RUDIMENTS, pt. 799
(take what's coming, and be gone)
Every so often there'd
be something different
to take up my time. When
I say 'something different,'
let me add that often it
included my being indifferent
to it; in the same fashion as
some rag doll, I'd let myself
get thrown about, pushed here
and there, just to keep the
confines going of some
odd new malaise that was
sweeping through me, and
not wanting to get caught
up with these country-folk
seeing me opposing them.
One time, it was small game
season - yep, that's what they
called it, as if they even
had to; they were shooting
at things all the time anyway.
I just scratched my head.
The idea of small game season
was as follows: the corn was high;
it was just pre-harvest time; the
height of the corn afforded a
modicum of cover for those
poor little animals who'd be
scurrying around in it, trying
to save their own necks, as it
were. I'd often wonder what
went through the minds of all
those poor little creatures on
the day they awoke and all of
a sudden the world was no
longer a friendly place. Stupid
humans freak out if they get
cramps - these poor critters got
a rifle-barrel in their face.
Anyway, I figure why fight it;
these jerky high school kids
who were always bugging me
anyway (I've written of this;
they'd come up to my hideout,
as it were, settle in, and never
move out to leave; as if I was
their day-camp). They came
by one day with rifles, ammo,
and ideas for me to join them
on the grateful fun of small
game season. I had my own
firearms and stuff, but I didn't
let on, and just used what they
were wielding. It all was more
for the interest of watching all
this, observing the natives, so
to speak, that I did it. I held
no intentions to kill, not even
really to effectively shoot. It
was a cool, misted-over, nice
morning; early Fall, a Saturday,
late September, whatever it was.
I told my wife what was up,
mentioning how I wasn't sure
what would take place, but
we'd be back. And we were;
got back about 3:30, after
trudging around for hours
in the woods and fields of my
local area, which had no other
'hunters.' I maybe shot once
or twice, but they bagged a
strangely good load of ordinary,
everyday objects. Outrageously
so, and I was offended. Squirrels
and some birds and things - really
dumb stuff to go ahead shooting
at. (By the way, in the interests
of fairness, NOTHING shot
back. To even dare call this
'hunting' showed how moronic
people could be). Now, here's
the rub : I mentioned how I
just rolled with everything,
rag-doll fashion, doing what
came my way, learning the
local lingo, playing along,
drinking their water. I guess
the same went for my wife too.
Or she's just too good to be
true. We came home with a
sackful of dead animals. The
three boys I'd been with went
to their task - right on our front
grass, skinning and preparing
these edibles for - yep, you
guessed, my wife's cooking,
for dinner. She didn't even
flinch; though she hated
every second of it and
swallowed her tears. An
hour later, we dined on the
incredible edibles which, that
morning, had awakened and
never given a thought to the
idea that my lands (and me!)
would so betray them. Or
that by later that day they'd
be someone's food. I felt
horrible, as in 'Hey, boys,
pass me that piece of shit,'
(meaning me).
-
I can't decide what to tell
you : what does squirrel
taste like? I forget, nor can
I remember what the other
little animals were; and I'll
leave it at that, or perhaps
Kathy will remember, having
cooked them. I'll ask her.
And, by the way, she refused
to eat any of this.
-
It was at this point, I can safely
say, that I realized the lines
had diverged so far apart from
each other. I was done, quite
done, with the gastric and the
qualitative aspects of all this
Ruritania stuff. I wanted out,
and was about to enter the grey
area of getting out, even if it
meant, as it did eventually,
owning two places while
the long finalization of the
deal; clearing up all my bank
and mortgage aspects, closing
out the connections I had, and
letting all those others, who'd
actually been so good to me,
that I was extricating myself from
them, and all their goodness.
It was painful for me; I was
hurting all over again, plus
constantly looking at a faux
farmer, short-haired idiot, in
most aspects, each time I had
a look in a mirror. What had I
done? What had I allowed to
happen to myself? I think if
it had meant, even, going
back to NYC, facing up to the
music, taking what was due,
I'd have done it. But I didn't.
My ruse was working, had
been working, and I left it
at that. Dostoevsky had
written 'Notes From the
Underground.' I could have
probably added Volume Two.
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