The Grasshopper Trap (11 page)

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Authors: Patrick F. McManus

B
ack when I was a kid, my mother constantly warned me about falling in with bad company. Then one day it occurred to her that I was probably the bad company, and she had to warn the other kids about falling in with me.
Personally, I've always preferred bad company to good. Bad company is so much more interesting. Outdoorsmen, and outdoorswomen too, for that matter, are the best of bad company. They have all these wild and terrible enthusiasms that inevitably lead to catastrophe. I don't much care for arriving at the catastrophe, but getting there can be a lot of fun.
Not everyone is cut out for bad company, however, and it is always sad to see such a person, a man or woman of sensibilities, fall in with the wrong crowd, which nine times out of nine consists of hunters and anglers. What usually happens is that the person of sensibilities becomes caught
up in the wave of enthusiasm generated by bad company and gets swept along toward a catastrophe he doesn't expect and isn't mentally or emotionally prepared for. Some people just don't have the nerves or stomach for catastrophe.
I recall the time a nice young fellow by the name of Farley overheard Retch Sweeney and me planning a hunting trip and asked if he could come along. We said sure. Fortunately, it turned out to be an uneventful trip. I don't know what would have happened if the outing had been typical, because it soon became evident that poor Farley wouldn't have been up to a full-scale catastrophe.
True, there was one small incident, but it's scarcely worth mentioning. Retch slipped on some ice and grabbed Farley by the arm, so that they both went down together. That's about it. The fall couldn't have been more than ten feet. Besides, the thin ice on the creek cushioned their fall and prevented serious injury. Both Retch and I thought it was hilarious, all that flailing of arms and legs as they went through the ice, with Retch cussing a turquoise-blue streak and Farley screaming.
I built a roaring fire so we could dry out their clothes, and even let Farley wear my down jacket. He looked so pitiful standing there naked and hunched over the fire, with snowflakes falling on his bare skin. To cheer him up, I explained that the fire would probably attract the attention of a search plane. After a hunting party has been lost in a blizzard for four days, I told him, the National Guard usually sends out a search plane. Then Retch and I tried to get him to join in the joking and singing and other festivities, but he would have none of it, choosing instead to stand around looking morose, with his teeth chattering and his skinny blue legs sticking out from under my jacket.
Later we invited Farley on another hunting trip, but he declined, rather brusquely I thought.
“Do you think it was something I done?” Retch said.
“No,” I said. “I thought you treated him rather well, just as if he were one of the guys.”
“Maybe he didn't like the coffee we had to make with water from mud puddles,” Retch said. “He never caught on to the knack of straining out the pebbles with his teeth.”
“That could have been it,” I said. “Mostly, though, I think it was because he had too many sensibilities.”
“Yeah, you're probably right. I had a sensibility once, and it was nothing but trouble.”
The case of Farley serves to illustrate what happens when a person of sensibilities falls in with bad company but through rare good fortune avoids catastrophe. But suppose such a person doesn't avoid the standard catastrophe; what is the effect on him? Do his sensibilities survive? Does he survive? Is the money spent on therapy wasted? The following report answers these questions.
One day when I was about twelve, Rancid Crabtree and I discovered a bee tree high up on the mountain behind his place. An ancient logging road, grown over with brush and small trees, ran past the tall, silvery snag, which seemed fairly alive with thousands of bees busily and mindlessly storing more honey on top of the tons they had already no doubt collected over the years of undisturbed diligence.
“Hot dang!” Rancid said. “We got ourselves a honey tree!”
“So?” I said. “What good does it do us? We can't get the honey out of it without getting stung to death.”
“Thet jist goes to show how little you knows about honey trees,” Rancid said. “Shoot, thar ain't nothin' easier. The
fust thang you does is to make a torch out of some rags, one thet'll put up a big cloud of smoke. Then you gits some gloves and heavy clothes the bees cain't sting through, and a hood of cheesecloth to protect the face. Then all that's left is to git the tree chopped down and the honey scooped up.”
“It doesn't sound so easy to me.”
“Waal, thet's because Ah ain't told you the best part yet. Once you git all the gloves and heavy clothes and the cheesecloth hood, you talks some dumb feller into puttin' 'em on and choppin' down the tree fer ya. Ha!”
“Not me!”
“No, not you. Even you ain't thet dumb! Ah was thankin' of Murph.”
It was nearly dark before we tracked down Murph. He was lying on the floor in Fat Edna's tavern, with Fat Edna sitting on his chest.
“You take that back, you little shrimp,” Fat Edna was saying.
“How you doin', Murph?” Rancid said.
“About the usual,” Murph said. “How you?”
“Ah's fine. If you got a minute, Ah'd like to ask a favor of you.”
Fat Edna grabbed Murph by the hair and thumped his head up and down on the floor. “Can't you see Murph's busy?”
Rancid hoisted Fat Edna off Murph. “You can finish this later. Ah needs to see if Murph knows anythang 'bout gittin' honey out of a bee tree without gittin' stung too bad.”
There was plenty of bad company in the tavern that night, and upon hearing the mention of the bee tree, every last pitiful soul there rushed forward to offer a theory on how to get the honey away from the bees without getting
stung. In no time at all, a great wave of enthusiasm began to build, a wave I later learned from association with bad company inevitably crashes down on the rocks of catastrophe.
Half the regulars of the tavern and Fat Edna herself soon piled out of the tavern and into cars and trucks to go help Rancid and me chop down the honey tree. Rancid drove Murph's truck, since he knew the way to the tree. Fat Edna squeezed into the cab with him, and Murph, Pinto Jack, and I, and several of the tavern's regulars jumped onto the truck bed. As we roared out of town, I noticed a stranger in the group. He was tall, thin, bald, and wearing a white suit that shimmered in the light of the moon.
“Hi,” he said to me. “My name's Howard. This is so exciting, isn't it? My goodness, I just stopped by the tavern for a little nightcap before going to my hotel room, and now I'm involved in an adventure. What's your name, son?”
I told him. There was something that made me feel uneasy about Howard. He didn't seem to fit in with this crowd, which was very bad company indeed.
One of the regulars tilted up the communal jug of wine, took a swig, and then passed it to me. “Here, kid, give your frien'a drink.” Although I never drank from a communal jug, or at all for that matter, I had studied the technique with care. I handed the jug to Howard. “You'd better take a drink,” I said. Getting my drift, Howard studied the loathsome flotsam on the surface of the wine. Obviously none too pleased with the results of his study, he nevertheless shut his eyes and manfully took a tiny swig. The regulars and I almost gagged. Howard didn't realize that you are supposed to tilt the jug way back, so that the surface of the wine rises above the mouth and the drinker can sip from the clear wine beneath the flotsam. When you associate with bad company,
bits of knowledge like that can be beneficial, both socially and hygienically. Ignorant though he might be of the finer points of etiquette, Howard had won our respect. The man had grit.
When we started lumbering up the overgrown mountain road, we lost most of the caravan of vehicles that had followed us from the tavern. The others soon gave up their pursuit and turned back when the road proved too treacherous. Our group of honey-seekers bounced and rattled about on the bed of the truck, seeking handholds where we could. One by one the regulars vibrated off the end of the truck, presumably to pick themselves up and stagger off down the mountain. By the time we reached the bee tree, the only survivors were Murph, Pinto Jack, Howard, and me, and of course Rancid and Fat Edna in the cab of the truck—still more than enough of us, however, to work up a major catastrophe.
“There's the bee tree!” I shouted, pointing to the silvery snag. The level of enthusiasm was instantly restored and everyone leaped from the truck shouting orders and advice, for that is the favorite activity of bad company.
“Fire up the torch,” yelled Pinto Jack.
“Make the cheesecloth hood,” shouted Rancid.
“Gimme my ax,” cried Murph.
“My goodness,” said Howard. “This is so exciting it gives me goosebumps.”
The first order of business was a lengthy argument over how to chop down the tree.
“Notch her on the back,” yelled Pinto Jack. “That will drop her alongside the road.”
“And on top of my truck,” shouted Murph. “No sir, she's got to drop downhill.”
Without anything being settled, Murph, Pinto Jack, and
Rancid, all of them still shouting and arguing and calling each other names, went off toward the tree, carrying the ax, the heavy clothes, a lantern, and the smoky torch. Presently the ruckus died down, only to be replaced by ominous, hollow sounds of chopping. It occurred to me that Rancid, caught up in the wave of enthusiasm, had forgotten his own maxim of letting someone else do the dangerous work.
Fat Edna's cigarette glowed in the dark as she, Howard, and I stood listening to the attack on the bee tree.
“I sure hope nobody gets killed this time,” Fat Edna said.
“How's that?” Howard asked. “Pardon?”
“Or maimed,” Fat Edna added, looking at me. “You remember poor old Wally Jackson the time we tried to rope the bear that got into Murph's hog pen?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Lefty Jackson.”
“Lefty?” the man in the white suit said.
“And poor Harry Logan at the chainsaw races?”
“Yeah, Stumpy Logan.”
“Stumpy?” the man in the white suit said. “Maybe we should …”
Suddenly the chopping ceased. “Ow!” somebody yelped, off in the darkness. And then somebody else shouted, “More smoke! More smoke! Ow! Ow!”
“I thought something like this might happen,” Fat Edna said.
Rancid, Pinto Jack, and Murph rushed past us in a tight little cluster, slapping and howling. Then we too were caught up in a roaring tornado of angry bees.
“Ever'body into the truck cab!” yelled Rancid.
I was the last through the door, scrambling in on top of Fat Edna. Rancid fired up the truck, cut a U-turn, and we roared off down the mountain, dispatching bees as best we
could in tight quarters. A catastrophe was in full progress.
“We missin' anybody?” Rancid asked. “Ow! Gol-durn bee! Whar's Murph? Ah don't see Murph!”
A muffled sound came from under Fat Edna. “I'm still here, but I'm going fast!”
“The man in the white suit!” I said. “He's not here!”
“Good gosh almighty,” Rancid said. “The pore devil will git hisself stung to death!”
“I knew something like this would happen,” Fat Edna said. “I just knew it!”
“Aaaaa,” said Murph.
“What's that ahead?” said Pinto Jack.
The beam of the truck's single headlight illuminated a tall white figure sprinting down the road. Howard! I rolled down the window and yelled at him to jump on the running board. He jumped, hooking one arm over the door. Crouching on the running board, he screwed his face into a terrible expression as we roared into the first turn. Years later the image of his face at that moment would wake me in a cold sweat from my worst nightmares.

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