Just One Of The Guys

Just One Of The Guys

Hunting Buddies Are A Thing To Cherish...but Bob brought new meaning to the term

I first noticed a difference in Bob the day I rode with him in his pickup truck to a big sporting goods store to take advantage of a pre-season sale. Bob had been an over-the-road trucker at one time and could handle anything from an 18-wheeler to the dinkiest subcompact, yet he seemed to be having trouble parallel parking. He backed and filled and backed and filled some more until finally he just gave up and left the truck at a funny angle, quite a ways from the curb.


I didn't think any more about it until one day, about a week into duck season, we were sitting in the blind, killing time and trying to decide whether to bail out or give it one more hour. It was one of those days when the ducks weren't flying and about all there was to do was drink coffee, pet the dog, and shoot the breeze. I could tell something was on Bob's mind.


"There's something I have to tell you and the other guys," he said.

I figured he was going to say he was changing jobs, had a health problem, or something like that.

"I've had an operation," he said.

Naturally I'm thinking gall bladder, appendectomy, all the usual stuff. I was totally unprepared for what came next.

"Oh?" I asked. "You doing OK now?"

"Oh yeah," he said, sipping his coffee. "I'm fine. But you don't understand. I've had a'¦well'¦ I'm not Bob any more. I'm Bobbi Sue."


It didn't hit me immediately, probably because I was in shock. "You mean'¦." I fumbled for the right words. "You've had one of those'¦ those'¦ whatchacallits?..."

"You got it," replied Bob. "I've had a sex change operation. But I don't want it to change anything as far as our duck hunting is concerned. I just want everybody to keep thinking of me as one of the guys. In fact, if you'd like, you can keep calling me Bob instead of Bobbi Sue."

Well, let me tell you, it's awfully hard to think of a guy who is six feet, three inches talls and tips the scales at 240 (and chews tobacco) as Bobbi Sue.

"How is Alice taking this?" I asked. This had to be quite a shock to his wife.

"You mean Al?"

"Oh Lordy, no", I muttered, with my head in my hands. I was starting to have trouble dealing with this.

"When I left the house she'¦ I mean he, was lying on the couch drinking beer, belching, and watching NASCAR on TV."

Bob continued to hunt with our group all season and there were no major problems. He was a likeable guy and a good, safe hunter, which is about all we require in a hunting partner. But as the season wore on we began to notice a few subtle changes. Once, when we drove out-of-state for a guided duck hunt, we got lost and Bob cheerfully volunteered to go into a service station and ask directions.


"When nature called, Bob started getting out of the blind and walking back to our trailer to use the bathroom. In fact he once drove all the way into town and back. And, when it was my turn, I started going as far away from the blind as possible and hiding behind a big tree"
 

Something else was different, too. The rest of us just sort of voluntarily started cleaning up our language when Bob was around. One morning when a flock of teal buzzed our decoys and I never even had time to get off a shot I found myself saying, "My goodness! Those little fellas are certainly fast, aren't they."

We noticed some other changes, too. When nature called, Bob started getting out of the blind and walking back to our trailer to use the bathroom. In fact he once drove all the way into town and back. And, when it was my turn, I started going as far away from the blind as possible and hiding behind a big tree.

And later, after the hunt was over and the guns were put away, when the rest of us had a beer, Bob would sip a glass of white wine. Once he even asked for a Singapore Sling but nobody knew how to make one.

About once a month Bob got sort of cranky but we just overlooked it and tried to stay out of his way till he felt better. And you wouldn't believe some of the things he started carrying in his blind bag.

So, aside from these minor changes, Bob is pretty much the same. He looks about like he always did, if you can ignore the occasional touch of lip-gloss and eye shadow. He still chews tobacco in the blind but he doesn't spit the juice on the floor anymore, and I can't remember him breaking wind once all season.

We're already looking forward to September and teal season. It'll probably be ninety degrees, sweat will be rolling off the rest of us, and the dogs' tongues will be hanging out. Someone will look over at Bob and say, "Aren't you sweating, Bob?" and he'll say, "No, but I'm perspiring a little."

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