Lizard Tales (8 page)

Then another thing crossed my mind—or rather, my path, as he was dragging me all around that little field where we were parked. That ol’ moose suddenly came to an abrupt halt. And I kept going. I must have slid farther than Pete Rose after his gambling conviction. And when I stopped, facedown in a mud puddle, I heard that horrible moan again. Only this time it was right in front of me.

Figuring it was the baby moose again, I scrambled to get back up before he got away. That’s when I came eye-to-eye with Momma Moose. Now, it never occurred to me that this little fellow of only 250 pounds was still a suckling, and that Momma Moose probably wasn’t gonna take too lightly to me rodeoing her little man. I ain’t gonna lie to you here: I was so scared I didn’t know whether to run or go ahead and say my last prayers—’cause the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth, and I was pretty well getting ready to get buried.

Then my adrenaline took over. I jumped up like Carl
Lewis at the Olympics and headed for the truck with this 1,000-pound behemoth dead on my tail. I knew she was doing all that moaning, but all I could hear just then was my mind screaming,
Run! Run! Ruuunn!

I was outta there like a bolt of greased lightning, and I’m not ashamed to admit I was screaming at the top of my lungs for my pops—begging forgiveness (which always beats begging for permission); I knew he’d be mad, but he’d know what to do. I saw the truck just up ahead and took a quick look back. Momma Moose was all over my rear end like a termite at a sawdust plant. I dove like Barry Bonds on a Randy Johnson fastball—right through the open window of that truck!

When I hit the seat, I thought it was my momentum that made that thing rock like a cradle going over Niagara Falls; but when I looked out the window, I noticed Momma Moose had rammed the door and pushed it in a good foot. I was screaming—and she was backing up for another go at the door. I knew right then why my momma always told me to wear clean underwear. And just as that moose started up again, I heard a pistol going off:
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The guide and Pops were screaming and snorting like cracked-out pigs in a rutting contest. The moose must’ve understood every word they were saying, though, ’cause she started backing off until they finally got between the truck and her.

Pops got in the passenger seat while I scrambled to the backseat. The guide climbed in the driver’s door and fired that puppy up. But that moose started right in again at the front of the truck! You’d have thought we were two bulls fighting over a hot cow. The guide slammed that truck in reverse and started slowly backing up. I couldn’t believe it. “What are you doing? Run over that crazy thing!”

He said, “Buddy, you got a better chance of finding a diamond in a billy goat’s butt than going head-to-head with her. This here’s a territorial issue and we have to let her win.”

So after about fifty yards, she stopped, and with the little calf in tow, turned to head back into the woods. Just before they entered, they both looked back at the same time, and I swear they were staring right at me. ’Course, there was no way I was getting back outta that truck.

The guide and Pops were beside themselves laughing when I told them about me and the baby moose. I figured they would be mad that I got the door bashed in on the truck; but the guide said, “Son, anyone who’d do something that dumb has to catch a break every now and then—so we’ll let insurance handle it.”

Needless to say, I still went hunting—and I took two bears with my bow. I didn’t worry about bears again that week. But every time I heard a limb crack, I was on high moose alert. I just knew that Momma Moose was out there waiting for me.

When we got back home it was late at night, and Momma asked me to tell her about our trip. Pops just smiled when I said, “Momma, the only thing I’m gonna tell you is I learned a valuable lesson: Don’t never mess with nuthin’ that ain’t messin’ with you.” And with that, I went on to bed.

[Country]

I
t was my younger brother Jason’s senior week, and we had made our way down to Myrtle Beach to do some celebrating. Now, Jason had always worked harder than a forty-dollar mule, and he was pretty thrifty with his savings; but when it came to common sense, he’d have to study to be a half-wit. Seeing also how, at times, we got along like two shaved rats in a wool sock, we decided to drive separately. Jason had bought himself a yellow ’87 Corvette convertible and he was as proud of that car as a short-legged puppy with two peters. Now, me, having a neck as red as five miles of Georgia asphalt, I went down in my ’69 Ford F-150 with a six-inch lift kit and a three-speed on the column. That old truck was like a moped: she sure was fun to ride, but you didn’t want your friends to catch you on it.

So we got down to the beach along with our friend John and, per tradition, piled in the ’Vette and started cruising the strip. Now, the two-mile drive down the strip takes about an hour and is usually slower than a herd of turtles marching through molasses in January. But the scenery is always worth the wait: the girls down there look good enough to run a bulldog off the back of a meat wagon at lunchtime. Shoot—if I had swings like some of them on my back porch, I’d never leave the house!

Well, of course, we got hung up at an intersection with about twenty other guys itching to piss on a porcupine and call the dogs. They started mouthing off about Jason’s
’Vette, saying he must be a daddy’s boy, and that got him hotter than a goat’s butt in a jalapeño pepper patch. Jason can have enough mouth for about five sets of teeth, so next thing you know he was out of the car and those boys were right on us. See, when it comes to the ability to think things through, I’d have to say that the closest Jason ever got to a 4.0 in school was his blood alcohol content. But when it comes to fighting, he’s about as crazy as an outhouse horsefly.

So though it was thirteen on three, we were holding our own. Heck, I hit one boy so hard I thought he’d starve to death before he quit sliding. But just as I finished with that punch I looked over and saw a fellow bury a knife to the hilt in Jason’s back and he went down like a sack of wet potatoes. John had also been split open with a bowie knife from ring finger to rib and was bleeding like a stuck pig on aspirin. I broke into a full run and jumped on the boy who had stabbed Jason. I was all over him like a one-armed paperhanger with jock itch.

Then the cops came. When it was all said and done, the three of us were in the emergency room. John had thirty-eight staples in his side. Jason had a hole in his back that I swear was so deep we could have tapped into it and found oil. And I had two bones sticking out of my hand which, unfortunately, were mine. So the ER doctor recommended I head back to Raleigh and see a specialist, since duct tape and superglue were not an option. Problem was, I couldn’t drive my truck, since it was a three-speed. So I talked Jason into letting me take the ’Vette and he could follow me in my old beater.

We were tired, beat up, and in severe pain, and none of us was looking forward to the three-hour trek to Raleigh. We started heading out of town with me in the lead and
Jason on my tail in that old truck. I pulled up to a stop sign on the edge of town when suddenly my door swung open and something got in and shut the door. I wasn’t sure at first who or what it was, but it came together rather quickly. It was what we call a barfly around here—a lady of the night—who, during daylight hours, looked like someone had set her face on fire and put it out with an ice pick. Now, I’m not just saying she was ruined, but I’ve seen boogers on the bathroom stall of the men’s urinal with more appeal. She looked at me and smiled, and I could see both her teeth. “Want to have some fun?” she asked. “For twenty-five dollars I could get you grinning like a shark at a fish fest.”

Now, I’m not one to ever turn down fun, but I think I’d rather have a knife fight with Freddy Kruger in a phone booth than to hook up with this lady. So I said, “Miss, I know what this looks like, but I’m just an ol’ farmhand. My boss just bought this car and asked me to drive it back to check it out. I ain’t got no money and even less time.”

She said, “Well, where’s your boss? If he can buy a ’Vette, he’s surely got some extra money to have a good time.”

Now, being the thoughtful, considerate, caring person I am, and figuring that she was rough enough to gag a maggot on a gut wagon, I said, “Ma’am he’s actually right behind us in my truck, that ol’ beater. What you need to do is just walk back there, get in on the passenger side, lock the door, and go to having that good time.”

She got out of the ’Vette and slithered back to the old truck, with Jason looking up at me as confused as a turtle on the center stripe. All I could do was break down laughing. I saw the old girl crank in and lock the door, and then she was gone. Next thing I knew Jason was jumping around in that truck like a kangaroo on crack. He burst out
the driver’s door of that truck and started yelling, “Ronnie! What did you tell this girl? What did you tell her?” I could hear him screaming, “Ma’am I don’t need no help—and I’ve had about enough fun for one week!”

I put that ’Vette in drive and, in the rearview mirror, I could see Jason running away from that girl faster than Superman after ten cups of coffee. For just a brief minute all my pain was gone. I chuckled as I headed up the interstate, thinking,
You always catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar … if you want to catch flies, that is!

[Poor]

[Naïve]