Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing

by Patrick F. McManus

  As I came in for a landing at home base, I miscalculated my elevation, overshot the back porch—and collided head-on with a large, humpbacked figure rounding the corner of the house. The creature made a hideous sound and leaped in the air, even as it flailed madly at me with both arms.

  “Git back! Git back!” it cried hoarsely. “Wha …? Is thet you, Patrick? Gol-dang, you skeered the livin’ daylights outta me! What you doin’ out this time of night?”

  I was still inhaling, not a good idea when in that close a proximity to none other than—Rancid Crabtree!

  “Rancid! For gosh sakes, what are you doing here?”

  “Not a dang thang! Ah was jist passin’ through,” he said hoarsely. He reached down and picked up the gunny-sack he’d been carrying over his shoulder.

  “Oh, it’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Ah look like somebody else to you?”

  “I mean, you’re the one who’s been leaving the venison on our back porch, aren’t you?”

  “So what if Ah is?”

  “Well, it’s fine. It’s great. I guess you shoot a deer every so often and then share it with us. That’s nice.”

  “Ah don’t shoot no deer. Thet’d be poachin’. What kind of no-good, miserable skonk you thank Ah am?”

  “But the meat …”

  “Oh, thet. Ah jist picks thet up along the highway, any poor critter what’s too slow or too stupid to git out of the way of a car.”

  “You mean it’s … it’s roadkill?”

  “Shore. But it be all good meat. Ah don’t take nothin’ thet’s too ripe or all squished up.”

  “Dogs? Cats? Porcupines?”

  “Whatever. Sometimes even a deer. Ah ain’t heard no complaints about it. Now, you keep your yap shut about seein’ me tonight. This is a secret jist ’tween you and me, hear?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Now, here’s your Venison,’” he said hoarsely. “Put it over thar on the porch. And you dang well better act surprised when your ma finds it.”

  “Okay. By the way, how come your voice is so hoarse, Rancid?”

  “’Cause you made me swaller maw chaw of tobacky, thet’s why!”

  The very next evening Mom burst out of the kitchen with a big platter of pancakes and another of steak.

  “Oh boy, venison again!” cried Troll.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mom said. “Our secret benefactor struck again last night. Here, Patrick, take some venison and pass it to your sister.”

  “No thanks,” I said, passing the platter on. “By golly, if I don’t have the strangest hankering for leftover ‘roast beef tonight. Sounds really good to me for some reason.”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t think Rancid’s, uh, ‘venison’ might not be good. I just wanted to wait awhile and see if Ronnie’s dog, Sparky, turned up okay.

  The Fly Rod

  You see this fine old split-bamboo fly rod? Pretty nice, huh? I got it from Henry P. Grogan. Henry P. was the proprietor of Grogan’s War Surplus back when I was a kid growing up in the little town of Blight, Idaho. Gosh, even now I can see Grogan’s in all its splendor and glory, just as if it were yesterday instead of half a century ago. The storefront itself was elegantly decorated with ammo boxes, jerry cans, camouflage netting, a limp yellow life raft, and various other residue of recent history. It was nice.

  On the lot next to the store, Grogan had carefully arranged the rusting wreckage of a dozen or so military vehicles in such a way as to conceal what had once been an unsightly patch of wildflowers. Most interesting of the vehicles was a Sherman tank. My friend Crazy Eddie Muldoon and I would have loved to get our hands on that tank, but Grogan refused to let us have it. He said it would be irresponsible of him to let two ten-year-old boys drive off though town in a Sherman tank, unless, of course, they somehow happened to come up with the cash to buy it. Grogan had a strict rule about selling dangerous war surplus to kids. You had to be a certain height—tall enough to reach up and put the cash on the counter—before he’d let you leave with the goods.

  I was Grogan’s best customer—he always said so, anyway—and over the years he and I worked out this special arrangement. He for his part would try to sell me every rotten, rusty, worthless piece of junk he had in the store. I would buy it. We both thought the arrangement quite equitable, he possibly somewhat more than I. Long before I reached my teens, my bedroom began to look like a miniature version of Grogan’s War Surplus. Except for my mother’s objections, I probably could have invaded a small country all by myself.

  One day I was poking around Grogan’s with the vague intention of buying another Eisenhower jacket, the military garment most favored by General Eisenhower during the war. So many boys at school wore them, recess looked like a convention of miniature Eisenhowers. While I was sorting through a pile of jackets in search of one that approached my size, Grogan yelled at me.

  “Gol-dang it, Patrick, don’t be scattering them jackets all over the floor! I try to keep this place neat. Now pick ’em up and throw ’em back up on the heap like you found them.”

  I glanced over at Grogan to determine his degree of irritation. Sometimes he got so upset he’d toss me out of the store, unless I was quick enough to wave cash at him. The sight of cash always seemed to have a calming effect on Grogan. On this occasion, however, he seemed well short of the boiling point. His beady eyes were blinking normally and hadn’t disappeared into hard little slits in his grizzled face. Also, he was still puffing on his stub of cigar, a good indicator of his mood. While I was doing these calculations on his temper, I suddenly noticed something for the first time. On the wall behind the counter was an old but beautiful split-bamboo fly rod.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “How much you want for that fly rod, Mr. Grogan?”

  He turned and looked at the rod. “Ain’t for sale.”

  “But you always say everything you got is for sale, including your wife, children, and pets.”

  “Well, I made a mistake. The rod ain’t for sale. My policy still holds for the wife and children, though. Right now I’ll let my son Junior go at half price. And I’ll even throw in the pets to boot.”

  “Nope. What I want is that rod.”

  “You can’t have it. But how about a nice flamethrower? Every fourth-grader needs a flamethrower. Great for starting campfires. Don’t have to bother with kindlin’ or nothin’. Drop a few chunks of wood on the ground, and, whoosh, you gotcherself one heck of a campfire.”

  The years passed. I grew up and went off to college. Whenever I was in town, though, I’d stop by Grogan’s for a little shopping and to hone my bartering skills on its owner. No longer a kid wet behind the ears, I was now more than a match for Henry P. He and I would have a good laugh over all the useless junk he had foisted off on me over the years. Then he would try to sell me some rusty old war relic he had reserved just for me, but I would only chuckle, shake my head, and start to walk away. Then I’d stop. “Oh,” I’d say. “I’d still buy that fly rod, though.”

  “Ain’t for sale,” he’d growl. “Junior, however …”

  And that’s how it went. Eventually, almost without knowing it, I acquired a job, wife, kids, house, mortgage, “the full catastrophe,” as Zorba the Greek used to say. Grogan in the meantime prospered. The old frame building of Grogan’s War Surplus was replaced with a concreteblock edifice topped by a huge neon sign proclaiming the establishment as GROGAN’S EMPORIUM. Clerks now roamed the well-lit aisles, and clothing was arranged neatly in racks instead of in heaps on the floor, and there was not so much as a helmet liner or bayonet in sight. Personally, I found the new Grogan’s—“The finest retail store in all of Blight!”—to be boring and even kind of sad. All the old character of the original Grogan’s had vanished, as had Grogan himself. He now whiled away the later years of his life on golf courses and cruise ships and in fancy restaurants and resorts. As I say, it was sad.

  On the rare occasions that I ran into Grogan on the street, his face would instantly light up and he would try
to sell me something. “Have I ever got a bargain for you, Patrick! Look at this watch. Cost me a thousand dollars in Hong Kong. Fifty bucks and it’s yours.”

  “It doesn’t run.”

  “Probably just needs batteries.”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you what, Henry P. If you still have that fly rod, I’ll buy it off you for fifty bucks.”

  “Fifty bucks! Ha! Nope. Ain’t for sale.”

  It gradually became clear to me that one of Grogan’s final goals in life was to sell me one last piece of worthless junk, just for old times’ sake and the arrangement we had struck between us so many years ago. Then he’d die happy. For that very reason, I was determined not to be outfoxed ever again by the old fox. Let him die sad like everybody else, I thought cruelly.

  One day my wife, Bun, and I were preparing to move to a new house. While we were cleaning out the basement, Bun came across a pile of boxes in one corner. She opened one and drew back in amazement. “Good heavens, what is this junk?”

  “Oh that,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of old war surplus stuff I bought as a kid. Don’t know why I held on to it all these years.”

  She opened one of the larger cartons. Her face screwed up in disgust. “If you wanted to keep it, you should have stored it better. It’s all rotten and rusty.”

  “Actually, it was that way when I bought it. We’ll just toss it all out.”

  “The flamethrower, too?”

  “Naw, not the flamethrower. I heard once it’s good for starting campfires.”

  I hadn’t even thought of Grogan in a long while, but suddenly I was flooded with fond memories of the old curmudgeon and decided to give him a call sometime. But before I could do so, he called me.

  “Patrick, my old adversary! It’s so good to hear your voice!” He sounded strange.

  “How you doing, Henry P.?”

  “Not so good. My string is just about run out. I’m in this dratted hospital, and I thought maybe you’d stop by for a visit. If you hurry, I’ll try to hold on till you get here.”

  I was shocked. Somehow, I’d always thought of Grogan as living forever. I rushed over to the hospital.

  Grogan appeared to be asleep in his bed. I hoped he was asleep. I gently shook his shoulder. Much to my relief, he opened his eyes.

  “Patrick!” he croaked weakly. “You made it in time. I’m still here!”

  “Henry P., I’m so sorry to see you like this.”

  “Never mind,” he whispered. “We all got to go sometime. I just wish it was you and not me. Ha! Anyway, I got this for you.” He groped over the side of the bed and hauled up—the fly rod!

  “Here,” he said. “I want you to have it.”

  Instantly overcome with emotion, I managed to choke out my thanks.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, wearily closing his eyes. “I know it’s something you always wanted.”

  “But it’s such a wonderful gift!”

  Grogan’s beady little eyes popped open. “Gift? What you mean, gift? That’ll be two hundred dollars!”

  “Two hundred dollars!” I gasped. “This rod is practically worn out!”

  “Take it or leave it,” he croaked.

  “All I’ve got on me is a hundred and fifty and some change. Uh, how about a check?”

  “You’ve sharpened up real good, kid, trying to pull that old check ploy on a dying man.” He sank weakly back into his pillow. “I’ll take the hundred and fifty. And the change.”

  I gave him the money.

  “Just like old times, ain’t it?” he said, managing a faint cackle.

  My face twitched. “Yeah, it sure feels like it.”

  With a satisfied sigh, Henry P. Grogan closed his eyes and drifted off, a smile on his face.

  On my way out of the hospital, I met his doctor and asked how much longer Henry P. had.

  “A couple hours at most,” the doc said.

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “The liver.”

  “Bad liver, huh?”

  “Yes. Or it might have been the onions. If the old fox had enough sense not to eat liver and onions at Gert’s Gas ’N’ Grub, he wouldn’t have to come in here and get his stomach pumped. Anyway, he’ll be released in a couple of hours and—hey, steady there, man! Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I see Grogan sold you a split-bamboo fly rod. Too bad. He sold me one just like it. I think he has them made and aged by the gross in Hong Kong. Take my word for it, they’re a worthless piece of junk. Wonder what sucker gave him the idea for this scam.”

  “It’s hard to say,” I said. “Very hard.”

  The Stupidity Alarm

  (Whoa! Is that me beeping again?)

  I don’t know about you, but my world seems filled with alarms—alarms to warn me of smoke, fire, carbon monoxide, burglars, computer malfunction, car lights left on, keys left in the ignition, seat belts unfastened, doors not closed, and on and on. Unfortunately, I still lack one of the most important alarms of all—the Stupidity Alarm.

  I hear a rumor that our technogeniuses finally got around to inventing one. It’s about time. Just think of all the problems we’ll avoid when we have an alarm to warn us every time we start to do something stupid.

  The way it works, the Stupidity Alarm is implanted in an otherwise useless part of your body (I now have several available), and it has a series of warning signals calibrated to the degree of stupidity about to be engaged in. For modest stupidity, the alarm will go beep-beep-beep; for medium stupidity, boop-boop-boop; and for major stupidity, WHOOOOP-WHOOOOP-WHOOOOP!

  Example of modest stupidity:

  “By golly, I think I will have a third serving of that delicious chili.”

  Alarm: Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Example of medium stupidity:

  “Gee, Mr. Salesman, from what you say I probably should take the extended warranty on this toaster, which you’re pretty sure will explode ten minutes after the regular warranty runs out.”

  Alarm: Boop! Boop! Boop! Boop!

  Example of major stupidity:

  “I guess I can read the fine print later. Where do I sign?”

  Alarm: WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  When I think of all the times a Stupidity Alarm could have saved me from committing a stupidity, it makes me sick. Life would have been so much simpler. Here’s one instance that comes to mind.

  My children: “Daddy, please buy us a horse! Please, please, please, please!”

  Me: “Well, kids, I guess a horse wouldn’t be all that much trouble.”

  Stupidity Alarm: WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  The cowboy who sold me the horse said it loved children. That was true. But as I belatedly discovered, it hated adults. As we dickered over the price of the nag, I happened to notice that the cowboy had a bad limp.

  “War injury,” he explained.

  One of his ears looked as if a bite had been taken out of it.

  “Birth defect,” he explained.

  A plaster cast enveloped one of his arms.

  “Car wreck,” he explained. “Now, as I was saying, this here horse is real fine with children. That’s why, out of the goodness of my heart, I’m letting you have him so cheap. I think every kid should have a horse. We got a deal?”

  “You bet!”

  WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  The kids named the horse Huck. After we’d had the horse for a while and I had observed how gentle it was with children, I saw no reason I couldn’t use good ole Huck for pack trips into the mountain.

  WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  I will omit the story of that pack trip, because it contains extreme violence, offensive language, and even some partial nudity, if having one’s clothes ripped off on brush, trees, and rocks fits the nudity category.

  Of course, not all the stupid acts I’ve committed have been major. Most are minor. I should mention here that my wife, Bun, didn’t care too much for my idea
of buying myself a Stupidity Alarm.

  “I couldn’t stand you beeping and booping about the house all day,” she said.

  Well there you go. It was stupid of me even to tell her about the alarm, particularly when I know she just can’t resist an opening for a bit of sarcasm. See, if I’d already had a Stupidity Alarm, it would have beeped as soon as I thought about telling her my idea.

  The Stupidity Alarm should be particularly handy for outdoorsmen—no offense.

  “Hey, Pat, this road really looks terrible. Let’s turn back.”

  “You kidding me or what, Joe? Ha! We haven’t even kicked into four-wheel drive yet!”

  Boop! Boop! Boop! Boop!

  “Whoa! That road looks a lot worse than I first thought, Joe!”

  The Stupidity Alarm could even save me from serious injury.

  “Don’t worry about that Vicious Dog sign, Ed. Farmers put those up just to scare off guys too timid to walk up and knock on the door and ask permission to hunt. Means the hunting is practically untouched. Watch me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  “Uh-oh, my leg cramp’s back. Guess you’ll have to go ask the farmer’s permission, Ed.”

  Or the Stupidity Alarm could save taking out a second mortgage on the house.

  “I’ve been thinking about a nice inexpensive form of relaxation. Guess I’ll take up bass fishing. Buy myself a rod, a couple of lures, that should about do it.”

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Or it could save me from ridiculous sales pitches.

  “Gee, Mr. Salesman, from what you tell me, I probably should buy the extended warranty on this thirty-thousand-dollar bass boat, which you expect to explode ten minutes after the regular warranty runs out.”

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Or save me from serious gastric disorder.

  Designated Camp Cook (guy who drew the short straw): “Either you guys agree to wash the dishes, chop all the firewood, clean my rifle, grease my boots, knock the snow off the tent, take baths in the creek, and let me deal the cards tonight, or I’m serving the hash again.”