Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing

by Patrick F. McManus

  “But the hash has turned green and is starting to pulsate!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tastes good, though. We’ll have the hash.”

  WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP! WHOOOOP!

  Actually, I suppose I don’t have too much need for the Stupidity Alarm these days, but many decades ago it would have come in handy.

  Here are a few instances.

  Age eight and not likely to make it to nine—Crazy Eddie Muldoon has designed and built a deep-sea-diving outfit. The description of the outfit is too technical for the layman to understand, but I will mention that the helmet consisted of a milk bucket.

  Eddie: “And guess what, Pat. You get to do the test dive! Don’t that sound like fun?”

  Me: “Gee, thanks, Eddie!”

  Age nine—Eddie and I have built an airplane at the peak of a steep barn roof. It’s a glider, actually, because we can’t figure out how to get the motor out of his mom’s gaspowered washing machine. The glider will zoom down the barn roof until it has picked up enough speed to loft it up into the air. Neato!

  Eddie: “Guess what, Pat. You get to be the test pilot. Don’t that sound like fun?”

  Me: “No way, Eddie! It’s too dangerous. You must think I’m stupid. But I’ll ride along as copilot.”

  Age sixteen—my friend Retch Sweeney and I have hiked far back into a trackless wilderness. It’s difficult to imagine two more astute woodsmen.

  Retch: “I’m starving. We probably shouldn’t have eaten all our food the first two days.”

  Me: “Now we think of that! Well, maybe we can live off the land.”

  Retch: “We could if we knew how to eat moss. Hey, look at those storm clouds boiling up over those mountains. Maybe we better not camp on this ridge.”

  Me: “What are the chances that of all the places lightning can strike, that it would hit right in our camp? Ha! This ridge is as safe as anywhere.”

  As a point of interest, when lightning strikes right in the middle of your camp, it’s very much like being inside an exploding bomb, with fire going every which way and you going every which way, and the bolts are trying to hit you and turn you into a Crispy Critter, but the bolts fail to lead you enough because you are moving so fast.

  Age twenty-five—Retch Sweeney and I are already experienced white-water rafters.

  Retch: “It’s a good thing we ran into that kindly old rancher who knows all about the river. Otherwise we’d keep worrying about how bad everybody says The Narrows are.”

  Me: “Yeah, it was nice of the kindly old rancher to tell us that the danger of shooting The Narrows is greatly exaggerated. You can always trust kindly old ranchers to give you the straight dope.”

  As another point of interest, I should mention that some kindly old ranchers can turn out to be homicidal maniacs in disguise.

  Looking back over more decades than I care to mention, I guess I’m actually pretty happy Stupidity Alarms hadn’t been invented when I was younger. If they had been, I probably would have spent my life doing only wise things, and we all know how boring that can be. Anyway, it’s too late for me to change now, even after I get my Stupidity Alarm. As a matter of fact, I’m even thinking about buying another horse, so I can use it to pack into high mountain lakes and things. I just hope I can find one that likes adults and isn’t spooked by a whole lot of beeping, booping, and WHOOOOPing.

  Work and Other Horrors

  Of all the adults I knew, the two I most wanted to be like when I grew up were my Uncle Flynn and Rancid Crabtree.

  Rancid lived in a little shack back in the mountains behind our farm and never did a lick of work. That seemed to me like a sensible way to live, the kind of career I hoped to find for myself.

  I had noticed early in life that most of the adults I knew loved work, because that was about all they ever did. Work. Work. Work. If they lost one job, they rushed frantically about in search of another and wouldn’t be satisfied until they found one. They weren’t choosy about what the job was, either. If it consisted of carrying logs on their shoulders from the bottom of a mountain to the top twelve hours a day, seven days a week, why, they would be delighted with it, for no other reason than it was a job. They obviously loved work in all its forms, and no matter how hard and dirty and mean a new job might be, they spoke highly and even glowingly of it, as if they’d found some grand prize.

  Every so often I’d get carried away by their enthusiasm and try a little work myself, as an experiment, to see if I could detect the pleasure in it. But I never found any. As far as I could tell, Rancid had been right all along. Work merely used up the time one might otherwise spend fishing and hunting—or resting up for fishing and hunting. I was never sure which Rancid enjoyed more, the hunting and fishing or the resting up for. He was an expert at both.

  My Uncle Flynn didn’t work either, but he was much different from Rancid. He was tall and slim and handsome and always wore nice clothes: shiny shoes and nifty suits, white shirts and little bow ties. He smelled nice, too, whereas Rancid, on his best days, simply smelled. Uncle Flynn spent his time playing poker, smoking cigars, and chatting with his pals down at Pig Weed’s Saloon, and he always seemed to have lots of beautiful girlfriends. He usually had lots of money, too. There seemed to be some connection between lots of money and lots of beautiful girlfriends, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I thought no work and lots of money was a lifestyle that probably suited me best, and I wanted to study Uncle Flynn more to see how he managed to come up with that particular combination.

  My mother often predicted that Uncle Flynn would come to a bad end, but as far as I could tell he was having a pretty darn good middle. Even though he didn’t work, Uncle Flynn from time to time went off on long vacations. One time while he was on an extended vacation, some of his friends came around looking for him. I was only about eight at the time, and I don’t know why they thought I could keep track of my uncle.

  Crazy Eddie Muldoon and I had been out picking up empty beer bottles and cigarette butts along the highway. We sold the empties at Pig’s saloon and saved up the butts until we had enough to smoke, not realizing back then that cigarettes could be bad for our health. A big black sedan passed us, squealed to a stop, and backed up. The car had four men in it. Eddie and I dropped our bottles and cigarette butts and ran down into the ditch. A man in a suit got out of the backseat, leaving the door open, as if he might have to make a fast getaway. Eddie picked up a good throwing rock, just in case. The man stuck his hands up and smiled at Eddie. Then he looked down at our sack of empties and the little pile of cigarette butts.

  “I see you boys are out collecting empties and cigarette butts,” he said. “Very industrious.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We just collect the cigarette butts, we don’t smoke them. It’s a hobby.”

  “And a very good hobby, too,” the man said. “Might be worth a lot of money someday. Speaking of money, I was wondering, Pat, if you’d seen your Uncle Flynn around. He skipped out—uh—kind of disappeared for a while, and we were just wondering if you might have seen him lately.”

  I looked at the other man sitting in the backseat. “What do you want him for, to play baseball?”

  “Baseball?” the man said. He glanced over his shoulder at the car’s backseat, where his friend was holding a baseball bat on his lap. “Exactly right! We were getting a little game together this afternoon and needed Flynn to pitch, ain’t that right, Charlie?”

  “That’s right,” Charlie said. “To pitch.”

  “Can’t somebody else pitch?” I said.

  “No,” the man said. “Flynn’s got the ball. We need to get the ball back.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks. He said he was going on a long vacation. But if I do see him, I’ll be glad to mention you’re looking for him.”

  “Don’t bother. I expect he knows.”

  After the men had roared off in their black sedan, Eddie and I wandered over to Rancid Crabtree’s shack to see if we
could talk the old woodsman into giving us a ride down to Pig’s saloon so we could sell our empties. Usually, Eddie and I just walked into his shack without knocking, because there was no danger of ever catching Rancid indisposed, like in the bathtub, for example, or changing his clothes. He had this theory that soap and water would eat holes in your protective crust and let the germs get in. In regard to clothes, he thought taking them off when he went to bed was a waste of time, because he’d just have to put them back on again in the morning. It made sense. But today the door was locked. Eddie pounded on it. That was when we heard the burglar alarm go off—namely, the sound of a shell being jacked into a 12-gauge pump shotgun. We looked at each other. What was going on? Rancid never locked his door, never had reason to alarm burglars.

  “Who’s thar?” the old woodman shouted.

  “It’s just me and Eddie,” I shouted back.

  Rancid opened the door a crack, stuck his head out, and looked around. “So what you two want?”

  “We want you to drive us to Pig’s so we can sell our empties.”

  “Cain’t.”

  “Well, at least let us come in and rest.”

  “Cain’t.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause I got a visitor, thet’s how come. Now beat it, the two of you.”

  “Oh,” I said to Eddie. “He’s got Ginger Ann in there, I bet.”

  Ginger Ann was Rancid’s lady friend, at least when she wasn’t fighting with him. She owned the Tin Horn Ranch and ran it all by herself. The Tin Horn looked a lot like Rancid’s place, except on a larger scale. I was glad that Rancid and Ginger Ann had made up. Their latest fight had been going on for most of a year.

  Then we heard a man’s voice. “Oh what the heck, Rance, let ’em come in. Maybe they have some news from the outside world.”

  I recognized the voice right off. It was Uncle Flynn’s! He was sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around Rancid’s spare coffee mug. His shirt was dirty, his hair uncombed, and he had started growing a beard. He looked terrible.

  “What are you doing here, Uncle Flynn?” I gasped.

  “Yeah,” Crazy Eddie said. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” Uncle Flynn said. “Actually, I’m just taking a little vacation.”

  “At Rancid’s shack?”

  “Yep. Oh, I did think about Mexico and even South America, but then I said to myself, ‘By golly, I’ll just go stay with Rancid for a spell.’ I wanted a place with some atmosphere, and as you can tell, this little cabin has a whole lot of atmosphere.”

  “Thanks, Flynn,” Rancid said. “Ah’m glad you like it.”

  “You’re welcome, Rance. In fact, I don’t think I’d be up to even a bit more atmosphere. So what brings my favorite nephew and his sidekick out here?”

  “Nothing much. But guess what, Uncle Flynn, some men in a big black sedan are looking for you. They stopped and talked to us up on the highway. They had a baseball bat with them but said you had the ball. They said they need you to pitch.”

  “Don’t worry, Flynn, they ain’t gonna find you here,” Rancid said.

  “How come you don’t want them to find you?” Eddie asked. “It sounds like fun.”

  “Not as much as you might think, Eddie,” Uncle Flynn said. “You see, I lost the ball. It was their ball. They would be very upset.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the ball,” Rancid said. “I thought it was jist thar money you lost?”

  “That, too.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “You mean you lost their money?” Eddie said. “How did you do that?”

  “A slight miscalculation. But no problem, Eddie, I can get the money back. All I need is a small stake and a patsy.”

  Eddie and I both knew what a small steak was, but we’d never heard of a patsy, unless maybe it was a girl. Rancid apparently was familiar with both. “By dang,” he said, pounding the table. “Why didn’t Ah thank of this before? Ginger Ann’s got a ton of money and ain’t adverse to an occasional wager. She an ornery old cuss, but she’d jump at the chance to do a little gamblin’.”

  “Poker?”

  “Naw, we need to come up with a contest of some kind thet she thinks she can win. You let her win a few rounds until she gets overconfident. Then you bet all the rest of your money and take her to the cleaners. It’d sarve her right, her thankin’ she’s so durn smart and all. Take her down a notch or two.”

  “One problem, Rance,” Uncle Flynn said. “I’m flat broke.”

  “I hear they’re hiring down at the mines right now,” Crazy Eddie said.

  Both Uncle Flynn and Rancid shuddered. “You watch your mouth, Eddie!” Rancid growled. “Ah don’t like to hear talk like thet!”

  “Me either,” Uncle Flynn said. “You must have picked up that trashy language from Pat’s mother. Sounds about like her.”

  “Ah’ll tell you what, Flynn,” Rancid said. “Ah got maw life’s savin’s buried out in the yard in a quart jar. Ah’ll loan it to you, and you can pay me back and a bit more from the winnin’s.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Rance, but I couldn’t possibly risk your life’s savings.”

  “Ha! Thar ain’t no risk. You see, Ginger Ann thanks she can outshoot me, but she cain’t. You jist asked the boys hyar if Ah ain’t the best dang shot in the valley.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “They don’t even allow Rancid in the turkey shoots anymore. He shows up, they give him a turkey and he goes home.”

  “Nobody can touch Rancid when it comes to shooting,” Crazy Eddie said.

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” Uncle Flynn said. “How much do you have in your life’s savings, Rance?”

  “Eighteen dollars.”

  Uncle Flynn looked thoughtful. “And you say she has plenty of money, this Ginger Ann? I wouldn’t want to cause her any hardship.”

  “Don’t you worry about thet. If she put all her money in the bank, her mattress would be flatter’n a pancake.”

  “Hmmmm. Well, if we handle this just right, Rance, I might be able to pick up the cash I need. But I’m not going to take advantage of the poor woman. Anything I win I’m going to consider a loan and pay it back to her. How are we going to work this, anyway?”

  “Wahl, like this. You bet her a dollar a shot and Ah’ll let her win the first three or four rounds. Then you bet our whole wad. And Ah’ll beat her. But she’ll jist thank thet was a lucky shot. Then Ah’ll let her win a few more and—”

  “I know the drill,” Uncle Flynn said. “Let’s do it!”

  “Hot dang!”

  Uncle Flynn combed his hair, shaved, and put on a clean shirt. Rancid took his twenty-two out in the yard, stuck a wooden match in a log, stepped back about fifty feet, and shot the match in two.

  “Shucks,” he said. “Missed.”

  “What do you mean, ‘missed’?” Crazy Eddie shouted. “That’s the greatest shot I’ve ever seen!”

  “Thanks. But you see, Eddie, I was aimin’ to light the match.”

  “Holy smokes!”

  “Rance is just joshin’ you, Eddie,” I said.

  “Mebby, mebby not. Anyways, you two younguns stay here at the shack and don’t you breathe a word to nobody that Flynn is bunkin’ hyar. You could git hart real bad.”

  “Gee, you think those men would hurt us, Rance?”

  “Ah don’t reckon they’s thet mean. But Ah am!”

  After Rancid and Uncle Flynn headed up the trail toward the Tin Horn Ranch, Eddie and I went in the shack and dug out Rancid’s checkerboard and started playing checkers.

  “I feel kind of sorry for Ginger Ann,” Eddie said.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Didn’t you hear Uncle Flynn say he would pay her back all the money he won?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Uncle Flynn is a man of his word, Eddie, and pretty darn often, too.”

  A couple hours later, we heard Rancid and Uncle Flynn laughing as they came back down the trail. We ran out into the yard. U
ncle Flynn had a wad of cash in his hand.

  “I got to hand it to you, Ranee, you’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ah reckon thet’s true.”

  “Yep, no doubt about it. And Ginger Ann’s the other best shot I’ve ever seen.”

  “She’s a good cook, too. You hear her invite me up for supper tomorrow night. I guess thet means we’re made up. Hot dang!”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  “And you was afraid we might lose maw life’s savin’s, Flynn. Ha!”

  “Well, we certainly could have, Rance. But when I saw Ginger Ann light that match with her first shot, I knew it was time to fold ’em.”

  “Ah probably could have taken her in the long haul, but it would’ve been too close fer comfort. You shore seventeen dollars will do you, Flynn?”

  “This will do me fine, Rance. I’ll pay you back first chance I get.”

  Eddie and I could scarcely believe what we were hearing. Ginger Ann had actually outshot Rancid and won a dollar off Uncle Flynn.

  “Wahl, Ah got to go down to the crick and git cl-cl-cleaned up for supper with Ginger Ann,” Rancid said. “Thet woman is so dang picky!”

  “I thought supper wasn’t until tomorrow night, Rance,” Uncle Flynn said.

  “It ain’t. But it usually takes me two days to git cl-cl-cleaned up. It’s a hideous chore, but Ah’s got to do it.”

  Uncle Flynn sat down on Rancid’s chopping block, dug out a cigar stub he’d wrapped up in a piece of paper, and, emitting a long sigh, lit it. Eddie and I walked over to him.

  “Gosh, what are you going to do now, Uncle Flynn?” I asked.

  “You know how your mom always said I’d come to a bad end, Patrick. Well, I guess this is it.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Not that! Those men won’t ever find you, Uncle Flynn!”

  “That’s not the bad end. Tonight I’m driving down to the mines and going to w-w-work.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Not that!”

  The Dangers of Light Tackle

  Many years ago, I gave a speech, “Whither the Moose,” at an Oregon seaside resort. As the audience hung on my every word, a chap in the first row suddenly lost his grip and fell into a deep slumber, dragging most of the row after him. Even though I was only two hours into my speech, I decided to relinquish the microphone to the next speaker, who had been trying to wrest it from me for some moments anyway. One of the secrets of successful public speaking is to recognize the subtle signs of ebbing attentiveness in the audience, and then to wrap up the talk as quickly as possible, which I did forthwith and to resounding applause, if I may be so immodest as to mention that. Making my way toward the nearest exit, I noticed a couple of friends of mine, Flick and Benny, standing by the door. Flick beckoned me over.