Pretzel Logic

Mulak Reader - Pretzel Logic

Here’s one from Brown Feathers. It now reads pretty much the way I wrote it, but when it was used in Brown Feathers the publishing group that has the rights to Steeley Dan’s songs wanted $500 for the privilege of reprinting the four lines in the epigram. Ahem. Four lines, five hundred dollars. They wouldn’t take Monopoly money, so I didn’t see the deal as a wise investment. In the book, I didn’t use the quote, and rewrote the last paragraph so that the rhymes were only inferred. Here’s the un-cut version.

PRETZEL LOGIC

Yes, I'm going insane,

And I'm laughing at the frozen rain.

But I'm so alone:

Honey, when they gonna send me home?

"Bad Sneakers"

Steeley Dan

          He shut off the alarm and stumbled toward the bathroom in the dark. When he finished, he stood at the window peering out at the sky: No stars. That was good news, but it hardly elated him.
          His wife sat up in bed, shielding her eyes from the bathroom light. "Please be careful out there, Sandy." She always said that.
          "Okay, Hon. I'll see you later." He almost wished she had said, 'Don't be a fool—Come back to bed.' Waking up was a challenge. He would be a much more serious duck hunter if it didn't involve getting up in the middle of the night. He felt three feet thick.
          The eleven o'clock weather had shown a front bearing down on the region. Duck hunting weather. Maybe a chance to actually fill out the new five bird limit. Sandy had hurriedly assembled his gear and was in bed before midnight. There hadn't been sufficient time, though, to perform the mental trick of mustering the optimistic anticipation he would need in the morning to propel himself past his initial stupor and out into the darkness. Inertia, unfortunately, worked both ways.
          In the kitchen, he plugged in the coffee maker, then sat opposite the pile of clothes he had assembled the night before; Long johns, turtle neck sweater, woolen bib-fronts, doose down coat. Goose down coat? Give me a break—It's only November. He tossed the cumbersome coat aside in favor of his shell parka.
          When the coffee was ready, he filled the thermos and poured a cup for himself, then went into the cellar to let Jeff out. The springer sniffed his way around the yard, irrigating the trees and hedges as he went. Jeff was a pheasant dog, and as much a duck retriever as he needed to be: He was neither stylish nor persistent, and once he left the boat Sandy had little control over him. Occasionally he even missed a bird.
          But Jeff knew how to sit still. Day in, day out, that one asset made the little springer more valuable to Sandy than any of his friends' retrievers. The dog came to him now, tail wagging, eager to get started. "That water's gonna be cold, Jeff. Still want to go?"
          By way of reply, the springer's tail wagged even faster as he sat smiling an open-mouthed dog's smile up at Sandy. Who says dogs take after their masters? He thought.
          Everything he would need had been loaded into the boat the previous night, and now he rolled the trailer out of the garage and hitched it to the truck. He still felt more asleep than awake as he drove off.
          The weather man had mentioned temperatures falling into the upper 30s, but it was obviously colder than that already: A skim of ice had begun to form at the water's edge as he launched the boat. The wind stirred the treetops above the launch ramp, and the air felt of rain.
          With Jeff sitting on the sacks of decoys, Sandy started the outboard and headed upriver toward the place he called the swamp point. The spot's singular advantage was its inaccessibility—it couldn't be reached without a boat. There would be other waterfowlers out on this Saturday morning, and Sandy intended to avoid as much competition as he could. He looked at the luminescent hands of his watch, then at the lowering sky. No need to hurry—Dawn will be late under this overcast.
          It was almost three miles to the flooded point. It loomed in the darkness as a shapeless silhouette, with a stretch of sheltered water beyond. Sandy played his light along the shore, as much to signal any other hunters as to get his bearings. No lights flashed in return. Jeff stood in the bow, watching as the decoys were tossed out. "What'll it be today, Jeff? The crescent pattern? Or the two-group arrangement?" The dog kept his opinion to himself.
          When he pulled the boat into the flooded brush a branch caught against his thigh, and as he pulled away it tore the fabric of his waders. He ran his fingers into the rip, cursing under his breath. For a moment he considered the roll of tape in his bag, but remembered past experiences of trying to persuade adhesive to stick to cold canvas and decided not to bother.
          The wind whispered in the naked branches of the alders and oaks along the shoreline, sending an occasional dead leaf swirling darkly past his decoys. Without seeming to grow brighter, the sky became less black. Two of his decoys had become tangled and were floating side by side. He took the broken hockey stick he used as a wading staff and, very much aware of the tear in his waders, walked into the shallows to separate the pair.
          He had left the thermos on the kitchen counter. That realization came to him as he felt for it in his war bag. Then he opened his shellbox and realized that he was in the midst of a bad-luck morning. He shook his head.
          "What next...?" Instead of his 3-inch number 4s, he had mistakenly grabbed the box with the light sixes he used for pheasants. He searched into the pockets of his parka, but it was sixes or nothing. He fed three of the shells into his pumpgun. Hunters killed ducks for years with loads like these, he told himself. But he knew, too, that confidence was a big part of successful shooting, and the magnum 4s he favored weren't doing him any good back on the shelf in the garage.
          As the dawn turned the clouds successively paler shades of gray, his eyes were continually drawn to a stump beyond the decoys that pretended to be a swimming duck. Legal shooting time came and went, marked only by a flurry of shots in the distance.
          "Chase 'em down this way," He muttered.
          A half hour later he noticed the first raindrops in the water. He tugged at the hood on his parka, pulling it up over his cap. Sandy missed the coffee he would be pouring at this point.
          He editorialized on the day so far: Rain, bum luck, no ducks— He shook his head. Maybe I should heed the signs and quit right now: Bad luck mornings have a way of continuing on until they become absolutely lousy days. The series of expanding circles in the water began to overlap as the rain quickened.
          Another barrage sounded out in the distance. It was fully an hour into legal shooting time now. "We can't go home skunked, Jeff. If I can get just one shot, I'll be happy."
          The dog glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the treetops. In the distance, more shots thudded dully. The springer wined with impatience.
          Without warning, a single drake mallard appeared. Sandy hadn't seen the bird approach—It was suddenly just there, backpedaling as it eased down over the spread. Caught unaware, he felt like a sprinter who hears the starter's gun as he's fitting his spikes into the blocks. His shot missed. He rushed to fire again, and then a third time. Only his empty shells hit the water.
          The duck was gone so quickly he wasn't sure it was ever really there. He looked back over the decoys, but no feathers floated on the water or in the air. "What the hell is wrong with me?" It was more an accusation than a question. He sat back down. A gift shot like that... He pushed his hood back. I might as well get wet, because I can't hear with that thing over my head. "...Can't see, either." he muttered. An easy miss required an excuse: It was the hood.
          A few big ragged snowflakes began to mix in with the rain. He tucked his hands into his armpits and sat hunched forward with the barrel of the shotgun resting on the gunnel of the boat. He watched the flow of the river past the decoys. The sparse parade of leaves it carried were mostly oaks this late in the season. His head shook in disgust each time he replayed the muffed shot over again.
          A small knot of ducks appeared in the distance, working the river. Call? They're not talking to me, though. His duck call was in his pocket, but Sandy's rule was speak only when spoken to. He decided to let his decoys do all the work. After two circuits of the area the ducks disappeared over the treeline, apparently without having seen his rig. Should've called 'em, he thought.
          Minutes later, the same flock was back and began working the river again, this time toward the swamp point. Call now? They're coming right for me this time. Indecision haunted him. He hunkered lower on the thwart. There were five birds. He mentally rehearsed the shots he would need to make if he was to take more than just a single.
          The ducks set their wings as they approached the decoys, but then, instead of circling, they swung out over the river as if they intended to fly on. He grit his teeth. Damn! Why didn't I take them when I had the chance?
          The echoes of that thought were still in his mind when he saw the flock returning, banking into their final decent. Automatically, he stood and fired—much too soon—but only drew feathers from the lead drake. The birds climbed out of range. Like a golfer throwing his club after a bad drive, he pumped two more shots out, then watched as the drake lagged behind the others as they made their way back downriver.
          "YOU JACKASS!" He yelled at himself, and a moment later the echo of his frustration repeated his accusation. Sit out here for two hours, then don't even know enough to wait 'em out when the time comes. He worked the action of the gun to put a shell into the chamber. If I had fours... He turned the gun over and jammed two shells into the magazine, then squinted up into the drizzle where the shot had taken place. It's my shooting, not the shells. He shook his head. Six empties and the only duck I've hit is still flying. Stupid.
          Like a comforting friend, Jeff left his seat in the bow and came to sit next to his master. Sandy scratched the dog's ears. "Next flock, Jeff. We'll get some."
          The rain gave way to a steady fall of oversized feathery snowflakes mixed with pellet-like granules that seemed closer to hail than snow. They touched the water and vanished. Their was no malevolence in the snowfall, and it wasn't until his mustache began to ice up that the reality of just how cold it had become struck him. His hands and feet were feeling the chill, but his concern was mainly for Jeff—His spaniel's coat wasn't intended for extremes.
          He heard the flock before he spotted them. Jeff looked straight up, but Sandy resisted the temptation and kept his head down as the birds passed over. They circled out beyond the decoys, grumbling duckily among themselves—Maybe a dozen birds altogether. He hunkered low, watching them just below the brim of his hat visor. Then another collective woosh of wings passed overhead. More? All right! Mixed in with the mallards of the second group was a very obvious drake pintail. They circled to the left, opposite the clockwise rotation of the first flock. Be cool.
          Then, unexpectedly, a lone drake mallard glided in low and hovered for a moment over the decoys—nearly a replay of the first single he had missed. He shot the bird from a sitting position then looked skyward, hoping for a chance at one of the circlers but knowing there would be none.
          He sent Jeff for the bird, now floating among the decoys at the center of a ring of ripples. Maybe I might have had a chance for more than one if I hadn't been so quick on the trigger. Still, a bird in the hand... He got out of the boat to receive the mallard as Jeff pranced around with this first bird before delivering it. Sandy took the duck, then looked up in time to see a dozen ducks flaring away, back over the river. The same bunch back for a second look? Maybe they got turned around in the snow -Whatever, they're gone now. Damn. The bird in his hand didn't seem quite the good investment it had a moment ago.
          He dried his dog as best he could with a burlap. Jeff seemed impervious to the cold water, but Sandy knew better. The falling snow swirled in the gusts of wind, and watched it build up on the skim ice around the boat and on his decoys. After fifteen minutes he was sure his decoys looked like snow-covered stumps from the vantage point of a flying duck, and he walked out to clear them. He dunked the eight nearest decoys, but the farther blocks were in deeper water, beyond the reach of his torn waders. They continued to look like floating igloos.
          Wading back, he saw Jeff suddenly look up, then heard ducks above him. He crouched but quickly stood back up when he felt water rush in through the rip in his right leg. Damn! Overhead, the group of ducks split as it passed the point, with some following the river and others turning into the swamp. It was the flock with the pintail. While they hadn't responded to the decoys, they hadn't flared off as if they'd seen him do his scarecrow act, either. He hurried back to the boat.
          Twice he heard ducks pass overhead, their wings hissing in the blowing snow. He willed them to swing over his decoys, but when he finally caught a glimpse of the flock they seemed more intent on the shelter of the swamp behind him. After a long minute of waiting he turned to look back just as a single was descending over the nearest treetops. He fired a quick shot, and as the bird tumbled the rest of the flock erupted out of the swamp where they had all landed, unseen. They headed for the river, and in their confusion passed immediately in front of his boat. He singled out the pintail, but for once gave the too-close bird too much lead, then repeated his mistake with his third shot.
          What a jerk! What an absolute JERK! I knew what I was doing wrong, yet still I pulled the trigger. He mocked his previous promise to himself, "If I can get just one shot I'll be happy, " he said out loud. He sat down in disgust, then noticed a drake mallard floating among the decoys. It's head was in the water. He could not say which of the missed shots at the pintail had caught the bird.
          He sent Jeff to make the retrieve, then walked him back behind the boat to find the one he had taken with his first shot. Although they searched the snow-covered swamp thoroughly, Jeff showed no indication that he scented anything. At length, Sandy happened to take a hard look at what he had assumed was an old bird's nest in one of the swamp maples. When he shook the drake from the tree, Jeff pounced on it as if it had been discovered hiding.
          Once Sandy sat back down, the cold began to gnaw at him. While he hadn't been toasty before, at least the chill had been tolerable. In duck hunting, keeping warm is a function of keeping dry, and now his right leg was wet inside the torn leg of his waders. He grew colder with each passing minute. Snow needed to be cleared from his decoys once again, but his feet and legs were painfully cold and he had no ambition to go wading. He began to shiver.
          Three ducks emerged from the snow. Like the previous flock, they too ignored his snow-covered decoys and banked toward the swamp. Two were blacks, with a drake mallard trailing behind. Sandy put the gun to his shoulder and pushed on the safety for what seemed a long time before it gave way under his numb finger. His first two shots were strangely quiet and echoless in the snow and only caused the trio to climb higher. He swung the gun as far as he could beyond his right shoulder and was actually falling backward when he touched off his third shot. The mallard folded, but seemed suspended for a long moment, growing steadily larger among the snowflakes until it finally fell heavily just a few feet from the boat.
          He tried to reload, but his fingers were having trouble holding the shells. He recognized the signs.
          "Let's go, Jeff."
          He reflected that that might be the first intelligent decision he'd made all morning. The ice around the boat was substantial now, and he noticed the decoys were coated with ice. Using an oar, he quickly swept them into the boat. The result was a frozen tangle of anchor lines and weights. To hell with it. He was racing the cold now, and haste was imperative.
          The motor would not turn over. He had left it tilted up rather than in the water, and now it was frozen like everything else. Dumb-ass. I should have known this would happen. He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. He had little feeling in his hands as he rigged the oarlocks and started down the river. It would be a long haul.
          As he rowed, his frustration bothered him far more than the gnawing cold. He took too much pride in his wingshooting to excuse the morning with a shrug of the shoulders and a one-liner. Even the final overhead shot, as spectacular as it was, was only possible because he had screwed-up on the initial two easy chances. He shook his head. Some days you eat the bear. Other days, the bear eats you. He rowed on, only slightly thankful that the labor warmed him.
          He felt the boat rock a bit as Jeff leapt into the water. What the hell...! The dog was after a duck that could be seen slinking off along the undercut riverbank. After a short chase through the shallows, the springer caught the cripple, then stood waiting for his master to bring the boat to him. Sandy stood and rowed the boat to shore, grinning. Jeff, if nothing else, made every hunt interesting.
          He dried off the dog, then wrapped him in the empty decoy sacks. The bird had shot wounds on the left side: There was no reason to doubt that it was the same drake mallard that had flown on after being hit an hour earlier.
          Rowing again, it occurred to him that this would be a day he remembered for his mistakes. His eyes kept returning to the five drake mallards now piled on the thwart. He grinned. There had certainly been plenty of duck hunts when everything went right—He stayed warm, all the equipment worked, and he remembered to bring all the things he should—but he still returned home empty handed because no ducks flew.
          "Now here's an alternate ending for you, Jeff." He paused to rub the springer's head once more. "It just takes a bit of pretzel logic to recognize it."
          Five drakes! Sandy laughed out loud at the irony of it. He thought of an old Steeley Dan song that often popped into his head when things went awry. He never could recall the exact words: Something about going insane and laughing at the frozen rain. Insanity seemed appropriate just now, and even though the new verses he made up didn't always rhyme, he sang out loud as he rowed in time to the song's rhythm through the snow.

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This site was last updated 09/21/06