Home > 2012-13 Season > In Search of Aaron Tucker: Part Two

In Search of Aaron Tucker: Part Two

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Reporter
File photo

I’ve finally tracked down Foodstamps GM Tucker but it has required another trip back to Hoover Island. This time, Tucker charters a private plane. The ride is turbulent, primarily because the pilot keeps turning in his seat to describe, in vast detail, “the harvest”.

We approach the island. “This plane, it floats on water,” the pilot says. “Watch!” And with that, he nose-dives the craft directly into the placid bay. A canoe is sent out for me, being paddled by an ancient figure who, for some reason, is wearing a plaster-of-paris donkey head. Some older men stand along the shore. Tucker is not among them.

No one offers to take my bags and the men grunt only the most rudimentary of greetings. I am given a hand-drawn map to Tucker’s “plantation”. “You can’t miss it,” says the friendliest of the bunch. “It’s big. There’s plants. You’ll see a lot of maidens traipsing on the lawns.”

I have to walk about a half-mile and finally I come upon the estate. It is as described– lush and fertile. There is some nude T&A all about the property– they languidly rest on plush sofas, reading little hand-made pamphlets and occasionally feasting on a plate of ground chuck. I make my way to the front door.

An obese butler leads me to a “sitting room”. Tucker is there. He’s sitting. His back is to me.

“Mr. Oates,” he says, without turning around. “Welcome to Hoover Island.”
“I’ve been here before, remember?”
He dismisses the comment. No words are spoken for some time.

Finally: “We are preparing for the harvest. Would you like to see grainy, black and white images of past harvests?” Only then does he make an appearance.

He is dressed in a finely-tailored grey suit which perfectly fits his lean frame. “You noticed the beaver, no doubt,” he says unexpectedly and in a slightly affected voice. “I find it calming.” He produces a large pumpkin from somewhere and twirls it in his hands. Then he places it atop an oak desk.

“Here are past harvests,” he says. The framed photographs fill one wall. Each shows a lovely woman with titties sitting among large quantities of vegetables. I notice there is no photograph for the past year. I comment.

“It broke,” says Tucker. “I tripped on some napkins and fell into it.” I can tell he’s lying. But I just want to get onto hockey.

“Tell me about your new team,” I ask. I take out a pad.
He blinks stupidly. “What team?”
“Your hockey team.”
“I am concerned about the harvest. I cannot be bothered with this, this…shit.” He says the word as though it is his first time. He is sweating.

I begin packing up.

“Take this pumpkin,” he says. It’s gigantic, must weigh 30 pounds.

“How am I going to take this on a plane?” I ask.
“Take it. PLEASE TAKE IT. Take it back to your land and let…let people know”. He begins sobbing.

I take the next plane out of there.

Categories: 2012-13 Season
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