Part 03

Walking behind the old man through a thicket of briers, Ron was snagged and scratched by the sharp needles. He wondered if he’d done right, agreeing to hunt with Gramp. He wanted it for sure, but…

“Don’t dawdle, boy,” Gramp said, using a hushed voice. “I ain’t going to hold back this here prickly all day.”

Emerging from the thicket, the youngster saw they had entered a low, open area, marking the fringe of territory familiar to him. Running down the center of the clearing, a small stream wound its way through. The bareness of some sapling white poplars reminded him of the forthcoming winter. He flet the coldness blow past his outer garments and reach his raw flesh. He shivered. They walked along the water for three quarters of a mile. They were headed northwest. Headed for the bog. They moved slowly and moved in silence. The terrain began to make a change and a small ridge was running parallel to their path on the left. On the right, a steep bank pushed its way up into existence, carrying the forest trees high up into the air and away from them. Gramp led Ron away from the brook and up onto the small ridge, separating the stream from the bog. The elder huntsman led him to a spot where the scrub oak was low and thick.

“Boy,” Gramp said, barely whispering. “This here’s your stand.”

“Where are you going to be?” Ron asked.

“I’ll work my way back upstream. After Old Buck passes me by, I’ll jump in behind. He’ll know it too. Won’t pay you no heed, but be on your toes because he won’t be strolling along. Remember, give him about two feet of lead, shoulder high and both barrels boy, both barrels. You won’t get no second chance. No second chance.”

“Gramp I don’t think I…”

“Hush up! Just follow what ol’ Gramp Willard tells you. If you gut shoot him, follow the blood. Probably be up under the scrubs. If he heads out into the bog, don’t follow him. Just let him go boy, cause nothing can save him then.”

Ron watched the aged woodsman walk down the ridge and toward the campsite. He saw that Gramp didn’t travel along the stream as they had just done. He saw the seasoned deer hunter carry his ten gauge shotgun, a single shot, with both hands in the firing position. Gramp stopped several times and listened to the woods. Ron listened too. He heard nothing, and soon Gramp was out of sight.

***

“Two dollars,” said the barmaid after setting down the pitcher.

Ron handed her a five dollar bill.

“Out of five,” she said.

She set three crumpled bills on the table, turned and left, weaving her way around the tables. She was married.

After pouring himself a glass of beer, he looked at the pictures on the wall next to him. Ed had pictures on every wall. They were pictures of his patrons His customers. The photos were taken during the Saint Patrick’s Day bash, at which gallons and gallons of green beer flowed from Ed’s taps. Rons suspected Ed had the pictures taken during the bash because it was one of the few times that a large number of females were in his establishment.

Ron had attended the bash one year. It was amazing. He never thought this small bar could accommodate so many people. Bodies. Moving. Wrestling. Everyone crowding, pushing, laughing, drinking, swearing and enjoying. There were those who had had too much sparkling green beer and as a result were bent over vomiting on the red carpet. There were those whose faculties had been obliterated; they were lying on the floor. They were trampled on. They swam in vomit. It was fun.

It wasn’t until he’d finished his beer that he noticed, three tables away, a woman sitting alone. Apparently she was alone. What was she doing here? There was only one glass on the table. She must be alone. She looked at him. He looked into his beer glass. Was she looking at him? Ron wasn’t sure.

He thought he should approach her. Why not? He could offer to buy her some drinks. Sure! She was probably only after free booze. Maybe not. He could talk to her about art or theater. He knew about theater. Or film. He’d seen all the latest ones. Or writing. Maybe she wrote? Probably a secretary. Maybe not. Books. He could certainly talk about books. Everyone read didn’t they? He knew about books. What else? What else was there? What else did he know? He was flexible. He could…

“Hello in there!”

“Huh?” he said, looking up.

“Where have you been? She asked, laughing slightly. Oh, just thinking,” he said. It was her. She was sitting at his table.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

Part 02

Ron swung around his black leather swivel chair to face his books, lining the entire length of his white windowless wall in his small studio apartment. His books. His possessions. The possessions that possessed him. He respected, no, revered his books.

He often thought that each book spoke to him. That as he entered his apartment they would start speaking, first one, then another until all their voices blended into a frightful racket. He would beg them to be still, but the clamor would continue till he took one from the shelf. That was the only way he could silence their noise. He loved his books.

The voices spoke to him and he listened, heard. He was not afraid to listen, really fearful. He knew the words could not hurt him because, because they were words. Abstract beings. Abstractions of abstractions.

As he set down a novel, he thought he heard a character yell, “Stop the world! Stop the world!” It was only words.

Rising, Ron walked to his bathroom sink and opened the medicine cabinet. He was going for his toothbrush and paste. Pepsodent. A tune flashed through his mind. How did it go? Yes, that was it:

“You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent…”

Damn! Those jingles really do work he thought.

After flossing, he removed the shirt he was wearing and put on a lighter, double-knit short sleeved one. It was hot. Tucson, Arizona can be very hot in July. Extremely hot. His swamp cooler, an evaporative air cooling system offered him little relief and, after walking the entire span of his room, he picked up a set of keys from the walnut coffee table. His books were silent for now. They knew better. He was going out.

Closing the door behind him, Ron Powers let warm, dry night air into his lungs. Waiting in dispassionate silence at the curb below, the yellow 66 Volks was his second favorite possession. Theirs was a good relationship he thought as he walked down the stairs toward the car. No Question. Yup, he knew what turned her on.

“Don’t I baby,” he said.

He patted her on the roof and got behind the wheel. Lighting a cigarette he started the car and pulled out into the street. On his way. Moving. He hadn’t decided where to go, but that didn’t matter. He just had to be outdoors. Motoring. He needed air and relief from roast room. He drove.

He turned right onto Speedway Boulevard. Heading East. Traveling down the ugliest street in America. At least a former Mayor of Tucson had planted that label on Speedway. Ron liked the noise, the clutter, the traffic. Everyone had their own ideas about repulsiveness he guessed.

Reaching Swan Avenue he decided to turn right and truck on down to Twenty-second Street and Ed’s College Bar. Ed’s was a place to relax, to drink a few beers, to shoot a few games of pool or to listen to the music coming from the jukebox. Ed’s was not a place to meet women. In fact, the only women in Ed’s were the barmaid, who for some reason were all married. Why was that? Ron didn’t know.

Passing through the doorway of the bar, Ron remembered Ed was fairly liberal and hardly ever had a bouncer at the door to certify the age of his customers. Sure came in handy when Ron wasn’t old enough to legally drink. Ron liked liberals. No bouncer sat in the doorway.

After adjusting his eyes to the dimly lit and smoke filled main room, Ron saw the U-shaped bar in front of him. All the seats around it were occupied and Ed himself worked busily, taking and serving orders. Ron found an empty round table for two near the left rear wall. Several large globs of water formed a half-moon shape on the table top. Small bits of paper were piled up in one corner. Leftovers from a label peeler. The ashtray was full. He thought he saw lipstick on some stubby filters. Don’t tell me this place has gone kinky he mused to himself.

He removed his package of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket. He sat there tapping one end of his cigarette against the table top, he’d managed to find one semi-dry spot, and waited for the barmaid to notice him.

Fast service was not an attribute of Ed’s College Bar and he’d almost finished his smoke when the waitress approached. She removed a small square napkin from her tray, placed it on the table and, while leaning over, slid it directly in front of him. Naturally, the paper coaster had instantly turned into a sponge, soaking up the residue liquids.

“Beer?” She asked as she straightened herself up.

“Draft,” he replied.

“Pitcher?” she asked, re-stacking her napkins into a neat little pile.

“Ah… no. Well… Yes. Sure, why not?” he said.

“Light?” she asked, turning to leave.

“Dark,” he said, calling to her as she left.

I mentioned on an earlier post about a story that has come into my possession. I am going to present my uncle’s work here. I don’t know if it was ever published anywhere else, but I think it is fair to put it here at this point. I have actually had some other story parts that have been inspired by reading this work. I may reference parts of this story in some of my upcoming work. Until then, the story in parts:

Part 1

One and a half miles southeast of Three Cross Bog, a small campsite was neatly tucked against the side of a knoll. A lean-to made from pine boughs had been lashed between two sturdy tree trunks. There were numerous gaps in the roof, offering little protection from the bitter New England weather. The cool, crisp air flowed easily through the crude structure with its open sides. The floor was bare except for the figure of a boy, who was curled up inside a sleeping bag made from old green Army blankets fastened together with huge safety pins. A man stood twelve feet in front the shelter. An old man. He was white haired and sported a bushy porcupine mustache, all but covering his lower lip. He had a slender figure for a man, almost five feet tall.

Stooping over their rekindled campfire, a frying pan in his left hand, Gramp Willard saw young Ron Powers wipe sleep from his eyes.

“Better shake a leg and get out of that bedroll,” the old man said. “We’ve a full day of hunt in front of us. Food’s up.”

“Coming,” said the youngster.

Ron pulled on and laced up his calf length boots that he’d retrieved from the bottom of his sleeping bag, slipped on his baggy brown hunting jacket and shucked off his blankets. The boy picked up his double barrel shotgun, a twelve gauge Knickerbocker, and opened the breech to inspect the bright brass shell ends. Convinced his gun was loaded, he closed the weapon with a sharp snap. The fledgling hunter tucked the butt of the shotgun under his arm. He tried out the carrying method Gramp had recently taught him and felt the rounded walnut gun stock fit comfortably beneath his limb.

While watching the boy handle the gun, the elder huntsman recalled his own first experiences with arms and his own associated sensations of fear and excitement. Most of all, Willard recalled his sense of power. His potency.

“Boy, the true mark of a hunter,” the veteran woodsman said, stopping to pause, “a man eats only what he can kill and he kills only what he needs to eat… and boy…”

“Yes sir,” said the youthful pupil, watching his grandfather toy with the spatula in the skillet.

“You can’t shoot no egg.”

They both laughed.

“Gramp,” said Ron, crossing to the campfire, “if we’re here to hunt partridge, why didn’t you bring Peppersauce with us? She’s a good bird dog.”

“Well,” said the senior hunter, leaving the frypan sputtering over the fire and walking to his worn wicker knapsack, “she’d had been no good on this hunt.” Gramp rummaged quickly through his pack. “Here lad,” said the ancient poacher, tossing Ron a box of shells.

“Buckshot! Deer?! We’re going to hunt deer? Out of season? Gramp…”

“Hush up,” the old man snapped.

“But ~”

“No buts! I wouldn’t tramp narry a step for any ordinary stag. No siree. We’re out there to get us a might special deer. Mighty special.”

“Not Old Buck,” the youth quizzed.

“Straight on the mark,” came Willard’s reply.

“Gramp,” said Ron.

The old timer crouched and removed the heated breakfast from over the red heat and said, “Bring your mess over and shove some of these eggs down ya.”

“Gramp. Gramp, nobody’s seen that deer in better than two years. They say a hunter over in Groveland got him.”

“That’s right. That’s right, lad. Even had a proper write up in the Gazzette. Picture and all. Group of businessmen standing ’round congratulating each other. Cut it out to save it. Have to chuckle every time I see it.” The shrewd deerstalker laughed and said, “Move your plate ni closer. I don’t want to slop no fat on the fire.”

“But Gramp, if that was…”

“Damnation! Sometimes I suspect your mother’s raising a tree stump instead of a boy! I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I wasn’t sure that Buck still runs right through here and up past Three Cross Bog.”

“Certain,” the youngster asked.

“Certain,” came the reply.

“Why haven’t you bagged him before now,” Ron persisted.

“Wasn’t time. It just wasn’t time, boy.”

Squatting and sitting precariously on a small wood pile, Ron cut into the egg yolk, oozing out from under the fork’s pressure. He lifted the steaming mouthful and had his first taste of nourishment.

“Three Cross Bog,” the boy inquired.

“A mile or so off to the left’s the cranberry bog. I’ve a stand picked out for you. A place where you can wait for Buck to come to you. Runs right by there. Easiest way for him to skirt that fathomless pit. Heed me, now. That bog’s swallowed up three grown men and I don’t want no fourth. You just stay in your spot. Are you listening, lad?”

“Yes sir,” said the younger Powers.

“Certain,” the elderly woodsman asked.

“Certain,” came the response.

Both sat eating slowly in silence.

“Why,” asked Ron, after downing his last bite, “didn’t you say Old Buck was still alive? You could have told me.”

“You know the Morrisons,” the old man questioned.

“They live over on Parish Road? The house that sits way back off the road?”

“Aya,” Willard said. “The old man. Ben,” he continued while looking intently at Ron. “Crazy. Crazy, blind Irish bastard. Been after my tail for… for years. Blames me for his brother. We were hunting deer. Buck. He jumped a doe and winged a hind quarter. Fool. Fool followed her into the bog. Couldn’t do nothing. No rope. Was nothing of either when we got back. Out of sight. Sank right out of sight.”

“And he blames you,” Ron uttered.

“Deserted him,” Willard snapped. “Hell! I went for help boy, help! Was nothing there when…” The old man stopped suddenly and looked into the deep, dark woods. He seemed to be straining, straining to hear every sound, to see every bit of movement. Turning away from Ron and focusing his eyes on a spot far from their encampment, Gramp studied the slight movement. It was nothing. He looked back at the boy and said softly, “Morrison’s a hunter. A patient hunter. I suspect he knows that Buck’s still alive. Figures one day Gramp would go back into the woods. Back to the bog”

The young hunter had been as still as a granite monument marking some historical event. He was learning to become a good listener.

“Old Buck,” the veteran deerstalker said, “He’s your prize. One that’ll set these folks around here on end. They’ll take notice of ya.”

Ron looked sheepishly down into his dented tin plate and nervously stirred one small morsel of burnt bacon with the tines of his fork.