The Latest New Spot

Mulak Reader - The Latest New Spot

I confess to not liking this story very much. When writing, some stories seem to unfold and flow along effortlessly by themselves, but this one was a labor that broke down over and over again. I wanted the story to revolve around the conversation Paul has with his father, (There was a fellow that I shoot skeet with who actually said those words, but I decided to cast the fellow’s father in the role of philosopher.) and hoped the rest of the story would fall into place. Instead, it ended up fitting like Cinderella’s slipper on one of her ugly stepsisters—even now, it seems a force fit. I wanted the fellow’s mood to improve as the story went along, but he comes across as a self-pitying grouch. Even though I’m the author, I find myself wishing he’d fall in and drown. Sports Afield liked the result, though, and published the story in the January 1986 edition after changing the title to “The Latest New Hotspot.”

THE LATEST NEW SPOT

           The rain rattled against the cellar windows. His setter laid down heavily by the stove and watched him. Paul hung his raincoat across the back of a chair and emptied his pants pockets before he started undressing. A small puddle of rainwater began to collect under the butt of his shotgun where he had leaned it against the workbench. By the time he had stripped to his shorts there was an even larger puddle at his feet. He sat slouched forward with his arms across his knees. Water continued to drip from his hair.
          He felt old. The year before last he had taken a three bird limit on this, his birthday, but not so this go-around. He shook his head. The pile of wet clothes was silent testimony to the sort of morning it had been. A shot of whiskey would go a long way toward easing the chill—Perhaps in a minute or two. Right now it felt good just to sit.
          "37," he thought out loud. There were still guys playing major league ball at his age. He had a pretty good idea of the sort of thing they must be up against, though. He wasn't given to self-deception, but up until recently he had been able to convince himself that if he worked at it hard enough he could again be as fast or as tough or as lean as he once was, and this make-believe business of aging could be pushed back once more.
          Yet, lately there had been signs; a varicose cluster starting on his calf, his scalp showing through his hair, an inability to read for more than a minute or two without his glasses, pounds that seem to defy diet and exercise—all irrefutable signs that the term “young man” as applied to him would never again be entirely accurate. A woman had once told him that getting older was just a matter of giving up a little youth in order to gain a little wisdom. You can't help but give up the youth, she had said, so unless you gain the wisdom as you go along, you're gypping yourself. He hoped he was getting wiser, because his youth was certainly slipping away.
          Upstairs the phone rang. Unconsciously he waited for his absent wife to take the call. On the fourth ring he got up and went to the cellar extension. It had to be his father—It was time to give the "morning report".
          "Paul? How did you do?"
          "In a word? Shitty."
          "That bad, huh? Sometimes I wonder why you go out in the rain on days like this."
          "Oh, it wasn't the weather—The birds were there. The dog even pointed a few for me," Paul glanced at his setter laying next to the stove, watching him as he spoke. "It's me—I couldn't hit doodly-squat today. And, of course, getting soaked didn't help matters. What a dumb-ass I can be sometimes." Ordinarily, the day's incidents were paraphrased in his mind as the day wore on, to be retold to his father later. Today, there was little to tell.
          His father changed the subject. "Hey, your mother says 'Happy Birthday'. What are you—35?"
          "37."
          "Boy—What I'd give to be 37 again."
          Paul left a pause where his reply was supposed to go.
          "Look," his father continued, "If you've had your fill of grouse hunting for today, what do you say we go out for ducks this afternoon? We could try that new spot that Danny told me about... They'll really be flying in this storm... " Enthusiasm welled out of the receiver.
          Paul hesitated. First attempts at new spots were predictably full of mistakes, and he had had more than his measure of that commodity today. "I was going to hook up the boat and try the swamp bend in the river again." After a moment he added, "Want to come along?"
          "You've been cussing that spot all year. You're a glutton for punishment. Why don't we give this new spot a try?"
          It wasn't so much his father's argument that persuaded him, but rather, his own lack of anything that resembled a rebuttal. Paul said, "Okay."

          There were several downed wires in the road at the bottom of the hill. His father stopped the truck. A wind- splintered branch hung from a willow, swaying across the space between utility poles where the cables had run. As if to answer his unspoken question, a gust of wind nudged the wires and a single blue spark snapped to the ground from the nearest broken end. Paul shook his head and muttered, “Miserable mornings have a way of leading to even worse afternoons."
          "Minor problem... Don't worry..." His father was in a far less dour mood. He shifted into reverse, and with his arm across the seat back, peered out the rear window as they started backward. They retreated back up the road faster than they had come down. The transmission complained.
          The detour delayed them hardly at all. They parked where Danny had told them to—the river was only 100 feet or so from the road, but it was nearly all vertical distance. They wrestled the canoe down the steep grade together, encumbered by waders and foul-weather gear. Paul unzipped his parka. These periods of great exertion belied waterfowling’s categorization as a sedentary, sit-and-wait sport. He struggled up the embankment and back down again with the balance of their equipment, then a third time with the decoys. It would have been easy to expect his father to help with the bull work—the man was always willing—but Paul had to continually remind himself that this seemingly young man with the almost-full head of hair was 64, and no stranger to the reality of the term "heart attack".
          They loaded the canoe and pushed off, assisted by the strong east wind as they went. Paul wondered who would be along to help him 27 years down the road—His nephews? The neighbor's kid? He had tried, but none held much promise as a protégé.
          They paddled toward the new spot. Paul looked at the unfamiliar piece of marsh from the stern seat of the canoe and considered the long string of mistakes between the present and a time when they would know the one "best" way to hunt the new spot. It could take a dozen outings. Starting from scratch was tough, and mustering a positive frame of mind about it was tougher still. The fact that several scattered flocks of ducks seemed to be working the area as they crossed the open water should have brightened his outlook, but didn't.
          Some spindly water oaks lined the lee shore of a shallow cove, creating patches of calm water that came and went as the wind shifted. Low clouds raced overhead just above the treetops, and the rain seemed to have collected itself into windrows, coming down fiercely for a minute or two, then abating for a quarter hour. It was so perfect a waterfowling day it almost seemed a cliché.
          Half way down the shoreline of the cove one of the oaks had recently fallen into the water and seemed a natural place to hide. Paul put out the eight decoys, shortening the anchor cords as he walked the canoe in the shallow water. In his mind's eye he tried to visualize the arrangement from the overhead vantage point of incoming ducks. In setting the elaborate trap that was a decoy spread, he had come to learn that at times bringing in a flock of mallards wasn't enough: success could hinge on as subtle a point as whether they put down inside the rig or just to the far side of it. Wisdom, he thought to himself. Not exactly the meaning of life, but wisdom nonetheless. He pondered his efforts a moment, then walked out into the rig to move the outer decoys a bit closer together.
          They sat on folding stools, concealed in the marsh grass. "Waddya think?" It was his father's standard rhetorical question.
          Paul looked around the cove that was the river's backwash: They were within the city limits, and although the pollution from the upstream mills was no longer in evidence, litter was everywhere. "The perfect duck blind for this spot," he answered, "Would have to be a pile of this junk—A couple of those old tires and a few beer cans and some of that Styrofoam stuff, and throw on that old galosh there for realism."
          His father smiled. "You're right. Just look at this crap. There's a lot of people around that can't tell the difference between a river and the city dump. Hell, you could junk an old car by the edge of the river an' shoot right out of the front seat. The ducks would never suspect a thing."
          "It would blend right in." There was no humor in Paul's voice. "Not exactly something from a John Cowen painting, but in this place, it would be pretty good camouflage."
          Three mallards appeared above the trees across from them. They seemed intent on following the main flow of the river, but then they banked into the head wind and swung toward the cove. Mentally Paul rehearsed the upcoming shot. The trap worked: The birds broke and decoyed to the opening he had left in the spread. They stood together and killed a duck apiece.
          Paul waded out to retrieve the birds. There was something special about ducks that had been spotted first as distant specs in the sky, coaxed closer with wishes and muttered oaths, and finally, persuaded to come to a specific spot where hunters waited in concealment—all because of something that was done just right. This place might not turn out to be a complete disaster, he thought. But then he wondered how well the ducks were flying a few towns away at his old spot on the swamp bend in the river. With a storm like this... He caught himself at what he faulted others for doing—being greedy. He smiled a humorless, tight-lipped smile to himself.
          A blast of wind brought a renewed downpour. The rain was driven horizontally, and both men pulled the hoods of their parkas over their heads. From behind them came several loud cracks, and they turned just in time to see an oak being driven down, twisting as it fell toward them and the previously fallen tree where they hid. They were showered with broken branches and leaves, but the uppermost limbs of the tree landed just short of them. There had been no time to get out of the way had they needed to.
          "Wow. Can you see the headlines? DUCKS TAKE REVENGE ON FATHER AND SON TEAM." Paul joked, but he was more frightened by the near-miss than he cared to admit.
          His father shook his head. "Naw. This is still a little early in the year. I figure if I gotta go, it might as well be during deer week." He was not a deer hunter. "Any earlier than that would still be bird season, and afterwards would be too close to Christmas—I'd only screw- up the holidays for your mother. Deer week, I figure."
          Paul grinned. "Who're you kidding? You're going to outlive me and the rest of the kids and you know it."
          His father paused, and when he replied his tone was serious. "You know, I didn't think I'd ever live to see the day when my sons were grown men and I was a grandfather. You boys are the one thing in my life I'm proudest of, but Adam is—what? 40? Your brother Joe's wife is expecting their fourth, and you're—37, is it?"
          Paul nodded.
          "Hell, you're no spring chicken any more, either. If my boys are already grown-up enough so they're worried about getting old, what does that make me?"
          Paul fumbled with some words that were the beginnings of the things he wanted to say—Things he had rehearsed for moments just such as this—But his courage failed him, and the conviction that a part of his father would stay alive as long as he held him in his memory went unsaid.
          A single low black duck topped the trees across the cove but never gave their spread a second look, electing instead to continue along the main flow of the river. When it became evident that the bird wasn't coming back, his father clapped a hand on the knee of Paul's waders. "I'm not one for handing out advice, Paul—You know that. But since that divorce business you went through, it's pretty plain you're feeling your age." His father spoke without looking at him. "Gettin' old's the easiest thing in the world. You can fight it, but it won't do you much good. I wish I could tell you something that'd change it—Hell, I'd take my own advice if that were so. But I've always thought life was a lot like a movie film being shown, with the future on one reel and the past all wound up on the other. You can't see how much film is left, but you sure as hell can see the spent film filling up the other reel, and if you've been paying attention to the movie you can make a pretty good guess as to how much longer they're going to drag it out before the good guys ride off into the sunset." He was obviously embarrassed by his role as philosopher, but he continued. "I look at my own movie and it's pretty plain that there isn't a whole lot of room left on the pick-up reel, but what am I gonna do—Throw up my hands and say 'I give up.'? You can't stop learning and trying new things just because you don't have a whole lifetime in front of you to enjoy 'em." After a pause, he added, "That's the difference between feeling young and being old."
          They looked down, preferring for a moment not to look at each other. His father finally filled the silence: "Hey, look, I don't mean to stick my nose into your business..."
          Paul hurried to answer. "Dad, you're one hundred percent right—really. I just didn't realize that it had been all that obvious." He considered his life over the past months: Since his divorce nothing had seemed to go his way, and lately it seemed that every decision he made was fraught with the terror of passing youth. He was, after all, not the person he had dreamed he'd be. Weather or not his reasons were fully understood, his father had been right—and accuracy had to count for something. Paul was beginning to understand the courage it must take for an old person to stay young. He nodded. "I can see what you mean, Dad. Let me think about it."
          The wind continued unabated. At the other end of the cove a fellow began to set out decoys. He was perhaps 200 yards from them. "Look at that!" Paul shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me—Why the hell doesn't he set up someplace else?"
          "Maybe this is his regular spot, and we're the jerks for being here. To hell with him." It was his father's standard dismissal.
          "We've got a good rig out, Dad. We'll out-draw him—No problem."
          Soon he realized he shouldn't have said that. The other fellow had a duck call, and they had a big problem. Every duck that appeared was greeted with the fellow's personal interpretation of what a feeding call should sound like. When the birds didn't respond, he let them hear his "high- ball" call, then switched to his "come-back" call—All were his own versions. The fellow was very inventive.
          "Listen to that guy!" Paul spoke through gritted teeth. Ducks that might have worked the marsh kept flying. Each departing flock brought a whispered "Damn..."
          "Why don't you walk over there, Paul, and see how much he wants for that duck call?" His father grinned as he spoke. "Naw, on second thought, knowing the kind of guy he must be, he probably made it himself and wouldn't part with it for any amount of money."
          Paul looked grim. "It looks like my prediction for this afternoon is coming true." The caller sounded off again, and they searched the horizon to find the latest flock he was scaring off.
          "Too bad," His father said. "As much fun as duck hunting can be, it's the easiest thing for some chowderhead like that to screw up for you."
          Paul nodded. "One of the things I like about grouse hunting is that the only person I regularly get mad at is me. Here, 'you puts out your decoys and you hopes the other guy isn't too big of a jerk'."
          "Chowderhead." His father corrected.
          Paul should have smiled, but didn't.
          Minutes later, a pair of blacks swung into the cove from the inland side with the wind at their backs and quickly put down in a brushy inlet across from where they sat. They went unseen by the caller. They crouched lower on their seats, watching until the ducks swam behind some screening brush.
          "You go sneak up on 'em, Paul."
          "No, I think it's your turn. It's fairly shallow, but watch your step." As his father started out, Paul added, "Shoot both of 'em."
          His father was half way across the cove when the pair took flight. The range was perhaps 50 yards, and although Paul saw his father put his shotgun to his shoulder, no shot was fired. After a moment, the man turned and waded back.
          "Too far, Dad?"
          "A long shot like that is in range only if we didn't already have a couple in the bag."
          Paul nodded. He had heard his father say that before.
          They sat together as the last hour of the afternoon waned into evening. The flurry of earlier activity had tapered down to nothing. "Next time," His father began, "We'll set up farther down that way, closer to the flyway along the river there..." He pointed out the place he meant. "See, by that barrel in the water there..."
          Paul smiled. It was beginning—The predictable process of learning from their mistakes and failures. Others were so afraid of failure that they seldom tried anything new, but his father had always hunted successfully because for him, there were no mistakes—only lessons. It was something Paul had learned long ago from his father's example. Something, too, he reflected, that he'd have to start applying again to his life.
          Sunset time passed. Paul was pulling the canoe out of its hiding place beneath the fallen oak when his father called to him, "Hey! Look at this!"
          Like a white apparition, a swan glided silently out of the gathering darkness and passed hugely over their decoys. For a long moment they stared after the bird until it vanished in the twilight. Even as it happened, Paul knew it would become a savored memory. Finally, his father turned to Paul. "I don't believe it... That was really something... You saw it, didn't you?... I don't believe it!" He was ecstatic.
          Conversation was impossible as they paddled back against the wind. Paul mulled over the afternoon he had spent with this enthusiastic man who, at this late stage in his life was revealed as his best friend: the latest new spot was little different than every other hunting spot—When the ducks were in, some days would be better than others, and, like all other places, it carried no guarantee that someone else wouldn't ruin your hunting. Next time, they'd rig out differently... He listened to his own thoughts for a moment and nodded.
          He dug his paddle into the water again. Birthdays? Getting older? Certainly—there was no denying it. But from his perspective in the stern of a canoe, seated behind a man who loved him enough to caution him when things were going sour, he could now see that this was just another day in the middle of his life—One on which he had given up a little youth to gain a little more wisdom. And, more importantly, one on which he had enjoyed his life.
          He thought of the two ducks they had taken, and the two they hadn't. And who was going to believe the story about the tree nearly falling on them? He laughed out loud when he thought of his father's boyish delight at seeing the swan. It was the first time he had heard himself laugh since—when? Last week? Last month? His father glanced back at Paul when he heard him. He grinned and waved his paddle in reply, and laughed again. It was a warm laugh, full of love and good humor. The sound of his laughter was carried away by the wind—carried back across the river and the marsh, back to the cove where a late flock of mallards settled into the lee of a pair of blown-down water oaks.

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