The Grasshopper Trap

by Patrick F. McManus

  The “Play on Her Sympathy Ploy” works well on young, inexperienced wives. It goes something like this: Rush into the house wiping tears of joy from your cheeks. Then cry out, “Look, Martha, look! A man at the garage sold me this rifle. It’s identical to the one my grandfather gave me on his deathbed. Gramps said to me, ‘Boy, I’m givin’ you ol’ Betsy here, because every time you shoot it, you will remember all the good times you and me had together.’ Oh, how I hated to sell that rifle to pay for Momma’s operation! But now I got one just like it! Or maybe it’s even the same rifle! Do you think it might actually be the same rifle, Martha?”

  Warning! Don’t ever try the Sympathy Ploy on a wife you’ve been married to for longer than five years, unless you want to see a woman laugh herself sick. It’s a disgusting spectacle, I can tell you.

  The “Fantastic Investment” lie will work on occasion, provided you lay the groundwork carefully in advance. “That ol’ Harvey Schmartz is a shrewd one,” you say. “He bought this .48-caliber Thumblicker for six hundred dollars as an investment. Three weeks later he sold it for eighty-seven thousand dollars! Boy, I wish I could lay my hands on a .48-caliber Thumblicker. We’d sell it when I retire and buy us a condo in Aspen and tour Europe with the change.”

  After you’ve used up all your best lies, you are left with only one option. You must finally screw up your courage, square your jaw, and make up your mind that you are going to do what you probably should have done all along—sneak the new guns into the house.

  Here are some proven techniques for gun-sneaking:

  The Surprise Party—You arrive home and tell your wife that you have to go to a surprise birthday party for one of your hunting partners and picked up the special cake on your way home. “Oh, how cute!” she will exclaim. “A birthday cake shaped like a rifle!” This is also known as “The Gun-in-Cake Trick.”

  The Lamp—You buy a lampshade and attach it to the muzzle of a new rifle. “Look, sweetheart,” you say to your spouse. “I bought a new lamp for the living room.” She gags. “Not for my living room,” she growls. “Take it to your den and don’t ever let me see that monstrosity again!” A variation on this ploy is to tie a picture wire to the new rifle and call it a wall hanging.

  The Loan—A hunting friend shows up at your door and hands you your new gun. “Thanks for loaning me one of your rifles,” he says. “I’ll do the same for you sometime.” Make sure your accomplice can be trusted, though. I tried “The Loan” with Retch Sweeney one time and he didn’t show up at my door with the rifle for three weeks, on the day after hunting season, as I recall.

  Spare Parts—Disassemble the gun and carry it home in a shopping bag. Mention casually to the Mrs. that you picked up some odds and ends from the junk bin down at Joe’s Gunsmithing. Works like a charm! (By the way, does anyone know where the little wishbone-shaped gizmo goes in an automatic shotgun?)

  The Wager

  It’s no secret that everyone I go fishing with catches more fish than I do. (I have tried to keep it a secret, but that’s impossible when you fish only with a bunch of blabbermouths.) The true reason I catch so few fish is that I am a conservationist. My fishing partners refuse to accept this true reason. They say the actual true reason I catch so few fish is my lousy casting, which they compare to the technique of an old woman beating out a rug with a broomstick. Little do they know how difficult it is for a person possessed of my mastery of fishing to feign lousy casting technique in the interest of conservation.

  I am reminded of a fishing trip I went on with Dave Lisaius and Jim Abrahamson, which isn’t too difficult to be reminded of, since it took place just last week. Dave and Jim may leap to the conclusion that I am reminded of the trip merely in retaliation for the unmerciful ridicule they directed at my apparent inability to catch more than two fish a day. Nothing could be further from the truth. I bring up the fishing trip only for the purpose of illustrating certain ethical, psychological, sociological, and economic concepts. So there!

  I will not mention the name of the lake here, because then thousands of anglers would descend upon it, thereby enriching the resort owner, whose wife, joining in the fun over my take of two measly fish a day, told me her secret to catching the really big ones was to bait the hook with a piece of Bit-O-Honey candy bar. Ha! She probably thought I was dumb enough to fall for that one, particularly since I was fishing with two weird guys like Jim and Dave. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s gullible, no matter what my mother goes around telling people.

  On the morning of the third day of the trip, I arose in my typically responsible manner and went outside to chop kindling and firewood to build a fire in the stove of our rustic cabin. As soon as the fire was crackling, the coffee perking, and the bacon sputtering, I detected for the first time in eight hours a pause in the thunderous din that Jim modestly refers to as his “snoring.” (Upon hearing his first snore from the loft above me, I mistook it for the sound of huge claws ripping shingles from the roof. I was much relieved to learn it was only Jim’s snores ripping shingles from the roof.) Jim soon descended the stairs from the loft, scratching and grumbling, and asking what’s for breakfast. He quickly wolfed down a slab of huckleberry pie, dribbling the juice down the front of his long underwear until he looked like a victim in a horror movie. (This mention of his uncouth eating habits serves only to illustrate a sociological concept. It in no way relates to the abominable delight Jim displayed over my failing to catch more than two fish a day.)

  The spectacle of Dave’s arising in the morning provokes such queasiness among even hardened observers that my editor has asked me to delete the description of it in the interest of good taste. I will mention, however, that Dave claims his new sleeping bag came equipped with a thermostatically controlled zipper that allows him to emerge from the bag only after the surrounding temperature reaches seventy-two degrees. It looks like an ordinary zipper to me, but every time I mention it, Dave launches into a long speech about the marvels of technological miniaturization. To test the zipper, I tape-recorded the sounds of a fire crackling, bacon frying, and coffee perking. Although I haven’t tried out the recording yet, I am reasonably sure it will trip the zipper on Dave’s sleeping bag on even a subzero morning, the marvels of technological miniaturization notwithstanding.

  Dave was in his usual ghastly good humor.

  “Boy, are my arms ever sore from fighting big rainbows all day,” he said to me. “You’re sure lucky you don’t have to put up with this kind of suffering.” Then he began emitting the sharp little barks that after some study I have identified as his laugh.

  “Hmmmph!” I shot back. (My well-known facility for repartee seldom peaks before noon.)

  Jim began talking with his mouth full. “You know what? I think we should do something to make today’s fishing more interesting for ol’ Pat. It can’t be much fun for him, sitting in the boat all day watching us catch fish.” Here he erupted into an explosion of mirth that splattered two walls of the cabin with chewed morsels of food. I was glad he had previously finished with the huckleberry pie. Otherwise, future renters of the cabin might easily have supposed an ax murder had taken place there.

  “Good idea,” said Dave, trying to scratch between his shoulder blades with a table fork. “I think we should work out a little wager, where the guy who catches the fewest fish pays each of the other two guys one dollar for each fish they catch more than he does.”

  “I like it!” cried Jim. “But why not make it five dollars per fish?”

  I shook my head in disgust. “That’s a terrible idea,” I said. “Do you know what you are suggesting?”

  “Yup,” said Dave. “A way to buy a new graphite rod I’ve been looking at.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “You are suggesting that we reduce the pure sport of fishing to nothing more than a stupid, mundane game upon which to bet, like golf! Besides, the whole idea violates my conservation ethic.”

  The two of them sat there with egg on their faces. How they had managed th
at with hard-boiled eggs, I don’t know.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Jim. “I certainly wouldn’t want to do anything that contributes to fishing gluttony.”

  “Me neither,” said Dave. “So suppose we bet one dollar on catching the first fish and five dollars on the biggest fish.”

  “Great!” said Jim. “That will keep Pat’s interest up, and he won’t pout all day. But why don’t we make it seven-fifty for the biggest fish?”

  “We’re not having any ridiculous bets like seven-fifty,” Dave said sternly. “We’ll make it ten for the first fish and another ten for the biggest fish.”

  “Okay, you’re on,” I said.

  Dave and Jim clapped their hands in glee, putting me in mind of preschoolers who have just been told to expect a surprise. (Once again, I mention these peculiar idiosyncrasies of my companions only for the purpose of illustrating certain psychological concepts and not because of their disgusting merriment over my catching only two fish a day.)

  After breakfast, I washed the dishes and tidied up the cabin, while Jim and Dave studied the fishing regulations pamphlet. They did much better than on the previous day, and I only had to help them sound out four or five of the longer words. As soon as the lesson was over, we headed for the lake.

  I had promised the guys that they could back the trailer into the water and launch the boat themselves.

  “Now don’t tell us anything,” Dave said. “We want to do it all by ourselves.”

  I didn’t say a word, and presently we were in the boat, churning our way up the lake.

  “Seems to be a bit sluggish,” Dave said.

  “Yeah,” said Jim.

  “Want me to tell you why?” I asked.

  “Oh, all right,” Dave said.

  “You’re supposed to take the boat off the trailer.”

  Both Dave and Jim are banking executives, and I suppose they can’t be expected to know about boats too. Still, I could not help wondering whether there might not be an inverse ratio between intelligence and blabbing all over town about how many more fish they catch than I do.

  When my competitors weren’t watching, I baited up with my new miracle fish-attractor. After an hour without a single strike, it became clear to me that the new miracle fish-attractor was a total flop. Fortunately, Dave and Jim hadn’t got a nibble yet either, so I was still in the running for first fish.

  “Either of you guys want the rest of this?” I asked amiably, indicating the new miracle fish-attractor.

  “Sure,” said Jim. “I love Bit-O-Honey candy bars. How come you brought it along if you don’t want to eat it?”

  I gave him my inscrutable smile and tied on a pink lure. A few minutes later my rod whipped down and the reel began singing like a goosed soprano. I boated THE FIRST FISH OF THE DAY.

  Jim and Dave turned glum. I don’t know whether it was because they thought I had already won the wagers for both the first fish and the biggest fish or because they were worried that my dancing an Irish jig would capsize the boat.

  Several times during the day, both Dave and Jim hooked fish that might have been larger than mine, but when I attempted to net the thrashing lunkers for them, the fish managed to wrap the line around the net handle and get away. Naturally, the lads both screamed at me on these occasions, even though I explained that it is not unusual for an angler, caught up in the excitement of netting one of his competitors’ fish, to dip the net in the water handle-first.

  Toward the end of the day I could tell that Dave and Jim were getting nervous about the wager, when they began discussing its terms.

  “Let’s see, the largest fish was seven-fifty, wasn’t it?” Jim said.

  “I recall five,” Dave said. “Remember, you said let’s make it seven-fifty and I said, no, five is enough.”

  “I remember ten bucks for the biggest fish,” I said. “And furthermore, when we were discussing the bet, I made a tape recording of our conversation.”

  “You did?” Dave said. “Why, that’s the most dishonorable thing I’ve ever heard of!”

  “Right,” I said, taking the recorder from my pocket. “Now let me play back to you the exact terms of the bet.”

  They listened to the recording for a few seconds, becoming increasingly puzzled.

  “Sounds to me like a fire crackling, bacon frying, and coffee perking,” Dave said.

  “Wrong recording,” I said.

  As it turned out, the recorder had malfunctioned during the discussion over the terms of the bet, and I had to settle for $7.50 for FIRST FISH, plus another $7.50 for ***!!**LARGEST FISH**!!***, although I would be loath to call attention to the fact that my first fish was also largest of the day.

  Dave and Jim were so upset over my winning the wager that they could scarcely wait to get back to town and begin regaling our mutual acquaintances with comic descriptions of my catching only two fish a day. Which reminds me of some of their other bad habits, strange behavior, and loathsome table manners. One night when I was pleading with them not to go carousing in sleazy bars …

  Letters from Camp

  I have recently come into possession of some letters from camp. They were written by my next-door neighbor, Fenton Quagmire, during the course of a hunting trip he, Retch Sweeney, and I took to Montana a few years ago. The letters, written to Quagmire’s wife, Marge, are of interest for a number of reasons. First of all, they show a childish and peevish man growing quickly to maturity as a result of enduring the hardships of his first hunting trip. Second, the letters were introduced as evidence in two lawsuits, one a divorce case that Mrs. Quagmire brought against her husband, and the other an alienation-of-affection case she filed against Sweeney and me. I am happy to report that Marge eventually regained possession of her senses and withdrew both suits. In fact, it was she who gave me the letters, along with some blunt advice as to their disposition. I thought the advice a bit extreme, if not unladylike, and have chosen instead to publish the letters here in the hope that they will show the therapeutic effects of a simple hunting trip.

  Saturday, 12:30 p.m.

  My Dearest Darling Dumpling,

  Am writing these letters to you in case I don’t survive this trip with the two madmen and so you will have something to remember me by.

  Have stopped briefly in middle of a godforsaken prairie here in Montana. The two madmen, McManus and Sweeney, have got out of car to settle dispute between them. Sweeney claims Indians used to attract buffalo within range of arrows by waving white flag. McManus argues trick was used on antelope. Small herd of buffalo near highway, and McManus is standing out there laughing uproariously, as is his fashion, while Sweeney waves T-shirt at buffalo.

  Why I ever let them talk me into this trip I’ll never know. To think that I’ll be in their company for another whole week is almost more than I can stand. Must admit, however, that so far trip has exceeded my wildest expectations, which is to say that I am still alive and unmaimed and if I ever ge

  Saturday, 3:30 p.m.

  Back again, Dearest Darling Dumpling,

  McManus peeved and even more sarcastic than usual, if you can imagine. Asked him straight out, would he rather cling with his fingers to rain gutter of station wagon for few hundred yards at high speed or have both vehicle and himself wiped out in buffalo stampede? Just fortunate for all concerned I had presence of mind to throw wagon in gear and stomp on accelerator. You’d have been proud of Hubby-Wubby!

  As yet no sign of Sweeney. Have told McManus to calm down, not to worry. When Sweeney went over top of hill he had good lead on buffalo. Don’t know how interested you are in buffalo lore, but their curiosity is aroused by waving white T-shirt.

  Your Hubby-Wubby

  Saturday, 5:30 p.m.

  Dearest Darling Dumpling,

  Back again.

  Have left prairie behind and moving up into mountains. Scenery absolutely splendid. Peaks frosted with snow, foothills ablaze with color—chokecherry, birch, alder, quaking aspen. Which reminds me—Sweeney back with
us again and none the worse for wear. Looks better for having shed a few pounds. Managed to run in a wide circle and, as I anticipated, we intercepted him as he crossed highway, although not until second time around. Buffalo exhausted. Sweeney recuperating fast, to judge from his determined but feeble attempts to reach up and squeeze my throat. Sweeney great clown! Such crude humor, tho, not to my taste.

  Should make camp soon. Will try to add note to this letter before we hit goosedown.

  Love, Hubby-Wubby

  Saturday, 9:30 p.m.

  Dearest Darling Dumpling,

  At my wits’ end! Oh, how I long to be curled up beside you under our dual-control queen-sized electric blanket! These imbeciles! These morons! Cannot believe what they perpetrated against me. One of the fatheads forgot his sleeping bag! Neither, of course, will admit to being the villain. Even tried to make out it was I who forgot my sleeping bag. What they have suggested—no, in fact demanded—is we zip the two sleeping bags together and all three of us sleep in the communal bag! Can you imagine such a disgusting thing? Have told them I will sit outside tent all night by fire, rather than submit to gross indignity of such arrangement.

  Your Hubby-Wubby, Fenton

  Sunday, 10:00 a.m.

  My Dearest Darling Dumpling,

  Place where we’re camped very wild, apparently inhabited by sizable population of grizzly bears. Last night one started howling short distance from camp. McManus identified the hideous wailing as that of grizzly. Still shudder when I think of it. Am exhausted, having got almost no sleep last night. Have you ever slept in a double sleeping bag with two men who snore? No, I suppose not. Most uncomfortable and distasteful, particularly when you are in the middle and other two have been chased by buffalo earlier in day.