SOLD
What you do? No. That’s not hunting.
Sitting in a tree with your hot
cocoa, looking down every once in a while to see if the deer piss you sprayed
around your site has attracted any other deer yet, hoping they pick up on their
own species scent instead of your own. The registration on your gun is from
this year. “Just bought it this year,” you’ll tell everyone who so much as sees
the gun’s reflection. At this point, the only things worrying you
are the overpowering smell of the polish on your gun and the fairylike dot of
reflected sunlight on the snow beneath you.
What you do? That’s trapping.
A deer steps into rifle range
sniffing around, looking for the deer that matches the scent. You flip open
your scope. The deer hears you. Its eight-point head jerks into alert position
the way a dog’s head does when its owner’s keys hit the doorknob after a long
day at the office. You exhale slowly. The deer resumes foraging for the smell.
You click your safety off. At the same time, the deer steps on a twig. The noises
cancel each other.
What you do? That takes no skill.
You put your finger on the polished
hairpin trigger, made even more sensitive by the thickness of your gloves. The
deer finds the smell’s origin. You steady your aim.
What you do? That’s target practice.
The deer inhales for the last time.
Then. Bang.
The part where you eat the deer that
you just executed never comes. The part where you get to taxidermy said deer
yourself, however, can be unlocked if you beat level eight and enter the code
from the bottom of that cap that was on a promotional twenty-ounce Mountain Dew
bottle.
The joint advertising significantly
increases the product’s market.
* * *
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” you say, blinding them, turning on
the room’s halogens, “to the new frontier in realistic
gaming. Join us in celebration as Wii introduces a new edition of the
traditional arcade game ‘Big Buck Hunter.’ It will even be coming with a
simulation hunting chair posted on a simulation tree stump. The chair will
detect any weight shifts, no matter how slight.”
The crowd of big business prospective
hunters for retailers all over the nation “Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s.”
“If you tilt even the minimal amount
to your right or left, front or back, the chair will most likely give off the
annoying creeeaak that you’ve all heard on one chair or
another." The canning of laughter. "If you get up to go to the
bathroom, all that’s left on the screen when you get back is a trail of hoof
prints," you say, shrugging your shoulders. "Better luck next season.”
After your presentation concludes,
you head to the back of the conference room to pack up all of your equipment:
projector, briefcase, Gucci brand sport coat, Dolce & Gabanna brand
sunglasses.
You see a man in your peripheral and
it looks as if his head is glowing. His one hand is pressed up against the wall
with widespread fingers. That arm is straightened out over the table supporting
the all of his leaning body. One leg is crossed over the other, cowboy boots
snugly hugging his feet. Complete with spurs. What you thought was a glowing
head is actually an enormous, white, snakeskin cowboy hat peppered with black
scales. The scales are glossy and the lights are bright. You almost have to
squint to look at the man.
“Put ‘er there, partner,” the man demands with his other hand
outstretched. He pushes off against the wall and his gut shifts just enough to
relieve his nearly popping shirt buttons.
You offer a confident hand in the
assumption that he’s just impressed with either the product that you’re pitching or the presentation
itself.
Your bang, bang shoot 'em up impulse fires. “What can I do ya for, hombre?” you ask.
If you can identify with the
prospective customer, they’re more likely to buy the product that you’re pushing. They have a drawl? Adopt
a faint drawl. They have an interest in football? You love football--even
played in high school before you blew out your knee. A good salesman has, at
least, a vague knowledge of a wide array of subjects.
He says, “I really liked the reality of your
new game,” and tips his sparkling hat at you.
That’s when you pick up his overly applied
musk. It reminds you of your grandfather. Conservative lessons never learned
try to surface. You get that tip-of-the-tongue feeling. Better luck next
season, champ.
“I tell you what,” he says. “I’m the purchasing manager at a Cabela’s franchise. I alone have the power
to bring your game into our stock of merchandise. And your boss would like
that, wouldn’t he?”
This man is good.
“Listen here. I know you have to do
whatever it takes to sell something. And I have to make good investments, with
good people." His face dares you to negate that. "I’ll keep our shelves stocked with your
product and continue doing business with you fella’s if you go on a hunting trip with
me.”
You’ve never been hunting. You’re a city boy with a degree in
marketing. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never been hunting. The first
thing they teach you in marketing school is customer loyalty. Impress the
customer, and they will never look elsewhere for product.
“Sure,” you tell the man, “I’m game for anything.”
"Shoot. Long as you don't scare
off my kill, I'll stick to picking' off only ten points and up," he says.
Your face drains to tail-white.
He slaps your back. "That was a
joke, slick! You said game."
Another handshake. Don't forget to
hold a firm squeeze--half so he knows you’re manly enough for his time, half so
the power in his grip doesn’t require a visit with your doctor.
“Great!” He’s still shaking your hand vigorously.
Then he stops. “I’ll have my people contact you and set it up. Oh, and don’ forget to dress warm. It get’s mighty cold up nort’ during these winters.”
The man leaves without even giving
you his name. You’re a little awestruck, but not enough to panic. You’ve handled situations with which you
weren’t familiar before. This will be easy, you tell yourself.
You convince yourself, All I have to do is mimic him and I’ll be fine. This will be easy.
ou
finish packing your stuff and head back to your office to have a conference
call with some clients in other states.
You have your secretary set up the
trip with his secretary.
Fast-forward to next week.
He picks you up in his 1994
four-wheel-drive Bronco. The wheel wells are rusted and the paint is shit
brown. The cab smells even stronger of his cheap musk. You can taste the stale
cigar smoke. At least he smokes Cohibas. All that’s in the back is a cooler—the contents of which you’re unaware—a few guns, and camouflage hunting
clothes. He tells you how the rest is already at the cabin.
The entire car ride up he’s telling you about his past hunting
experiences:
“I got an eight-point buck.” Or, “The thing charged me with reckless
abandon and I wrestled it to death.” Or, “I had to field dress and eat the bear
right there just to wear its skin for warmth.” Or, “That time I almost didn’t make it out alive. Thank God for
random fly-by searches.”
Make.
The.
Sale.
There’s no GPS in the car and the snow
covered roads are winding. Lucky for you, the UP of Michigan has those
vibration strips in the middle of the road so you know when you’ve gone too far. Whereas that used to
be a warning sign that you’re about to crash, now it’s become a sign of relief that you’re not crashing. They don’t need them on the sides of the
streets up there. No one drives too close to the side. Trees line the side. And
if you crash up there, there’s a good chance that no one is going to find you for weeks.
Three hours after you’ve left your tire tracks in the snow, it has snowed enough
to cover them up again. Chances are that even if someone does pass your crash
site, you’ll be buried in fresh powder.
After he’s told you all this, you decide to
join him in the car-bar to clam your nerves. Imagine that. You. Nervous. And
you make it a point of personal pride to never get nervous.
He tells you how bears aren’t uncommon up there. You know this.
You took Hunter’s Safety when you were 15-years-old at the behest of your
grandfather. Problem is, you're 43-years-old. Twenty-eight years is a lot of
time to forget things that you don't constantly need to know.
The first day up there is spent drunk
as can be, shooting into the woods for practice and playing whatever card games
you can think of.Your discussions become belligerent after the first bottle of
Jack Daniel’s is downed. He shows you his gun. New and shiny. It’s looking the game is more of a
prophecy than anything.
Bottoms up.
So this is why hunting is so
enjoyable, ‘ey?
You go to open the refrigerator to
get another bottle of Jack. The entire thing is filled with liters. You move a
few things around to see if there’s anything behind the bottles—only more Jack Daniel’s.
“Just grab the bottle and get back to
the table,” he yells. He’s an experienced drinker. The words
aren’t even slurred. “If yer lookin’ for food, it’s in the cooler. That’s what we brought it for. The fridge
is for booze.”
You say, “Understandable,” and head back with a new bottle.
You both pass out at the table
partway through the second bottle.
He’s up at the crack of dawn and
knocking on your head like it’s a solid oak door. No help for your hangover. He slams a
plate of eggs and bacon down in front of you along with some ibuprofen.
Help has arrived.
“Eat this,” he booms. “You’ll feel better in an hour. Start
getting your gear on when you’re finished. We head out in forty-five minutes.”
“How are you even moving?” you question. “The sun’s barely even up.”
His answer? Practice.
It’s your first day out. He sets you up
in your tree stand and makes sure you know how to operate the gun. No bitching
aloud--that’s the rule you’ve created for yourself to help the
sale go smoothly.
He leaves and your thoughts go wild
with complaint. You can’t talk to yourself. If you do, the deer won’t come.
Thank God that this guy told you to
dress warm. Thank God that he brought you extra equipment from his outfit of
Cabela’s because he knew how you wouldn’t know what cold really was until you
were actually in it. Hours on end. Without any hope of getting to the cabin,
much less getting in until he comes to grab you at the end of the day.
Deer piss is on the ground. You can
only think to yourself, What level is this going to be?
You hear a rustle in the bushes
beneath you. This could be it, you think to yourself. There haven’t been any gunshots that you’ve heard in the distance. If you get
the kill before Cowboy Dan can, the sale is made. Just the thought of getting the kill and you
can hardly contain your excitement. Breath deep—it helps to steady your aim.
The wet, black nose of a deer sticks
out from the bush. Steady now, you don’t want to miss. You only get one
shot. The bushes rustle in a different spot. It’s probably just a squirrel. You tell
yourself to stay focused. You can already smell the iron from the blood as you
imagine yourself field dressing it. You imagine the wild yelp of excitement as
you drop this defenseless deer with only one shot. After all, it signifies what
is probably a promotion.
The snout is there, in front of you,
ready for the taking. Aim is steadied and finger is on the trigger, you’re ready for anything. That’s what you tell yourself.
Adrenaline takes hold as the snout
pushes out a little farther from the bush. Then the second one. They’re looking for the origin, the deer
that left the scent. Those snouts are too dark to be deer snouts.
That’s when it hits you.
The grizzly pokes its enormous head
out of the bushes. Just the head is almost as big as your torso. The second one
is even bigger. Heart drops. Body freezes. Hunter’s Safety teaches you that bears are
expert climbers. Humans are average at best. The bears, they’re fifteen feet from the tree. You,
you’re eighteen feet from the ground. That’s thirty-three feet in total. Can you
shoot your single shot, bolt-action rifle accurately, reload, and repeat in the
five seconds that Hunter’s Safety tells you that it takes a bear to close that
distance?
“Taps” says, No. Your wife’s tears and black veil say, No.
That’s level eight.
