Read The Grasshopper Trap Online
Authors: Patrick F. McManus
The Grasshopper Trap (16 page)
“Tell 'em about Hatchet Harvey and how he killed them two young fellas to get their soup stone,” Wild Bill said.
“Not while they're still eatin' their soup,” Whitey said. “I don't want to spoil their appetites. Youngsters need lots of nourishment. But look here at this, boys.” He rolled up one of his dirt-caked pantlegs and showed us a huge, horrible, appetite-spoiling sore on his leg. “Just look at this. One of them big ol' hairy spiders did it to me. Oh, it hurt like blazes, and I was howlin' and screamin' and tryin' to pull that ol' spider off, but he had his ugly jaws clamped on to my leg right down into the meat and was shootin' his poison in ⦔
A couple of hours later, Crazy Eddie and I were poking along the road that led back to our homes, Eddie having
decided it would be better to postpone running away until after his birthday the following month.
decided it would be better to postpone running away until after his birthday the following month.
“You think that was true, what Whitey told about the spider?” he asked.
“Naw,” I said. “He was just tryin' to scare us.”
“That's what I thought, too,” Eddie said. “Both Wild Bill and Whitey must be pretty dumb to think we'd believe those stories.”
“Of course they're dumb,” I said. “Why else would they let us trade them the rest of our food for their soup stone?”
Hubert, a young married fellow of my acquaintance, confided in me the other day that he and his wife had just had their first quarrel.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “What about?”
“About practically nothing,” he said. “I've been needing a new rifle, so I went out and bought one and took it home to show Joyce. Well, if she didn't hit the ceiling! Mad? Whew! Can you believe it?”
“That was dumb, Hubie,” I said. “Risking your marriage over a new gun. I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I shouldn't have bought the gun, huh?”
“Of course you should have bought the gun. You needed it, didn't you? You just shouldn't have shown the gun to Joyce. Have a little consideration for her feelings, Hubie. Wives have feelings too, you know. The only decent thing for a husband to do is to sneak the new gun into the house. Learn to sneak, man, learn to sneak.”
“Really?” Hubie said. “I didn't know.”
During my talk with Hubie, it occurred to me that there are probably many other young married hunters out there who are equally in need of marriage counseling. In the interest of averting as much marital discord in the hunting fraternity as possible, I have put together the following primer on strategies and tactics for bringing home a new gun.
First of all, let us consider the psychology of the young wife as it pertains to her husband's guns. It is important to note that the first gun the husband brings home is greeted with considerable enthusiasm by the spouse, and she may even brag about it to her friends. “Fred bought a new gun the other day to hunt elk and doves and things with,” she will say. Of course, Fred must then explain that the gun is limited to hunting elk or deer. For hunting doves he needs a shotgun, he tells her.
“Why can't you hunt doves with the same gun?” she says. “I really think you could if you wanted to.”
Fred then explains the difference between a rifle and a shotgun, and his wife finally agrees that he probably does need another gun.
Now that's the typical situation the young hunter faces. He starts with a base of two guns, his wife granting him the benefit of the doubt that two guns are actually needed. After the second gun, the argument that he
needs
a new gun will be dismissed by the wife with an upward roll of the eyeballs and a big sigh. We are talking only third gun here, remember, nothing more. If you're just married, upward-rolling eyeballs and big sighs may seem formidable obstacles, but they're really not that serious. Go buy the gun and bring it home. The eyeball-rolling and big sighs will let up after a few days. Now comes the biggieâthe Fourth Gun!
needs
a new gun will be dismissed by the wife with an upward roll of the eyeballs and a big sigh. We are talking only third gun here, remember, nothing more. If you're just married, upward-rolling eyeballs and big sighs may seem formidable obstacles, but they're really not that serious. Go buy the gun and bring it home. The eyeball-rolling and big sighs will let up after a few days. Now comes the biggieâthe Fourth Gun!
With the mere mention of your need for a fourth gun, the wife skips right over the eyeball-rolling and big sighs and goes directly to a recital of your deficiencies of character, weird masculine quirks, and all sins committed to date. She will bring up such matters as saving for the baby's college education, the fact that she is still wearing the clothes her parents bought her in high school, the threatening note from the electric company, etc. “And you want another gun!” she will finish, the sarcasm flickering about the room like sheet lightning.
The fourth gun is the tough one, and in the face of this spousal assault, there is always the temptation to sneak the fourth gun. That's a mistake. Your wife's knowing you purchased a fourth gun is essential to further development of your gun collection. Here's why. After you bring the gun home and show it to your wife, she will shake her head and say, “I don't know why you need all those guns.” Note that she doesn't say “four guns” but rather the vague and general “all those guns.” Henceforth, she will think of your gun collection not in terms of specific numbers but as a single collective entityâall!
To thoroughly grasp this important concept, suppose your wife is dusting the gun case. “Him and all those guns,” she might say to herself, possibly with a very tiny tolerant smile. What she fails to notice is that there are
now five
guns in the case! Once the psychological barrier of the fourth gun is crossed, the gun collection can be expanded indefinitely without the wife's noticing, provided the husband uses some common sense and doesn't add too many guns at once. Two or three a year is about right, spaced at decent intervals.
now five
guns in the case! Once the psychological barrier of the fourth gun is crossed, the gun collection can be expanded indefinitely without the wife's noticing, provided the husband uses some common sense and doesn't add too many guns at once. Two or three a year is about right, spaced at decent intervals.
There is one pitfall in this strategyâthe gun cabinet itself. Although the wife will never bother to count the guns,
she will notice that there are three empty slots in the cabinet. Therefore, you must make sure that there are always three empty slots in the cabinet, even as your collection expands from four to sixty guns. If you plan on enlarging your collection, buy a gun cabinet that can be expanded by adding new sections, so that there are always three or more empty slots. It works. My wife of thirty years told me the other day that she must be slowing down with age. “When we were first married,” she said, “I could dust that gun cabinet of yours in ten seconds and now it takes me nearly half an hour.”
she will notice that there are three empty slots in the cabinet. Therefore, you must make sure that there are always three empty slots in the cabinet, even as your collection expands from four to sixty guns. If you plan on enlarging your collection, buy a gun cabinet that can be expanded by adding new sections, so that there are always three or more empty slots. It works. My wife of thirty years told me the other day that she must be slowing down with age. “When we were first married,” she said, “I could dust that gun cabinet of yours in ten seconds and now it takes me nearly half an hour.”
But how do you get all those guns into the house without your wife's knowing, you ask. Actually, it is all right if every few years you simply walk right into the house and say, “Look, dear, I bought a new gun.”
“Neato,” she will say. “I'm ecstatic. Now tell me, what did you want to buy another gun for when you already have all those guns? I'll bet you haven't shot most of them in the past five years.”
Shot
them? Yes, a wife will actually say that. She will not be able to comprehend that you needed the gun because you needed it. She will not understand that you need the guns just to be there, to be
your
guns, to be looked at and fondled from time to time. She will not be able to fathom that you need the guns even though you don't need to shoot them. Tell her a gun collection is like wilderness. Even though we don't use all of it all the time, we need to know it's there. Probably it won't do any good to tell her that, but it's worth a try.
them? Yes, a wife will actually say that. She will not be able to comprehend that you needed the gun because you needed it. She will not understand that you need the guns just to be there, to be
your
guns, to be looked at and fondled from time to time. She will not be able to fathom that you need the guns even though you don't need to shoot them. Tell her a gun collection is like wilderness. Even though we don't use all of it all the time, we need to know it's there. Probably it won't do any good to tell her that, but it's worth a try.
Stating the simple truth often works in explaining an occasional gun purchase to your wife. But why take unnecessary risks? Go with your best lie and get the gun stashed in your expandable gun cabinet as quickly as possible.
Oddly enough, there are few really good lies for explaining
the purchase of a new gun. There's the classic “A Fantastic Bargain,” of course, in which you tell your wife that the gun you just paid $300 for was on sale for $27.50. If her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, you mention that three men in white coats showed up at the sport shop and led the manager away before he could slash the prices on the rest of the guns. Indeed, you say, you could have picked up five more brand-new guns for a total of eighty-five dollars, but you didn't want to take excessive advantage of a crazy person.
the purchase of a new gun. There's the classic “A Fantastic Bargain,” of course, in which you tell your wife that the gun you just paid $300 for was on sale for $27.50. If her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, you mention that three men in white coats showed up at the sport shop and led the manager away before he could slash the prices on the rest of the guns. Indeed, you say, you could have picked up five more brand-new guns for a total of eighty-five dollars, but you didn't want to take excessive advantage of a crazy person.
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, âBoy, 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 alongâsneak the new guns into the house.
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 alongâsneak the new guns into the house.
Here are some proven techniques for gun-sneaking:
The Surprise Party
âYou 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.”
âYou 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
âYou 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.
âYou 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
âA 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.
âA 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
âDisassemble 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?)
âDisassemble 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?)
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!
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.
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.”
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 that 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.
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 â¦
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