Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing (12 page)

“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.”

(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
beep
ing and
boop
ing 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
beep
ed 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.”

“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
beep
ing,
boop
ing, and
WHOOOOP
ing.

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.