^th of July cookout. I don’t think Mom was too thrilled about it at first. But she must have warmed up to him over time, because once when I drove past Booger’s house, I saw Mom’s car in the overgrown driveway. She was dropping off some food for him, probably the leftover pulled pork and baked beans and slaw we’d had the night before. Dad joined in, too, offering to help him fix things up around his house when he needed it. Booger never asked much. I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to burden Daddy, or if he had just gotten used to his house being so rundown over the years. But Daddy helped fix the place up enough so that it was at least livable – some new boards on the front porch, replaced a couple broken windowpanes, patched up a few leaks in the ceiling. My favorite was a new mailbox that I had helped make – it just said “Booger.”

We’d sit together for a little bit at games, him in that same faded green Mustangs t-shirt. But before long, he’d get the itch to go socialize and see his group of friends. He always asked me a dozen times if I was sure I didn’t mind, which I never did. I was always over-the-moon to see him like that.

I started dating my first serious boyfriend, Ethan, during the summer between junior and senior year. I remember one night, on our way to the movies, Ethan was kind of quiet. I finally got him to answer after asking what was wrong over and over. He said that when he stopped at The Corner for gas earlier that day, Booger approached him and told him that if he ever hurt me that he’d find him and that there’d be hell to pay. I tried to downplay the whole thing, telling him he better not hurt me then, holding his hand on his arm rest. But I remember looking out the window, the full moon vivid and bright and beautiful, almost lively, trying to hide my smile.

That following spring, the final semester of my senior year, Ethan and I broke up. It wasn’t anything ugly, it was just for the best with both of us heading off to college that fall. When I got to The Corner for the first time since the breakup, I remember seeing Booger sitting on the bench with 6 bottles of Cheerwine and enough snack food to sink a ship. My heart melted. I sat with him until the sun went down, eating, drinking, and from time to time, crying. When it was time to go, I stood up, and Booger did the same. Then, he gave me a hug. Not some halfhearted hug out of pity. It was an all-consuming, engulfing hug, the kind that you feel safe and cared for in. I could feel the energy he radiated. Pure. Kind. Genuine. Simple, but deep. He whispered in my ear, the quietest I ever heard him.

“I love you, Hannah. I’m your friend.”

“I’m your friend too, Booger. And I love you.”

*

The day I left for college was a sweltering summer day. It was difficult for me, sure. But more so for my family. And especially for Booger. Mom invited him over to the house to say goodbye before Daddy and I left to move me in on-campus. When he arrived, I remember how puffy and bloodshot his eyes were. Later, when the car was loaded up and we were ready to go, Booger handed me a gift. A shoebox. I pulled the lid off, and inside was a bottle of Cheerwine and a brand-new green Mustangs t-shirt. I remember thinking how he had to have saved up his money to afford something extra like that. “Booger, I love it! I’ll wear it all over campus, so everyone knows who the best team around is.”

He smiled that same big smile as always, but his eyes told the truth – dull, losing focus, distant. I went inside and grabbed the present I had for him. He opened the shiny green gift bag and pulled out the picture frame. He started crying as soon as he flipped it over. It was a picture from one of our 4^th of July cookouts. Him and I, sitting on our old baby blue front porch swing. Our faces were bright, our cheeks flushed red from the heat, him grinning, me laughing, probably at something he had said. His cries turned to blubbering as soon as he tried to speak.

“I’ll… I’ll always keep this, Hannah.”

We eventually said our goodbyes and said we loved each other. I told him I’d see him at Thanksgiving. When Daddy and I pulled out of the driveway, I watched Booger and Mom from the window waving goodbye. Mom said later he stood there like a stone for 10 minutes after we left, bawling like a baby. Looking back, I wish I had said something better, something more meaningful. I wish I had hugged him a bit longer. Because little did I know, that would be the last time I ever saw him.

*

I got the call from Daddy on a Tuesday morning, a week or so before midterms. It was odd, him calling at that hour, especially on a weekday when I had class. As soon as I saw it was him calling, my stomach sank a bit. As soon as he said “I’ve got some bad news, sweetie. It’s Booger,” my legs went limp. As the phone shook in my hand, I slowly sank to the floor in the middle of my dorm room. It felt almost like a dream; like I was aware of what was going on, but it wasn’t reality, because what he was saying was impossible. He said that Booger had been in a car accident and had passed away last night. I was speechless, but after a bit, I finally asked him what had happened.

“Honey, I don’t think you want to hear all that.”

That’s when my shock turned to sobs.

I was barely able to speak between the heaves and tears. “Daddy. Tell me.”

I still don’t know if I was glad that I heard what happened or if I regretted it.

Daddy told me that it had been raining back home all day and night the day before. Booger had been driving his moped down Long Branch Road. No one was sure where he was heading. Maybe to the Food Lion.

I knew where the story was going as soon as he mentioned Long Branch Road. I was familiar with that area. It’s where the church that all of Daddy’s side of the family is buried at. Right at the giant bend in the road.

Daddy said that, according to what he had heard at least, Booger came around that bend just after dark and was hit head-on by a drunk driver. He said the driver was in a pick-up truck and going way too fast. Apparently, the driver must not have realized he hit Booger, because he kept on going right through the bend and into the ditch along the side of the road. The driver was out cold when the police and paramedics arrived. The driver was sent to the hospital and treated for a concussion and some broken bones. He was going to survive, but was booked and headed to jail as soon as he recovered.

About a week later, around the time midterms were going on, they buried him in the cemetery up the road from his house, at the Baptist church most people in the area attended. I didn’t know if Booger went to church there or not, or if they just decided to bury him there because no one else was around to make the decision. The thought of that made me sick – no family to attend his funeral, no blood relatives at least. But Daddy called me that evening and said that the entire town showed up for the service. Standing room only. The sanctuary was so stuffed full that people had to stand outside. It was a closed casket service, he told me, but that didn’t stop people from putting all kinds of things on his lid. Mr. Hank put a few bottles of Cheerwine up there. The fiberglass plant sent his name tag that just said “Booger.” The football team sent a Mustangs helmet. The cheerleaders sent green pom-poms. And Mom and Daddy put the picture I gave him before I left for school on top.

I’ll always keep this, Hannah.

*

As I roll into town, I can somehow feel that Booger is no longer here. Everything feels a bit gloomier, things not quite as bright, an odd stillness. Like Maryville was now a place where it’d be hard to find any kind of joy. I don’t know if there’s any truth to that, or if it’s just in my mind knowing he’s gone.

I drive up to the light at The Corner and decide to stop. A small part of me expects to see him standing against the wall, grinning as big as he could, or maybe sitting on our bench waiting for me. But I know that’s not going to happen.

I walk inside, the worn-out bell ringing as I open the door. The door lets out a creak like it’s about to crumble into pieces. “Hi, Mr. Hank,” I say, looking over the counter. He looks so much older than I remember, but his cheeks are still rosy and he’s wearing the same overalls as always.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in! So happy to see you, Miss Hannah! How’s school been treating you?”

“It’s going well, thanks. I’m enjoying all my classes, and campus is fun.”

“Well now, that’s great to hear. And may I say, that’s a wonderful green Mustangs shirt you have on.” The side of my mouth curls into a grin.

I walk past the candy bars and chips to the drink cooler in the back and pull out a couple of Cheerwines. I get back up to the front and sit them on the counter, then open my purse.

“No, ma’am. These drinks are on the house,” he says as he pops the top off each bottle. His eyes are full, tears pooling in them.

“Thank you, Mr. Hank. Please give Mrs. Paula my best.”

I head to the door and hear Mr. Hank. “Oh, Miss Hannah?”

I turn. “Yes sir?”

He gestures his head and eyes over towards the wall up near the door. I follow his gaze, and my body goes numb. There is Booger, staring right at me from inside a wooden picture frame. He was younger then, maybe in his 40’s. He wore the same oversized jeans and belt, his round belly sticking out. His mouth wide open, his cheeks pinched, eyes shut. I could hear the laughter through the picture.

“Where… I’ve never seen this picture before,” I say, mesmerized.

“Me neither. It turned up at the funeral. People went through all kinds of photos they had trying to dig up any they could find of Ol’ Booger. I loved that picture as soon as I saw it. I asked if I could have a copy, but they just gave me the original. That right there is how I’ll always remember him.” I could hear the shakiness in Mr. Hank’s voice, the tremor when he talked about Booger.

Something above the picture catches my eye. I look up and see his faded green Maryville Mustangs shirt hanging on the wall. I study it closely – the Mustangs logo almost worn away, the ketchup and mustard stains, the frayed seams, the little hole near the bottom. I reach up and touch it. “This is perfect.”

“Thank you, Miss Hannah. I hope you and your folks have a happy Thanksgiving. You come back, now.”

I step outside with the two Cheerwines. The nip in the air stings my cheeks. I walk over to the bench – our bench – and take a seat on my end. I sit one of the drinks on Booger’s end and hold mine up. I look over, my lip quivering.

“I love you, Booger. I’m your friend.”

Corey Villas, born and raised in North Carolina, is a graduate of Auburn University.  His work has appeared or is scheduled to appear in Poverty House, BULL Magazine, The Milk House, The Argyle Literary Magazine, The Muleskinner Journal, The Candid Review, Close to the Bone, and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.  Corey is a proud husband and father of two.