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    A Hunter's Tale
    A Hunter's Tale
    A Hunter's Tale
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    A Hunter's Tale

    By LosRay Mitchell

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The month after the Cuban missile crisis, a teen ager on a hunting trip in the Black Hills hunts game but also learns skills necessary to deal with heavy drinkers, violent people, and different kinds of women.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateJan 13, 2015
    ISBN9781483547954
    A Hunter's Tale

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      Book preview

      A Hunter's Tale - LosRay Mitchell

      9781483547954

      Helpless and graceful, a solitary snowflake falls from a gray Rorschach cloud of countless tons of gravity defying water crystals and drifts gently onto the wing of a dark-eyed junco that pulls a semi-dormant wood beetle out of an eroding deck board and whip snap flaps airborne – the relative violence of the bird’s sudden flight enough to vaporize the frost chip -- just ahead of a leaping tattered old tom who’d crouched in a broken picnic basket watching a chipmunk debate a forage mission to a heel of homemade bread moldering in a pale sun beam near the stairs. At a 1953 gray Ford pick up’s bumper, a hound’s nose intrudes into the little failed Hills kabuki, and the rodent zips underground as the cat stalks along the boardwalk in the regal be thou fornicated manner of felines. I wind down the squeaky window the better to hear the Davis Sisters sing I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know, a twangy juke box classic in a region unlikely to feature Chuck Berry. Or Gisele Mackenzie.

      The hound yawns, the effect weird – like the old pooch daydreams of being a mythic creature who inhales the world -- while less than three feet away husky blond annoyance incarnate practices calf sounds. Insults rise to my tongue tip and die in the knowledge that Pasiphae’s sophomoric bawling boyfriend’s capable of beating my often argumentative ass, so I merely comb my hair in the weak reflection in the window and fantasize walking the earth a competent adult who speaks freely, behaves coolly and projects the threat of crushing harebrained offenders into serves ya right grease stains. The eye that beholds the troubled sky finds the inner road that leads the troubled soul – beyond both lies unattainted illumination.

      Hmn. Adulthood. Although I still worship the pretty brunette junior who babysat two years ago and after a three hour conversation praised this boy’s intelligence to politely smiling skeptical parents, my recent study of high school students leads me to conclude I hate virtually every banal and thwarty aspect of teendom from the mindless bullying to the incessant gossip, from ego tripping power struggles to daft hormonal stupidity impulses, from relatively useless homework to mandatory expressions of howled enthusiasm – led by modern versions of Artemis’s nymphs in bouncing sweaters with felted wool letters and pleated skirts -- for the exploits of often gangly or toothy kinesthesia warriors. Then again, I’m now exfiltrating the pre-adolescent gulag of assumed general incompetence and forced sufferance of family activities such as evenings of hideous LP recordings or mind killing TV shows (I remain afflicted with sort of a 10% nostalgic-90% hostile memory of hours of saccharin exposure to the affable stiff from North Dakota).

      Frickin’ bubbles. At least I no longer believe shooting an accordion player ought to be classified as no more than an aggravating misdemeanor.

      Roll the window up, monkey nuts.

      Nothing. Nothing. Nasal exhale. Seat creak. Squeakety-squeak-zhuuooop. Pinched and twisted lips. The sorry hound with the bad hips carelessly drives the weakly leg-waving beetle into the moldy bread and shambles like a canine version of a crucifixion bound victim up rickety stairs toward old foggydoggydom on the boardwalk.

      Sarcastic calf sound.

      Son and I hunker in a white ’59 Bel Air sedan with orders to stay bunkered while our R n’ R needful, post-near Apocalypse fathers imbibe Hamms on tap on high stools amongst alcohol and nicotine lovers in a barn board and corrugated steel Black Hills honky tonk with eerie neon beer names inciting thirst in the dirty windows. The Chevy’s parked on a glacial gravel lot strewn with brown pine needles and punctured by dead reclaimant blue grama spears next to a shabby boardwalk outside a side entrance with a poorly mended squeaky pinewood screen door that offers reductionist comments on entering and exiting patrons. The bar sort of squats into a granite hillside near a two acre, stream fed pond in a glade between hills crowded with pines — soft and endlessly messy trees that smell like heaven’s perimeter membrane. Recreationalists, sportsmen and women, working people and teeth skinners who always find just enough often soiled cash for liquor and cigarettes keep the bar in business.

      Nearby stand or sag opportunistically built aging wood and scrounged stuff buildings huddled to form not a town but an accidental settlement of mostly low rent white folk with enough property to claim self-respect and enough survival skills to claim self-reliance. Just about every soul in the vicinity drives through life with a manual mental tranee gear shifting thusly: 1st—aggression against acquaintances; 2nd—aggression against competitors; 3rd—aggression against family; 4th—aggression against nature; 5th—aggression against the Hated; R—withdrawal from either end of the foot-in-mouth or bone-in-ham situ. Pretty much everyone participates in some phase of game processing.

      Some inhabitants first arrived as GI’s and now exist in 20-‘n-out redneck paradise retirement, with shaky marriages or peripatetic domestic arrangements the norm, and most mmm-gettin-alongers engage in favor exchanges or boost incomes in weekend hobby shops, volatile games of chance, or seasonal blue collar day jobs in ambitiously named boroughs within a gallon or two’s winding jaunt.

      Easily disparaged in our current materialistic paradise, the subsistence folk might riposte, At least we ain’t like most folks who walk around with corporate semen running down their legs or big government titty juice running down their chins since World War Two established our all-knowing dysfunctional and unmanageable corporate-owned government as parents and gods. On the surrounding federal lands various affably hard assed cowpokes run Herefords, Angus, black baldies, even some Galloways. With or without permits.

      Old timers say in the late 1860’s, a wandering alcoholic crank of a miner squatted to move bowels at the site of the current body shop but proved so fearful of imagined hostiles the silly grizzled coot scuttled around aiming a temperamental Colt .44 until fear generated a vision of Crazy Horse in a shadow. The hyperventilating fool grunted a cubit-long slider into his own gold pan and dang near shot his mordantly hee-hawing donkey – the cantankerous critter later suffered accidental dispatchment near Lead when the scandalized miner fired at a local ostler’s tetched minor who teetered pants down and lard smeared in a crude wheelbarrow behind the hobbled, snorting jenny. The non-deadeye miner’s shameless wails after the tragic fact of the treasured ass’s passing supposedly penetrated two draws and a holler.

      Locals call the settlement Sorry Ass Luck or just Sal. Nobody ever put up a plaque or

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