The Womanless Man, Continued, 4

6 Feb

The Womanless Man

Continued, 4

L. Stewart Marsden

Go to previous installment

Go to story beginning . . . 

 

* * * * *

“How is it?”

Stew couldn’t tell any difference between regular chili and deer chili, so he chose the diplomatic response.

“Best chili I’ve ever had!”

“And no fat! Actually good for you. I don’t know what all the ruckus about hunting is about. See, you get exercise tramping about in the woods trying to find a deer, and most the time you don’t. Every part of the deer is used. The wild animals get a free meal without having to do much — kinda like wild welfare. You think that’s where we came up with the idea for the government dole?”

“Don’t know. I doubt it. You and I don’t know what it was like during the depression.”

“That’s true. You want a swig?” Brent offered his silver flask to Stew. Stew immediately thought to say “no,” not knowing where Brent’s mouth had been lately, but reconsidered. The alcohol probably killed anything growing in his killing partner. And he was still shaken over shooting the deer, and wanted to dull his thinking. He could hear the tinnitus beginning to kick in.

“So Brent … how do you deal with taking a life?”

“Shit, it’s hunting — that’s what you do. You didn’t grow up hunting, right?”

“No.”

“I did. The family owned a plantation in Florida that went back for generations. We’d go out hunting all the time. Didn’t bother with seasons or licenses back then. Shot what was on our property. Quail, deer, bear.”

“There are bears in Florida?”

“Oh yeah. And you have to be real careful with your aim with those fuckers. Miss like you did today and they might run away, or, they might charge you. And those rascals can move. You get a wounded three hundred pound black bear coming after you and there’s no where to hide. Forget climbing a tree.”

“So you are used to killing animals.”

“You have led one sheltered life, my friend — that’s obvious. But I’m not like some hunters, who use spotlights and thermal scopes. I give my game a fair chance.”

“Fair?”

“Look, conservationists will tell you thinning a deer population protects them. We’ve turned the land into highways and malls and parking lots and cities and all. We’ve destroyed their natural habitat; have reduced their food sources to practically nothing. So hunters are kinda humanitarians in a way. But with animals. So we’re animaltarians, right? Besides, being a hunter is a billion year old drive in men. We were born to hunt and bring home the bacon, among other things.”

“Man, or men? What about women?”

“Men. You and me. Of the male persuasion. Women are there to stand alongside us. Or sit on top of us,” he chuckled salaciously. “So, switching the subject, you out there again?”

“Out there?”

“Sniffing the wind. Prowling the bars. You know — dating!”

“Why do you ask?”

“‘Cause it’s not good for a man not to have a source of relief.”

“Relief for what?”

“Sexual tension,” he hissed with a snakelike hiss. “That’s just basic. Man, when my wife died it wasn’t two weeks before I had several women. At our age we owe it to the world of women! Of course, thank God for Viagra!”

Stew laughed. He was so different from Brent — but found him to be unabashed and refreshing. More like a pimply teenager who can’t concentrate on anything other than women for more than a few seconds.

“You have a one-track mind, Brent.”

“At my age, I’m lucky to still have my mind! So, are you out there?” Brent persisted.

“No.”

“Your tried these online dating sites?”

“Several. I hate them.”

“I had a romp or two with girls I met online.”

“Girls?”

“Women. God, that makes me sound like a pedophile!”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. What’s the youngest you would date?”

“Well, let’s see … she would have to be at least old enough to carry across state lines!” A big guffaw. 

“Seriously!”

“Okay. So here I am — seventy-two. Got cancer. Take heart medication along with six other prescriptions. Gonna get my knee replaced soon. But I’m sure as hell not in the ground — yet. And as far as I’m concerned, a girl is a woman when she’s making a living and no longer living with her parents. So … what, 19? That’s what Steely Dan, said. Good god, Groucho Marx had a kid when he was in his 70s. At least I got the sense to keep my baby maker wrapped up! And then there was Rockefeller, right? Banging a twenty-five year old when he went out! Now, that’s the way I want to go out!”

“So being fifty years older doesn’t bother you?”

“Well, I’ve got grandchildren that age — so, yeah. But not so much as to keep me awake at night worrying about it. Besides, these are not my grandchildren! C’mon, Stew, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t like to have a young nubile go down on you!”

Stew sighed. 

“I was ten years older than my Ender Wife. I was 42 and she was 32. It didn’t make any difference back then, and, yeah — there was a bit of the forbidden about it that was exciting. But I didn’t marry her for the sex, Brent.”

“Right.”

“No, it’s true. I never stopped to think what it was going to be like when I was 50, or 60. I was in love, which my Starter Wife said would never happen again for me. But those ten years did make a difference. She started suggesting I darken my hair to look younger. Maybe some Botox, or even a tummy tuck. Things like that. She said I needed to stay competitive in my work, you know. But I finally figured out it was because she was becoming more aware of me getting older. I was a reflection on her, and if I was getting older, she was getting older. Age and women are not a good mix — at least in a woman’s mind.”

“Well, I don’t think a man has to shut down because of age. I might be in my seventies, but I always figure the best part of me is still to come — and the pun is intended,” he laughed.

“You want more chili?” Brent stood and stretched, illumined by the campfire.

“No, thanks.”

“Well, you hardly ate any!”

“Not that hungry.”

Brent took Stew’s paper bowl and put it in a garbage bag hanging from a limb.

“So I met this incredibly good-looking gal online, okay? She wasn’t young — but she wasn’t old, either. Helluva stack! And we hit it off from the get-go. God! After a week I was so worn out I musta looked like a sailor — bowlegged and all. Anyways, everything is going fine when she suddenly asks for directions!”

“What?”

“You know, where is this relationship going?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So I tell her ‘Look, Babe, I been married twice — and each one ended not so great. I’m in this for the fun, not the commitment.’ Wrong thing to say. Or at least the wrong time. Now I say it up front. I think women appreciate that, not confusing double-talk.”

“I take it you no longer see her?”

“Oh, not at all! We hook up from time to time.”

“While you’re with someone else?”

“Long as they know, they’re mostly okay with that.”

“Aren’t you afraid of …”

“Afraid of what? A jealous boyfriend or husband? Hell no! I got guns to take care of them.”

“No. I mean aren’t you afraid of disease?”

“The clap? Crabs? That’s why God made penicillin! And why we have Medicare! It’s a one-two punch! You afraid of getting some kind of disease?”

“It has crossed my mind to ask for a notarized medical history whenever I date someone. You know, kind of a prerequisite to sex.”

Brent laughed and took a long swig from his flask.

“You kill me, Stew! I have never met a guy so opposite of me — and still I like the hell out of you!”

“Nice to know.”

* * *

The fire and the talk finally died down. Stew pulled himself into his cocoon-like sleeping bag and rested his head on a rolled up wool sweater. Brent lay on the other side of the fire, his back to Stew, small puffs of steam rising above his head in the dim light of the embers.

Stew could not sleep for thinking about the day. Especially the shot. Each time he closed his eyes his mind drove him back to that moment where his and the buck’s eyes locked. And then the round eyes of the deer became the black eyes of the robin. A puff of smoke from the end of the rifles, and the bullet or BB emerging so slowly, arching through the air, striking the hide of the deer or the wing of the robin. 

His tinnitus kicked in — like the scratchy screaming music of the bathroom scene in Psycho; only he held the knife and approached the shower, ripping back the curtain to reveal his first wife, or second wife, or the robin, or the deer — all startled and flashing back with wide,  panicked eyes. 

He sat up and looked at his watch. Three in the morning. It was cold, and he stirred the blue-red coals with a stick, sending showers of flickering sparks up into the night air. He threw another wooden limb on the fire, and watched as it took light, and crackled. Brent was like a corpse, motionless, and if it weren’t for the low tremolo of his nasal snoring, Stew would have taken him for dead.

Every now and then the fire flared with a hiss, and he could see the carcass of the buck hanging a few yards away — like some kind of rustler who had been caught, sentenced, and executed. Stew wondered if some small herd was carefully moving through the woods in search of their father or brother. 

Then he heard a noise — a branch breaking under foot of something. He peered into the dark while he fumbled for his flashlight.

Another crack!

He looked over at Brent, who was on some far away island with naked women. Stew avoided saying anything. His tinnitus had stopped completely as he strained to pick up the slightest sound.

A rustle of leaves and a heavy plod from the direction of the hung carcass.

He took his flashlight and placed the bulb end into his hand, and turned it on carefully. His hand glowed red from the light. Holding the flashlight against his hand, he slowly lifted and pointed the flashlight in the direction of the noises. He turned the light off, removed his hand from the bulb end, then quickly turned the flashlight on again, sending a beam of light piercing the dark toward the sounds.

“Shit!”

* * *

Continued …

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