OPEN SEASON by Reavis Z. Wortham – December 2019

FISH & GAME PHOTOS – December 2019
November 24, 2019

Vintage Boots

THE HUNTING CLUB membership was settled in the large round booth in Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café. A cold December rain slashed across the parking lot.

We finally had packed up deer camp and come in that morning.

On the thin window shelf behind the booth sat a pair of Browning Kangaroo Featherlight hunting books I bought way back in 1972. Doc pointed. “Why are those in here?”

“The War Department ordered me a new pair of hunting boots for Christmas.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because a box was delivered to the house the other day and I peeked. Hunting boots size eleven.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Anyway, I found my Brownings in the attic while we were moving to the new house. I slipped them on for old times’ sake, and they’re too short.”

Wrong Willie sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

I studied Jerry Wayne across the table. He’d dissed my cooking out on the lease the night before. “It might be residual dead mouse I found in one boot.”

“Whattt!!!???” Doreen’s screech filled the café, causing at least one diner to stop and glance around, looking for the cat that was being skinned. The rest of the regulars kept eating as if nothing had happened. “You have a dead mouse in there?”

Doc raised an eyebrow. “Dang, she has good hearing.”

“Not have a dead mouse in there, had. The mouse is gone.” I whispered under my breath. “Just not the smell.”

Willie rested his chin on a fist. “Exactly why do you have them in here?”

“Thinking about shooting a photo and selling them on Ebay.”

Doc raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell them one boot was a burial crypt?”

“I’ll leave that part out.”

“The only thing you’re gonna leave out is that nasty boot.” Doreen appeared beside us, a damp and stained dishcloth against her mouth. “Put it outside.”

“It’s raining.”

Doc hid behind the menu. “That’ll probably wash the stink off it.”

“I’ve been working on that. I took the insole out, because that’s where the mouse was stuck, and dropped it in a Dutch oven this morning for a good boil.”

“That the same one you were using to cook with last night?” Jerry Wayne’s eyes widened.

“Well, yeah. I only have the one.”

Doreen gagged. “Out, I said!” She pointed at the door.

Almost feeling guilty, I carried the offending footwear to the front door and sat them just outside where they immediately filled with rainwater.

Doc had his reading glasses on, squinting at the menu. “You know, you should put brighter bulbs in those fixtures so we could see better.”

Doreen harrumphed, spun on her heel, and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Then you’d see the stains she’s trying to hide.” Wrong Willie scratched his cheek. “I never knew she served calf fries.”

“She doesn’t.” I reached over and wiped dried gravy off the plastic menu. “That says thank you, please come again.”

He borrowed Doc’s reading glasses. “Oh.”

Jerry Wayne looked up. “I hope she comes back soon. I’m starving. That soup back at camp this morning didn’t fill me up, neither, and it tasted kinda weak at that.”

Doc frowned. “Didn’t you just hear Rev say…”

I punched at my phone. “How does this sound for an ad. “Vintage Browning hunting boots for sale. Like New. Recently waterproofed. $50.”

“Like new?” Wrong Willie glanced at the door. “They’re forty-seven years old.”

“They look good because I rubbed some mink oil on them last night.”

“That’s the recent waterproofing?”

I pointed at the door. “They’re holding water just fine, so it looks to me like if they don’t drain, they won’t leak.”

Jerry Wayne burped.

“Good point.” Doc tested the air. “I still smell that rotten mouse.”

I sniffed my fingers, just in case. “Don’t smell a thing.”

“That’s enough!” Doreen suddenly appeared beside the table. “You’re gonna make my customers sick.”

A grin dimpled Doc’s cheek. “The only folks sitting close enough to hear are wearing hearing aids.”

“Well, I heard.”

Looking pale, Jerry Wayne swallowed. “Never mind guys. Look, I want to order. Chicken fried steak, fries, salad, Thousand Island.”

“I couldn’t eat after what you’ve been through,” I said. “I’d be sick as a dog.”

“Why?” Jerry Wayne put down the menu.

“Because that soup you had this morning wasn’t soup. I was just boiling the shoe inserts from my hunting boots.”

Jerry Wayne blanched. “And I…”

“Yep. Weak mouse stew.”

Jerry Wayne levitated, planted one shoe in the middle of the table and launched himself toward the bathroom. Doreen spun and the doors on both restrooms slammed.

I chuckled. “There. That paid him back for trying to set me up with that gal with the mustache down in Corpus when we were in college.”

Willie shook his head. “You got him for something that happened back in 1970???”

Doc and I bumped knuckles. He was in on it too. “I have a long memory, and I really didn’t boil those insoles. It was a new soup recipe that didn’t work out.”

“Well-played,” Wrong Willie nodded, thoughtfully. “Now, I’d offer those boots for forty dollars and list them as slightly worn, no insoles, then take thirty.”

 

Email Reavis Wortham at ContactUs@fishgame.com

 

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