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day 77
Tucky, for all his talk of extending his stay with Bob in the Yukon backcountry, was the one who had to be back at work. The bid he’d put on a run-down inn just outside of Whitehorse had been accepted shortly before they’d left. He had big plans. He’d turn it into a lodge, he’d said, a rustic refuge for city boys who’d spent too much time drinking spritzers and steeped in Polo cologne. Bob had less of a plan. Tucky offered him a job. “Can’t pay you much, but it’d be free rent and food,” Tucky said. Bob told him he’d think about it. Since he and Tucky arrived in the Yukon from Toronto two months before, Bob spent his time camping, exploring, hunting and fishing. He slept in a wall tent on the property of someone who knew Tucky’s brother’s girlfriend, outside of Whitehorse. He went into town only when it was absolutely necessary. Screw the city. Screw working. Screw my parents and all those arrogant proffessors. Bob had graduated with a master’s degree in Latin American history that spring. He told Tucky he was planning to stay, live off the land, be a bushman. He didn’t know for how long. “You’re serious about this?” Tucky asked. Bob nodded. “I think so.” Tucky was silent, his expression serious. The grooves between his eyebrows deepened. Bob was moved by his friend’s concern. “I’ll be fine, Tucky,” he said. He slapped Bob on the back. “I know you will, buddy.” He pointed at Bob’s nineteen seventy-six Lincoln. “How much do you want for the car?” “I dunno.”
“How about a hundred bucks?” Tucky reached for his wallet: three twenties, a ten, four fives and a two-dollar bill. “It’s a deal,” Bob said. Tucky gave him the and shook his hand. “Good luck, buddy. See ya back in civilization.” |
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