Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing

by Patrick F. McManus

  Retch, who has made a hobby of collecting ways to irritate people, had discovered yet another one, as if our predicament weren’t miserable enough already.

  “I wish we had some jelly beans,” he said. “Don’t you wish we had some jelly beans?”

  “No. I hate jelly beans.”

  “You don’t like jelly beans?”

  “No.”

  “Huh. That’s hard to believe. You really don’t like jelly beans?”

  “I just said I don’t like jelly beans!”

  “You really mean that? You don’t like jelly beans?”

  “For the last time, I don’t like jelly beans, I can’t stand jelly beans, and I never want to hear jelly beans mentioned ever again in my lifetime!”

  Silence. After a bit, Retch said, “I guess that means you don’t like jelly beans, right? You’re not just kidding me? Tell me the truth now, you really don’t like jelly beans?”

  At this point, if I had known the rule about not crying had been rescinded, I would have burst into tears. As it was, all I could do was hold Retch’s head underwater until either he drowned or he forgot about jelly beans, whichever came first.

  Think how allowing men to cry will change the rugged sport of elk hunting. A group of elk hunters has been in the saddle for twelve straight hours. In the old days, they’d have been joking about their misery.

  “Somebody check my saddle. I think it’s on fire! Ha ha.”

  “Now I know how a turkey wishbone feels at Thanks-giving. Ha ha.”

  Under the new code, elk hunters can express to their guide how they actually feel: “Waaaaahhh! How much farther to camp, Ed? Waaaahhhh!”

  “Only another ten miles. But it’s all practically straight up.”

  “Waaaaaahhhh!”

  It was a big relief for me to learn that women now like men who know how to cry. Say you spill some gravy on your new tie at supper. “Oh darn!” you cry. “I just bought this new tie today and already it’s ruined, just ruined! Waaaahhh!” And then your wife or girlfriend will say, “Oh, I do so like it when you cry, sweetheart. There, there, you can buy yourself another tie.” You smile through your tears, because you really didn’t like that tie anyway. Dropping the no-cry rule for males changes the whole relationship between men and women. This is great! No longer do we have to pretend to be rugged, tough, and immune to pain.

  When I smashed my thumb with a hammer last week, I decided to try out male crying on my wife, Bun. Instead of doing my usual crouch hop about the yard with hand clutched in my crotch while I defoliated the shrubbery with colorful expressions, something Bun disapproves of, by the way, I rushed into the kitchen bellowing for all I was worth and holding up the injured digit for inspection, a Band-Aid, and possibly a kiss.

  “Why, you big calf!” Bun snarled. “Knock that off! Are you trying to make me gag, or what?”

  I guess she hadn’t got the word yet, that it’s now okay for men to cry. Just my luck.

  Fan Mail

  Every month I receive a dozen or so fan letters from youngsters telling me how much they love my books and requesting that I answer a few questions for them. I must say that it is gratifying to find so many youngsters with such a keen interest in fine literature that they would go to all to the trouble to write their favorite author. Here is a typical example:

  Dear Pat:

  You are my favorite author and my teacher gave us this assignment to write a letter to our favorite author and then write a report on him and if you don’t reply to this letter I get an F on the assignment and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your conscience. So please answer the 337 questions I have submitted with this letter. I would appreciate it if you would type your reply double space with one-inch margins but allow enough room at the top of the page for me to add a title, my name, and a couple of comments of my own on my report. Please send your reply by one-day mail, as my assignment is due at the end of this week.

  Your devoted fan,

  Donald

  P.S. As soon as I get an answer to my letter, I promise that I will actually read one of your books, and I mean that sincerely.

  Here is my typical reply:

  Dear Donald:

  Thank you very much for the nice letter. I was pleased to learn that I am your favorite author. Because I must spend most of my time hunting and fishing and generally having a lot of fun—and no longer must attend school like you, ha ha!—and also because of your pressing deadline, I can answer only a few of your questions. Here goes:

  Question 14: How old are you?

  Answer: Age 37.

  Question 22: Are your stories true or do you make them up?

  Answer: They are all true. One of my principles is never to tell lies. Lying is a disgusting habit and one that I hope you will avoid. If I may be so bold as to say so, Donald, it would be a good idea for you to model your life after my own, one of integrity, high principle, temperance in all things, and rigid adherence to the unvarnished truth.

  Question 41:I think the funniest story you ever wrote is “Grandma and the Buck Deer.” Is that one of your favorites, too?

  Answer: No, it is not! I think it is a stupid and disgusting story and certainly does not deserve the literary reputation and acclaim that it has earned over the years, and I would hold to that opinion even if I had written that story instead of an author by the name of Joel Vance. Mr. Vance has authored a book by the same title, and I suggest you take pains to avoid it. A great many people have written over the years to congratulate me on my having authored “Grandma and the Buck Deer,” which goes to show the dismal state into which literary taste in this country has fallen. I must tell you, Donald, that there is no story ever written that I have grown to detest more.

  Question 63: What kind of gun do you use for hunting grizzly bears?

  Answer: A big one. Preferably one that I can shoot back over my shoulder while moving at a fast pace. I must admit that I don’t hunt grizzlies anymore, now that I have given up the bow and arrow. I only wish grizzlies would regard our relationship the same way as I—neither of us hunts the other. A grizzly lives on the mountain where I do my daily hiking. I refuse to allow a mere grizzly to dictate to me where I can or cannot hike, although I am open to any suggestions he might care to make. On a couple of occasions a gray stump has reared up out of the brush and propelled me into the upper branches of a pine tree for a better view of it. Gray stumps can be deadly, particularly during twilight, and every year are responsible for a number of heart failures in grizzly country. My friend Retch Sweeney was recently chased for nearly a mile by a gray stump. Fortunately, he managed to escape unharmed, but the stump pretty much ended his career as a wilderness hunting guide.

  Question 154: Do you like—yuck!—girls?

  Answer: What a strange question! It was once popular with army psychiatrists, but comes unexpected from a boy your age. Of course I like girls! When I was your age, or perhaps a little younger, my view of girls was basically that they occupied space that might better be used for something else, like potted plants. As I grew older, however, I became increasingly fond of them, until at last I wandered into that vast wilderness that is love and have been lost in it ever since. If only I’d had the good sense to leave a trail of bread crumbs to find my way out!

  Question 189: Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?

  Answer: Yes, I have, Donald. One day I was studying a piece of rock in my hand. It seemed familiar. Then I realized it was the very same rock that was supposed to be holding me to the side of a cliff. As I plummeted toward the ground below, my whole life flashed before my eyes, which I took to be a bad omen, even if it was a rerun. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but a short while later I experienced the sensation of expanding and expanding and becoming lighter and lighter and then floating up into the air. At first, I thought it might merely be a result of the green hash we’d eaten for breakfast that morning. But then I looked down, and there were my fishing companions, Retch Sweeney and Al Finley, crouc
hed over a flattened, prostrate figure more or less shaped like a gingerbread man. And it was me! Gave me a bit of a start, I can tell you that, Donald. It was the first time my body and I had ever been separated. Then I heard Al say, “I think we’ve lost him, Retch,” and Retch nodded sadly. “No!” I yelled down at them. “I’m not lost yet! Look up here, you fools!” But they didn’t seem to hear me. Then Retch became all panicky and started yelling almost hysterically. As I recall, he was yelling that if he and Al didn’t stop fooling around and hurry up, they would get to Moose Lake too late to fish. Suddenly, I felt very angry, possibly because Retch and Al were arguing over how to divide up my gear, and all at once I was sucked back into my body, which was pretty darn glad to see me, too.

  Question 204: What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught?

  Answer: About this big, Donald. Maybe even a little bigger.

  Question 205: What’s the biggest elk you’ve ever shot?

  Answer: About this big, Donald. Maybe even a little bigger.

  Question 243: What is the ideal hunting vehicle?

  Answer: Any vehicle belonging to someone else.

  Question 267: What is the ideal outdoor companion?

  Answer: An excellent question, Donald! This is why it is so important to select your friends carefully. Always avoid relationships with individuals who display any sort of habits unacceptable in polite society, unless, of course, they happen to own a late-model hunting vehicle. Some individuals are so gross, however, that even their possession of a good hunting vehicle is not enough. In that case, one should avoid associating with them no matter what they might own, the one exception being a fine hunting dog. Anyone who owns a fine hunting dog can’t be all that bad. I should point out here that my friend Retch Sweeney owns both a good hunting vehicle and a fine hunting dog, just in case you were wondering, Donald. Retch’s character is still borderline, but I hear he just bought a jet boat for fishing on the Snake River, and if that is true, I believe he will have acquired the moral, ethical, and social qualities one generally finds in the ideal outdoor companion.

  Question 273: How long have you been writing professionally?

  Answer: Almost exactly forty years. You may detect a minor disparity between the number of years I’ve been writing and my age as given above. So?

  Question 285: Why did you become a writer?

  Answer: I am frequently asked that same question, Donald, usually by my wife, Bun. It is impossible here to indicate the exact tone of voice in which Bun asks the question, but it is such that I am fairly certain she does not merely wish to satisfy her curiosity. Basically, the answer is: it was either that or go to work. Not that writing isn’t hard work. It merely seems to be easy to the outside observer. For example, I may be down at Kelly’s Bar & Grill shooting a few games of pool and smoking a cigar and laughing and joking with the guys, but the truth is, I’m really hard at work writing. Inside my brain, where writing actually takes place, I’m just this churning cauldron of work, with my brain gasping and wheezing and sweating and crying out from its incredible exertion. But then, when I go home and flop down in front of the television to give my brain a little rest and relaxation and entertainment, you would be surprised how difficult it is to explain to my spouse that I haven’t merely been frittering away an afternoon in a sleazy pool hall. So, writing is not an easy life, Donald, no indeed.

  Question 300: Do you have to be extremely intelligent to be a writer?

  Answer: Yes. Also, you need to be extremely well educated. I myself spent nine years at the university, several of those years as a sophomore. In fact, some of my professors took to referring to me as McManus the Sophomore. I majored in English and minored in philosophy. I minored in philosophy in order to figure out why I was majoring in English. At the time, there were still jobs available for English majors, but two of my classmates got hired for them. So there was nothing left for me to do but to go into writing. If you decide to become an English major, Donald, always abbreviate it as “Eng.” That way your parents might think you are majoring in engineering and will one day amount to something, and that they aren’t throwing their money away to help you become one of the few people in the world who can distinguish a gerund from a participle.

  Question 308: Do you have an extra .410 shotgun lying around that you will send to me?

  Answer: No.

  Question 310: Have you ever been lost?

  Answer: “Lost” is a relative term, Donald. If you are asking if I have ever spent three days and nights in the woods looking for where I left my car, the answer is yes.

  If you are asking whether search-and-rescue parties have combed the mountains looking for me, the answer is yes.

  If you are asking if I have ever taken a shortcut over a mountain pass in Montana and ended up knocking on a door in a small town somewhere in Canada, the answer is yes. But if you are asking if I’ve ever been actually lost, the answer is no. The truth is, I have a superb sense of direction, even to the extent of proving compasses wrong.

  Question 318: Do sporting goods manufacturers send you all kinds of neat equipment free so that you can test it and promote it for them on television?

  Answer: No, they don’t. It is true that most other outdoor writers get a lot of neat free stuff to test, but not me. Even when a manufacturer hears that I’ve bought a piece of his equipment, a representative will show up and try to buy it back from me, often at double what I paid for it! Sporting goods manufacturers have absolutely no regard for my feelings.

  Well, Donald, that is all the time I have for answering your questions. Now I must get busy and write another column for Outdoor Life, provided that the Board of Health hasn’t shut down Kelly’s Bar & Grill yet again.

  Your favorite author,

  Pat

  Bike Ride

  It was said of the Huns who conquered Rome, “Their country is the back of a horse.” (And a sorry country it must have been, too, or so I judge from my own experience on the backs of horses.) In the days of my youth, if not today, it similarly could have been said of boys, “Their country is the back of a bicycle.” We lived on our bikes. These one-wheel-drive, all-terrain vehicles transported us to our hunting, fishing, camping, and swimming, and indeed, to adventures too numerous to extract from memory. In fact, the mere act of riding my bike could count as an adventure, and a harrowing one at that. I now regard that old bike with a certain degree of fondness, but only because the passage of much time has erased the fear and loathing I once felt for that misbegotten piece of mechanical malevolence. If a machine could be possessed by evil spirits, I’d have nominated my bike as a prime candidate for exorcism.

  After I had grown up and had children of my own, I bought them all shiny new bicycles, which were never available as a means of transportation, because they were busy accumulating dust in the back of the garage. As most parents are aware these days, Mom or Pop and the family car are now a child’s preferred means of travel from one place to another. When I as a boy suggested to my own parents that they drive me to a friend’s house and later retrieve me, they dissolved into such an unseemly state of mirth that I could not help but consider myself one of the world’s great wits.

  “Did”—wheeze—“did you hear what Patrick just said?”

  “Yes! Drive him over to”—gasp—“Lester’s house!”

  “And actually return later to …!”

  “Oh, stop, stop! No more! My sides ache!”

  Once their spasms of hilarity had subsided, my mother would ask, “And what’s wrong with your bike?”

  What was wrong with my bike? Well, let’s see. First of all, it was not store bought. Its parts had been cannibalized from assorted wreckage of other bicycles and then assembled by a sadistic local handyman, who must have chortled evilly all through the process of creating the two-wheeled monster. The seat, apparently salvaged from a racing model, was slightly less comfortable than riding about on a hatchet head—bystanders sometimes thought I was yodeling when I shot by the
m on my way home from a long day’s ride. (“Better work on that yodel, kid!”)

  Because the seat was permanently fixed at a height unsuited to my short legs, I could reach the pedals only with my toes. (“You’ll grow into it.”) The front wheel had a habit of bouncing off, a malfunction that would have flipped me over the handlebars, except by then the chain would have eaten my pants leg in order to prevent me from ejecting before the crash. By the end of the typical summer, I looked like a poster child for bike safety: “Kids, ride carefully. Don’t let this happen to you!” And Mom had the audacity to ask me what was wrong with my bike.

  The bike was equipped with coaster brakes, the only kind of bicycle brakes available at the time, as far as I know. My brakes never seemed to work properly, and so one day I decided to undertake their repair. As it turned out, the brakes consisted of what seemed to be a series slotted steel washers, which upon removal from their shaft immediately became a glob of slotted steel washers on the ground. I reassembled them as best I could, carefully wiping off most of the dirt and grass, but with the panicky sensation that I had succeeded only in destroying my sole means of transportation. And the panicky sensation was right on. I now had a bike that was still serviceable, except in any situation where I needed to stop.

  There was nothing to do but empty out my life’s savings and take the bike back for a brake job to the sadist who had built it in the first place, Mr. Eli Croaker. Unfortunately, Mr. Croaker’s shop was located at his farm atop a long steep hill on the highway that led through the main street of town. One warm September Saturday, I trudged up the mile-long hill, pushing the bike. When I finally arrived at the farm, a pack of mangy dogs rushed out to see if I might be edible, but I managed to fend them off with a few well-aimed kicks as I pounded on the shop door. No response. I then tried the farmhouse. Still no response. I wandered about calling, “Mr. Croaker! Mr. Croaker! Are you home?” Silence. My exhausting hike up the hill had been in vain.