TTTTTTTIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMBBBBBBBEEEEEERRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

It was the kind of peculiar name that would only make such comically perfect sense when attached to this particular man. In fact, you could clearly imagine him, ham-sized fists hurtling through the air in joyful rage, bellowing out his namesake in both ownership and jest; as whomever those granite knuckles collided with would undoubtedly crash to the ground like a felled tree. His corn dog sized fingers, however, closed around my spindly, musician ones with surprising care, as if he had been cradling baby birds in them for weeks in preparation for our handshake. I, in turn, squeezed back with every fiber of my being, determined that he at least register the presence of my hand through the inch thick pad of callouses that covered his own.

“Name’s Timber,” he growled. His voice sounded like granite being crushed by velvet. “I’m Bowman,” I chimed back, easily an octave above him. He turned and took a long pull from a giant glass of clear liquid. From the quantity and ease with which he drank, it should have been water, but the smell identified it as straight vodka. “Well,” he said turning back towards me, “What d’ya do?” I thought about how I had spend most of the day lying down in the back seat of a van listening to Fiona Apple records and guiltily devouring a teenage love novel set in some sort of post-apocalyptic Chicago. I decided to keep things vague. “I play drums in a band.” He grunted, and I could tell from in the look in his eyes that in terms of legitimate careers  he ranked “playing drums in a band” somewhere between “dog groomer” and “maker of fine hand soaps”. Still, he seemed amused. “Well, what brings ya to this dump of a town?” I told him I was in a country-rock band from Tennessee, and we had played a gig earlier in the evening and were staying the night down the street. “Well, hell, I don’t mind a little country music and I don’t mind the state of Tennessee either. Yer alright, kid.” Realizing I had at least gained his tolerance, if not approval, I asked what his job was. “The rigs, kid,” he bellowed. “Just got off a six month stint. Headed back north. Only stopped in for the liquor.” At that, he drained his mammoth glass and signaled to the bartender for a refill.

In college a friend of mine lent me a book called “Don’t Tell Mum I Work On the Rigs: She Thinks I’m a Piano Player In a Whorehouse”. It’s the autobiography of Paul Carter, and tells the hilarious and often dangerous adventures of a man who has worked on oil rigs since he was 18. It was just one book several years ago, but I figured it at least gave me a starting point. “I’ve heard that can be pretty dangerous work….” I started. Timber’s massive frame shook violently, like a skyscraper in an earthquake. “HAR, HAR, HAR. Ya don’t know the damn half of it kid!” His convulsions slowed, and he took another long drink. “They prolly hire me more for my shootin’ than my skills. I swear we spend more time defendin’ the damn rig than drillin’ oil.” I looked at him incredulously. “Defending the rig? What do you mean?” He sighed a low rumble and took another drink. “Well, hell, kid ya don’t think we’re the only country on this planet after oil, do ya?! Last two tours I did were in Kuwait. Let me put it this way, the price for oil is more than just dollars and cents.”

I thought about all the gallons upon gallons of gasoline it had taken to get me from Knoxville to Livingston, and all the literal bullets guys like Timber may have dodged to get me there. “So why do you do it?” I asked, emboldened by my sudden guilt. He shrugged his mountainous shoulders, and for a minute the hard lines in his weathered face seemed to soften. “Twice the danger, twice the money. I got three kids. That’s who I’m goin’ ta see. They’re my whole damn world.” He paused for a second, then broke into a toothy grin. “Plus, I’m damn near invincible, not ta mention the best shot ya ever saw. I’d hit a grape off a cow’s ass at 100 yards, blindfolded. Now let’s drink some shots!”

I had already consumed enough drink to suit me for the night, but I did not want to disappoint my new friend, and his proclamation had enough gruff insistence to make it difficult to decline. The bartender placed two shots of tequila in front of us. Tequila…. I had drank exactly two shots of it (at my cousin’s engagement and my sister’s wedding) since my initial horrible encounter with the vile beverage. I tried quickly to think of ways to discretely dispose of the shot, but Timber, having already knocked back his own, was eying me with a look of suspicion and what appeared to be the beginnings of anger. Dang! I threw back the drink, and trying my best to keep a manly facade, turned back to him for approval. Timber, however, was now staring at his empty glass with mild disgust; almost as if he was insulted by its small size relative to his own. “Well kid, if we’re gonna be drinkin’ outta these damn thimbles all night I guess we’re gonna haveta put back a number of ’em. What d’ya say?” Before I could respond the next drink was in front of me.
By the third shot in rapid succession, I was desperate for a way out, and thankfully got it in the form of Robert and Cruz, who came over to see who the gargantuan dude I had been hanging out with was. As they made their introductions, I mumbled something about the bathroom, and quickly made my escape. Robert and Cruz proved to be better matches for Timber’s tequila drinking, but with the next day’s 1300 mile drive to Oklahoma looming in the near future, everyone soon decided to call it a night. Timber followed us out to the van, and didn’t seem too keen on our departure. “Where ya guys goin’? We haven’t even had any fun yet. Let’s light some car windshields on fire and start a fight! Show these local boys a thing or two!” We hastily told him about our early departure, and grunting loudly, he turned and headed down the deserted Montana street; his dogged and arrow-straight pace giving no indication of apparent destination nor the gallon of liquor he had recently imbibed.

That was the last we saw of him, but later that night, as I lay in my sleeping bag on the dingy motel floor, I dreamt he and I were on the rig, arms slick with oil, brandishing axes high against an army of attacking pine trees. We stood back to back against the onslaught, and with each triumphant thwack of a fallen foe we would both throw our heads up to the stormy Kuwait sky and victoriously roar…………………Timber.