Coddled men...

When I was a boy my grand-dad offered me a penny for every sparrow and starling I shot with my fancy new Daisy B.B. gun. But why, Grand-dad? Well, he explained, sparrows and starlings are aggressive and drive out more desirable songbirds who like to eat harmful insects. They also like to eat grain, which I need to feed the cows and pigs. They nest in the barn loft and soil the hay, thereby ruining more feed. They are feathered rats and mice, dirty pests, and I don't have time to shoot them, but you do. Whadaya say, grandson? Do ya want to help me farm this place or not? Sure, I said. Will you buy the B.B's grand-dad? He chuckled. That's my boy! he said and he ruffled my hair. You drive a hard bargain, but yes, I'll supply the ammo and I'll give you a penny per bird, deal? Yes sir! I said, I'll get right on it.

That was the first summer job I ever had, but it wouldn't be the last. I was 8 years old that year. Over the next 90 days, I shot almost 11 bucks worth of starlings and sparrows. I remember blowing the summer's earnings at the county fair that fall. A boy could buy lots of fun plus a good belly ache for 11 dollars in 1968. By the way, that works out to about 15 dead birds per day, since I wasn't allowed to shoot 'em on Sunday, and sometimes I'd watch cartoons on Saturday morning. But the rest of the time I hunted. I enjoyed it.

I'm almost afraid to tell that story today. Almost, but not quite. Sometimes I'll be telling it, and too late, I'll notice the look of horror on some one's face when they do the math and realize I shot over a 1,000 birds in one summer. I can't abide those looks; especially not if I'm speaking to a man. That look means the man wearing it is not acquainted with the harder realities of life and death. It means that dirt and sweat and blood are likely foreign substances to him, and he takes his food home wrapped in cellophane or served with sprigs of parsley in restaurants. He leads a sheltered, antiseptic life and he is content to let illegal immigrants butcher his meat.

Well, when I see such a face, something fiercely perverse wells up in me. I can't help it. I back him into a corner so he can't escape and I start giving him the gory details. In low measured tones, I enunciate the art of hunting for hire. My goal back then was to kill one bird for every B.B. I fired, I begin. That meant taking head shots, which also meant lots of clean misses. The misses were frustrating, but, oh, how satisfying it was to watch a beak disintegrate on impact, or a tiny eyeball disappear in a fountain of blood! Then I knew the bird was dead before it hit the ground. Grandad would notice too, and compliment me on my marksmanship. He'd also notice the ones that died hard, the ones with bloody wings, torn with multiple shots, and he'd admonish me to shoot more carefully. But you see, sometimes my target didn't present a head shot, and I'd no choice but try a body shot with my underpowered air rifle. Those were rarely clean kills. Oh, they'd fall alright; but then they'd flop around, and I'd have to pursue them under bushes or into tall grass, filling them with B.B.s as they tried to get away. Sometimes, I'd just put the gun down, catch them and stomp on their heads to save B.B's. Or smack them with a 3 foot stick until they died. One way or another, I say, I was going to get my penny. Then I offer my best wolfish grin.

By this time my squeamish victim is sweating and squirming. He tries a half-hearted smile and a nod to appease me. He thinks I'm a psychopath, and I don't care. I think he's a simpering wuss, so we're even. Just look at him leaning against the wall, about to vomit on his tasseled loafers. I think to myself, this is not the kind of man (I'm using the term generously) I want my daughters to marry. He would not defend her if need be. He would not want to get dirty or risk ruining his manicure. He would faint at the sight of blood. There would be nothing of any substance standing between her and a violent world. If he couldn't solve her problem with a phone call, she would be on her own. I walk away, shaking my head. I can't believe some of the pathetic creatures who pass for men these days.