Stop It

Mulak Reader - Stop It

This one is a frightening look at the not-too-distant future. The story itself was stolen from me years ago by a fellow named Dick Soriano, the then-editor of New England Out-of-Doors. I offered this piece for sale for $200, (hardly big bucks, even in 1994 when the theft took place.) He published the story, but made believe I had contributed the piece for free and refused to pay me. In the writing business, what you sell is “first time rights.” Once published, not many people want sloppy-seconds on a story, no matter how good it might be.

STOP IT!

"When a great question is first started there are

very few, even of the greatest minds, which suddenly

and instinctively comprehend it in all its consequences."

John Adams

Arnie pumped the brakes until the pickup slowed nearly to a stop on the slushy hill. The mix of snow and rain during the day had only accumulated to an inch or two, and the town hadn't bothered to plow the road. He glanced in the rear view mirror then eased across the oncoming lane and into the turn-off by the store and parked next to the snow bank, far enough over so that he wasn't blocking the gas pumps.

On the front of the truck an aging bumper sticker proclaimed "Stop It!" in black lettering. The sign's yellow background appeared white in the yellow glare from the big Sunoco sign that illuminated the storefront and the turn off. Arnie took the evening edition of the Union-News from the seat beside him. After studying the headline for a long moment, he folded the newspaper and tucked it tightly under his arm, then stepped out of the cab. Even though he wore rubber-bottomed boots he tried to walk in the path his truck tires had made in the slush.

Next to the entrance to the store was a 55-gallon drum that served as a trash can. It wore a "Pitch In" sticker, as well as one identical to that on Arnie's truck. Two small deer nosed the barrel's contents, and nervously looked at Arnie as he approached. He waved his hat at them. "Sssst! Go on! Git!", and took a step in their direction. Skittishly, they bounded away a few steps, then stopped in the darkness at the edge of the woods and watched him. After a moment, he opened the door and went inside.

The people he had come to see were loosely assembled at the three tables at the far end of the small store. The few chairs were occupied, and a dozen other people were perched on the edge of the counter or leaned against the shelves of groceries. Several men nodded and a few of the women waved hello, but none interrupted Mrs. Furgison with a spoken greeting to Arnie. Dorothy Furgison was holding forth from her chair at the center table;

"...they all agree that a strategy based primarily on an appeal to sensibilities would serve to get the campaign off on the right foot. We're scheduled to begin testing in a North Shore test area next month. C&R can handle the media exposure using the same channels as in the past—When I talked with them in Boston, they already had a sample 30 second TV spot using the very image we need to overcome— the clip showed a barefoot farm boy with a cane pole over his shoulder—something right out of Currier and Ives ..."

Boston. C&R Media. Ah-ha, thought Arnie, The wheels have started turning already. They're going after the fishermen now. There had been some talk of that, but Arnie really hadn't given it much credence. But here it was—or, at least, here was the beginning of it.

"Are we all here?" Dorothy Furgison's husband tapped the table a few times to call the meeting to order. He was openly referred to as Mister Dorothy Furgison.

"Arnie's here," someone offered, "But we're still waiting for the MacBrides."

"This snow is going to make a lot of people late tonight."

"Hold on. I think they just pulled up."

The sleigh bells on the door sounded as John MacBride and his wife came in. John paused to stomp the slush from his boots. "Damn!" he sputtered. He radiated a tangible anger like heat from a wood stove.

"What's the matter, Mac?" Someone asked.

"We just ran into a deer coming down Ridge road." Mrs. MacBride answered. Her husband continued to sputter.

"Much damage?"

John MacBride waved his hands in disgust. "A bumper and a wrinkled fender, and I've got some trim hanging off. What's that gonna set me back, Arnie? Two-three hundred bucks?"

"All of that." Arnie owned Williams Auto Body on West Street, and had been doing a brisk business as a result of the winter's deer collisions.

"What about the poor animal?"

John MacBride looked aside. "Its troubles are over."

"The poor thing."

There was much head shaking and muttering. All agreed it was too bad— certainly, another deer's death was a regrettable situation.

Dorothy Furgison began her formal report on her trip to the animal rights convention is Boston. There was a pause while she rummaged through her bag in search of a pamphlet. George Smith cleared his throat. "Dotty, are you sure we're on the right track with this? I mean, really? Who gives a damn about fishing? "

"I do. I stand against cruelty in any form, and I thought you did too, George." Behind her, her husband nodded his agreement. So did several other people gathered around her table.

"That's not it, Dotty. It's not that cruelty thing." George was hardly articulate, and now he was visibly flustered. "Hell, fishing is as American as apple pie or anything else you could name... "

"So was beating horses." She cut him off, her voice moving up an octave. "It was part of the American scene until we made people aware of it. So was bull baiting and dog fighting. So was fur trapping. So was killing animals for pleasure. We didn't shirk from those tasks just because it meant making people look at what they didn't want to see."

"Well then, maybe we ought to take a good look at something we've already done." Arnie heard himself speaking, and saw the store full of disinterested gazes suddenly turn his way. He hadn't intended to blurt this out, but it looked like it was now or never.

"You know I was in favor of it, just like all of us. I worked hard because it seemed right. But it's been two winters now—Just look around: the woods are picked clean—There's not a growing thing out there that isn't six feet off the ground—and deer are starving. So are rabbits and turkeys and everything else that competes with deer for food. It's hard to find a young tree with any bark left on it. Neighborhood dogs that never bothered much with deer before can't resist the temptation—Hell, there's deer everywhere looking for food. The dogs run deer and form packs, and some of 'em don't come home. You all know that—I'm not telling anybody anything they don't know already."

Arnie heard himself rambling on, and hurried to make his point. "But it’s not just the animals. Two years back they told us this would happen, but of course we knew they were exaggerating. But now this is the third kid this winter." He unfolded the newspaper to reveal the headline: CHILD KILLED BY DOGS.

"How dare you connect that child's death to what we accomplished." Mrs. Furgison sounded shrill.

Embarrassed, Arnie folded his arms and leaned back against the counter. But some unknown courage caused him to continue. "Well if there's no connection, how come I feel so damn guilty? Don't get me wrong—I never believed that the hunters were doing the animals a favor by killing them, but there may have been some truth to what they said about population control; Wolves used to kill a deer a day—When they could catch one. The only trouble is, now our pet dogs have replaced the wolves, and if it's a choice between wolves and hunters... "

"I'll vote for the wolves! I said it then, and I'll say it again: Nature will find its own balance." Dorothy Furgison had a tremble in her voice that Arnie used to notice when she had her back up on a position. In times past, he had always been glad when he heard it—It meant that she was shifting into high gear. They were on the same side then, but now he was her target.

"Arnie, you can't possibly be proposing that we again turn loose the dregs of humanity in their blaze orange uniforms? What is that bloodthirsty horde going to do that's in any way positive? That's a preposterous alternative, and I won't hear of it."

Arnie stood alone. He glanced at George Smith, but George looked away. So did John MacBride. None of them really liked Dorothy Furgison, but she was the sort of person you were glad to have on your team. And certainly nobody was going to out-argue her.

The meeting returned its attention to the Boston report, and talk ran to future plans and strategies.

Arnie stepped forward. We're going to have to live through something terrible, something none of us ever foresaw 2 years ago when we all voted to "Stop It!" We've made a mistake, and we've all got to share in the responsibility for that mistake. That was what Arnie wanted to say. He could hear it as clearly as if he had actually said it. But instead he said nothing else, and after a while he noticed that everyone in the room was avoiding his glance. He slipped toward the door and the bells hardly jingled when he closed it behind him.

The cold air struck him almost like a slap in the face. He walked to his truck, listening to his own footfalls in the darkness. He climbed in and slipped the key into the ignition, but after a moment he got back out again. Unceremoniously, he walked to the front of his truck and pulled the faded "Stop It!" sticker from the bumper and dropped it in the snow. Then he started off, following his headlights up the slushy hill and into the night.

This site was last updated 09/21/06