Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing

by Patrick F. McManus

  “Fly-fishing,” I said. “This Holstein is known to have engaged in fly-fishing in the past and—”

  I thought I detected some disbelief on the part of Hammer, not merely because of his raised eyebrows but also because he had picked me up and was about to hurl me like a javelin into the parking lot.

  “Do I take it, then, Mr. Hammer, that you have no knowledge of a Rupert Holstein?” I responded calmly to the top of his head.

  “Oh, Rupert Holstein!” he exclaimed. “Yes, we do have a Rupert Holstein. Sorry about the misunderstanding, old chap. But Rupert just turned in his resignation and is at this very moment clearing out his locker.”

  Hammer used me as a pointer to direct my attention out the window to the parking lot. “That’s his car, the black-and-white one painted to resemble a Holstein cow.”

  Five minutes later I was slouched down in my own car, watching for my quarry to come out. His car wouldn’t be too difficult to follow in heavy traffic, because I had detected a large, distinguishing crack in the rear window. On the other hand, it was getting dark. So I had resorted to an old private-eye trick for tailing a vehicle at night.

  Holstein suddenly emerged from the dairy, got into his vehicle, and disappeared into the darkness. “Aha!” I mused to myself. “Apparently, you’re not supposed to break both taillights.”

  Before dawn next morning I had Holstein’s house under close surveillance. He stuck his head out the door, glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, and paying no notice of the snowman that had mysteriously appeared in his yard overnight, went back in and soon returned, attired in his fishing duds and carrying a fly rod. He got in his car and drove off.

  It wasn’t my lucky day—perhaps not all that surprising, since my last lucky day was in 1953. By the time I could shed my disguise and thaw myself out, Holstein was long gone. But he had by no means outfoxed me.

  The only fly-fishing water clear of ice was the Blight River. I immediately sped to the best fishing hole on the Blight. Sure enough, there he was, precisely as I had suspected. I could just barely make out his car parked on the far side of a pasture near the river. Then all at once the car moved off into a wooded area. Perhaps he had spotted me, but if he thought he could shake me off his tail that easily, he was badly mistaken. Half an hour later I pulled into a farmer’s barnyard. But enough about that.

  Thinking Holstein had finally given me the slip, I decided there was only one thing left to do. I returned to the river, unpacked my fly rod, and was about to cast when I noticed another fisherman standing no more than a dozen feet from me on the other side of some brush. “Holstein!” I shouted as I leaped over the brush and stayed his arm in midcast, for there, tied to his tippet, was none other than the Maltese fly!

  “Stop!” I cried. “You’re about to release a curse!”

  “You’re right about that,” he grunted as we writhed about on the bank. And then he released one. It was pretty bad, too, although nothing compared with The Curse of the Maltese Fly.

  I finally managed to wrest the rod from his hands and send him whimpering on his way. It felt good. I had actually solved my first case. But just then I noticed a nice rainbow hanging behind a rock ten feet from shore, well within my range. Without thinking, I cast to it.

  The Curse of the Maltese Fly really hasn’t bothered me excessively, probably because I never had much luck getting dates, anyway. I do miss fishing with dry flies, though.

  Other Than That, Bostich …

  Mr. Bostich Crane, Associate Editor

  Pretentious Men’s Magazine

  New York City, New York

  Dear Bostich:

  I imagine by now you are back in your New York office working hard on your article about me for your series in PMM, “Real Men in the Outdoors.” I know it will be a dandy. I can’t tell you how flattered I was to be selected as one of your subjects for an article.

  We are all fine here. Retch Sweeney and the other boys down at Kelly’s Bar & Grill told me to say “Hi!” so I will—“Hi!” They enjoyed your visit every bit as much as I did, particularly those who had the opportunity to participate in our little adventure. Allow me to make a suggestion, however. I don’t think it would be a good idea to use up a lot of space in your article writing about the boys, although it wouldn’t hurt to mention them briefly. In my many years of writing, I have found it is best to focus almost exclusively on your main character, which in this case happens to be old me. Ha ha!

  Much to my delight, you got to experience Kelly’s on a Saturday night. I was hoping you’d get to watch the Saturday Night Fights, but everybody was on his best behavior because you were there. The boys wanted to create a good impression, with the exception of Luke, who had imbibed a little too much and tried to do his striptease act. Fortunately, Kelly was able to hit him with a pool cue before the act got too offensive.

  I did get a kick out of Kelly’s asking you what you wanted to drink.

  You: “Martini?”

  Kelly: “Nope, my name’s Kelly. Now what wouldja like to drink?”

  It’s a good thing you didn’t ask for a Bloody Mary. She’s one of the waitresses. You would have been in a whole heap of trouble, man.

  Thank you very much for the classy new suit of outdoor clothes. I had forgotten that PMM devotes a great many pages to fashion and fashion advertising. For many years, Henry P. Grogan, owner and proprietor of Grogan’s War Surplus, who is not likely to advertise in PMM, has been the fashion designer I have most relied upon for what we in Idaho consider the proper outdoor look, or Idaho Chic, as this style is often referred to. The nice thing about it, we feel, is that it is equally appropriate for casual social occasions or for gutting an elk, not that I have gutted all that many elk, ha ha. This is by no means meant to disparage the fine set of outdoor duds you bought me, no indeed.

  I look very classy in them and am often asked if I am on my way to the opera, even though there isn’t an opera within five hundred miles. But it’s nice to be asked anyway. I think the photos of me in my spiffy new clothes will fit right in with those of the gaunt, sensitive young men who model your fashions, the only difference being that I am somewhat less gaunt and sensitive, ha ha. But I guess you know that.

  Personally, I thought the camping trip we “real men” went on was one of the more enjoyable that I’ve had lately. I trust you are not too concerned about the photographer you brought along to shoot the pictures. He appeared to be a fit young man, and I am sure he will turn up one of these days.

  How’s the old tailbone? Still sitting on the rubber donut, ha ha? The boys, by the way, scored that fall of yours an eight on the usual scale of ten. They did not deduct any points for the scream, but they felt obligated to take off a point for your failure to come up with a humorous remark after you regained consciousness. The humorous-comment requirement applies all the way up to a number ten fall, where it is omitted for obvious reasons. I mention this only so that you will be more cognizant about the scoring of falls on your next outing with us, which I trust will be soon.

  I hope you are not under the impression that I knocked you off that log over the ravine. Even though you might have supposed that I had lost my balance and lunged at you, the fact is I was trying to grab you and hold you on the log. Regretfully, despite the initial contact, I was too late. That I stepped on your fingers during the few seconds you clung to the log merely hastened the inevitable. In a situation like that, it is best to get it over with as quickly as possible, as I’m sure you will agree.

  Well, at least you got to see the method for constructing a litter out of a couple of poles and some ponchos out in the wilds. Practice makes perfect, as they say. The litter worked rather well, if I may be so immodest as to mention. Of course, there is always the problem that while crossing a rain-swollen stream over slippery rocks, the litter bearers will lose their footing and drop the litter. And wouldn’t you know there would have to be a big rock right under your injured tailbone? Isn’t that just the way? Man, I bet you
scared all the local wildlife into the next state.

  Thank goodness we were able to catch up with you and the litter right after you went through the rapids and before you went over the falls. The falls would have been a ten, no doubt about it. It’s really quite pointless trying to think up a humorous comment on your way over the falls, even though you’d have plenty of time to do so. Ha ha.

  In the future, though, I think we will avoid tying the injured party to the litter while crossing a river. That way he might make more profitable use of his limited time scrambling to safety rather than frantically trying to untie a bunch of knots underwater.

  It’s too bad we couldn’t get you out of the mountains that day, but I’m sure you enjoyed that extra night of camping out. After a hard day of tramping through the mountains, there’s nothing like a good hearty meal of fried bacon, fried potatoes, fried beans, fried bread, and fried coffee. Only joking about the coffee! Seriously, I can’t explain the grease in the coffee, but I’m reasonably sure it was just plain lard, not boot grease or anything like that. All the guys got a big kick out of your joke: “Anybody bring Rolaids?” That was a good one. We still repeat it from time to time, and practically laugh ourselves sick. You are one comical guy, Bostich!

  Looking back I can now see that it was a bad idea to allow Retch Sweeney to make S’Mores for dessert. S’Mores. That’s the concoction for which Retch roasted marshmallows over the fire, placed them over pieces of chocolate bar, and sandwiched the whole mess between two graham crackers. S’Mores are Retch’s culinary specialty. It’s an old Girl Scout recipe. Girl Scouts love S’Mores but two or more are fatal to adults, which is why we didn’t offer you a second helping, not that you asked for one. No, they aren’t fried, ha ha.

  Now, in regard to the flaming marshmallow, the best I have been able to ascertain about that is Retch slapped at a mosquito on the back of his neck, and in so doing flicked the flaming marshmallow onto your sleeping bag. Because the sleeping bag was sopping wet, the marshmallow should have been immediately extinguished, but, as you know, it landed on the one dry spot. You might think some of these old sleeping bags are insulated with some combination of gunpowder and dry leaves, the way they burn once ignited. That is the reason Retch didn’t hesitate to stomp out the flames. Usually, the person in the sleeping bag is physically capable of ejecting himself from a flaming bag, but, of course, in this instance, that wasn’t the case for you, since we had the sleeping bag tied to the litter in an effort to stabilize your tailbone. Looking on the bright side of the stomping, you already have two kids. Did you enjoy the songs around the campfire?

  The last day of the trip was rather boring, as I recall. Oh, yes, there was that incident with the grizzly we ran into on the trail. If I’m not mistaken, you looked a little perturbed when we dropped your litter—littering, we call it, ha ha—and took to the trees. Once again, grizzlies are another good reason for not tying the injured party to the litter. Even with two broken legs, a fellow can still manage to go up a tree like a squirrel at the sight of a grizzly headed his way. Motivation is everything, as I’m sure you know, given the fact that you managed to stand up and run a few feet with the litter strapped to your back before, alas, toppling over.

  Nevertheless, I’m sure also that you are aware that it is impossible to climb a tree while holding a litter, and that you won’t think the less of us in that regard. As you may have noticed, even though your eyes were squeezed tight shut, as were ours for the most part, because grizzlies can do some really nauseating things to people, stuff you really don’t want to watch, well, as I say, you may have noticed that the grizz was more curious than anything, and all he did was sniff you all over before wandering off.

  All the experts recommend holding your breath while being sniffed by a bear, and you did that remarkably well, just as if you had an instinct for what to do and required no instruction on the proper procedure. But after the bear leaves, you are supposed to start breathing again, and that is where you slipped up. While we were drawing straws to see who would give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, you finally started breathing on your own, and let me tell you, Bostich, that was a big relief to all of us, particularly me. And the fact that I’d drawn the short straw had nothing to do with it. I mean that sincerely.

  Fortunately, after we finally made it out of the mountains, Doc Mean could find nothing he regards as a serious injury, although I must report that while he was wiggling your tailbone about to see if it was broken, you cleared that waiting room of patients. Son, you could make a fortune as a healer. The ill and the lame were instantly cured and abandoned crutches, canes, and even wheelchairs as they raced one another for the exit. It was all I could do not to flee myself.

  After we loaded you and your rubber donut on the airplane, we stood around and waited for the takeoff, partly because we don’t have much entertainment in our lives but mostly because we wanted to see you on your way. You must not have noticed all of us waving, because you didn’t wave back. But perhaps the neck brace and the bandages on your fingers prevented you from doing so. Now, in regard to that article you’re writing about your little adventure with me, Bostich, I think it would be well if you held the flattery to a minimum. A little would be fine, of course, but try not to overdo it. As I said at the beginning of this letter, I know your article will be a dandy.

  Please come back and see us at first opportunity. We’ve got a chair reserved for you down at Kelly’s, and we’re always ready to hit the mountain trails at a moment’s notice. But it wouldn’t hurt to call first.

  Oh, I just this minute heard that your photographer chap turned up. But enough about that.

  Looking forward to our next adventure together, your old Idaho friend,

  Pat

  The Chicken-Fried Club

  I checked my watch. It was almost time. The phone rang. I answered it. A woman’s voice said, “March Brown, this is Evening Pale Blue Dun.” The voice was sexy and warm, taut with anticipation of a shared and illicit passion. I hung up.

  “Who was that?” my wife asked.

  “Wrong number,” I said.

  “I’m about ready to start supper,” she said. “We’re having sauce of tofu with brussels sprouts over lentils.”

  “One of my favorites,” I said, “but I’ve decided to fast this evening. Occasional fasting seems to give me increased energy and alertness.”

  “Good,” she said. “I didn’t want to cook anyway. I think I’ll sit down with a nice bowl of raw carrots and watch some exercise programs on TV.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just take a little five-mile walk.”

  I put on my trench coat and Scottish wool shooting hat. I pulled the hat brim down low over my eyes.

  “Very dashing,” she said. “Nobody would ever recognize you in that getup.”

  That was the idea. I would have worn my fake mustache, but I already had a mustache. Two mustaches are a dead giveaway.

  There were spies everywhere. Informants lurked even among friends and relatives—particularly among relatives. If they detected your slightest deviation from the norm, it was instantly reported. You had to be careful, very careful. Times had changed.

  I walked down the street, listening for the sound of footsteps behind me. I turned and pretended to be studying some of the bodybuilding machines arranged in the window of Joe’s Body Shop. I could remember when body shops took the dents and bulges out of cars. Now, they took them out of people. I checked my rear. Well, too late for that. Good reason to wear a trench coat. I then checked the street. Nobody in sight, except for a solitary jogger. He loped on by, his legs pink and pebbly. Either he was wearing a pigskin bodysuit or he had been out in the cold too long.

  Just past Verleen’s Health Spa, I paused for a moment at Edna’s Health Foods and glanced back. The coast was clear. I picked up my pace and turned into an alley, stepping over a derelict sprawled asleep on the concrete, an empty bottle of cheap carrot juice clutched in his grimy hand. I shoo
k my head in disgust. Something had truly gone wrong with our society.

  At the end of the alley I knocked three times on the red door. A gruff voice said, “Password?”

  “Emerging Caddis,” I said.

  The door opened. A beefy man stood there. He grabbed me by the lapel of my trench coat and pulled me up close to him. I could feel his eyes moving over the features of my face. Not a good feeling, a little too moist for my taste, and the eyelashes tickled. One of the worst cases of myopia I had ever encountered. The halitosis wasn’t that great either.

  “Okay,” he said. “You can go on up.”

  At the top of the stairs, I came to another door. It was guarded by a mug wearing a long black coat, but the coat didn’t conceal the bulge under his right arm. From the size of the bulge, I guessed an automatic, probably a 12-gauge with full choke, no plugs. This guy meant business. He gave a little toss of his head, indicating for me to go in. I opened the door.

  The room was crowded with people from all walks of life, stockbrokers, carpenters, beauticians, hotel maids still in uniform, matrons with diamonds cascading from beneath their chins and dripping from plump earlobes. The room fell silent. The looks turned on me bristled with suspicion and, perhaps, even fear.

  “He’s okay,” a woman said. “He’s one of us.”

  I recognized the sultry voice of Evening Pale Blue Dun. She approached from across the room, weaving her way among the crowded tables, the occupants of which were once again engaged in a din of conversation. Evening Pale Blue Dun wore a shimmering blue dress that looked as if it had been painted on, one coat, no primer.

  “Glad you could make it,” she said, her voice reminding me of a smoldering campfire that would burst into flame from the slightest puff of air. Her eyes turned hard for a brief instant.

  “Do you always blow in people’s faces?” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s an old camping habit.”

  “You bring the goods?”