Snipe Hunt

Snipe Hunt

Heads up, Teddy. Here comes your kid."

I don't even waste time looking up. While I've already had a few to drink, my reflexes are still good. My fingers automatically flick the cigarette into the campfire, where it turns brown and starts to shrivel. I promised Philly that I'd stop smoking, and I don't want to be caught in the act. Mark keeps puffing away. "The kid looks kind of excited. Think they found one?" He winks.

I utter a laugh. I had never fallen for the snipe hunt ruse when I was a child. Even then, I knew such an exercise was only an excuse for fathers to get their Cub Scout sons out of their hair so they can engage in adult stuff, like smoking, drinking, and talking about women who aren't their wives. This is the third night of our outing, and I'd been looking forward to sending the young uns out into the wilderness. Three days without nicotine . . .

that first cigarette tasted so

good. It nearly got me high. After having cast the fourth into the fire, though, I am much more relaxed.

"Hey Dad!" Philly says.

I finish off my Schlitz and pop open another.

P hilly?"

"We found one, Dad! A real, live snipe!"

"What's up,

I exchange a glance with my fellow fathers. All of them wear a yeah-right grin, and it takes me a moment to realize that I have one, too. "Are you sure?" I ask.

"It looks just like you said, only it's bigger! We'd'a brought it back, but we couldn't even drag it!"

The amused faces around the fire melt away, replaced by worry. It's as if we are thinking with the same mind. We are now certain that our sons have captured something, maybe a dangerous something. What is the scariest animal out here? There are no bears, but maybe they caught a baby coyote. What if the mother wants her offspring back? Images of the other boys being mauled by a pack of vicious animals start to form in my—

"What's it look like?" Don asks.

"Just like you guys said. It's kind ofa big bird with a beak as big as my arm. It has rainbow colored feathers and long, spindly legs with claws like hands."

That is exactly how we described it to the kids about an hour ago. It's perfect, almost as if they're trying to prank us. When I was a kid, I did the same thing to my old man. Practically gave him a heart attack. We just picked the smallest of us, put him in the sack, and lured our parents into the trap. Is this what Philly has in mind? Like father, like son? The sad thing is, I don't know him enough to make such a judgment. I never married his mom. I keep up the child support, and I see him once a month, but I don't really know him. His favorite movie is The Sandlot, he likes to read old science fiction books, and he's a passingly fair softball player, but we never talk. It's not like I don't try, but he's quiet around me. With his friends, he's boisterous and full of laughter, but with me, he always seems distracted. I don't think he likes me very much.

"What do you think, Teddy?" Don asks. "Should we see their snipe?" The way he says 'snipe" is so patronizing that not even a baby would miss it. Even Philly catches it. "We do have a snipe! See for yourselves!"

I shrug. "Okay, P hilly. Take us there."

We grab our flashlights and beer, and we follow my son into the woods. As we walk, I take a hefty gulp from my beer, and I try to ignore the dirty look Philly gives me. He's in some kind of substance abuse class in school—just say no. After having learned the ills of vice, he has gone out into the world to convert us sinners. Last month, he demanded that I quit smoking and drinking. I told him I'd only do one at a time because adults need some bad habits in order to have fun. I told him I'd stop smoking.

The truth: I can do without cigarettes. They're kind of nasty. My fingers are yellow, and my clothes stink.

I can't even indulge this habit in public, so really, I don't like smoking all that much anymore. It makes me feel good, especially after a hard day. Besides, I'm addicted. It would be nice to quit, but it's damned near impossible.

Drinking, on the other hand, isn't so bad. It helps me unwind, and it's not like I drink the hard stuff—maybe a couple of beers after work, or three on the weekend with some friends. I'm not an alcoholic. It just helps me maintain a social life. Philly can have smoking, but drinking? I'll keep that one.

"So, P hilly," says Mark, "how'd you boys catch the snipe?" Brent saw it first," Philly says. "It was pecking at a dead squirrel's guts. When it saw us, it froze. Steve came up with the plan for some of us to flank it and scare it toward the others, who were holding the sack. "

"Did you hurt it?" Mark asks.

"No, sir. But it doesn't like being in the sack. It's real mad." Again, the fathers look at each other. "Will the sack hold it?" I ask.

"Sure! The beak and claws aren't too sharp."

Ahead, through the fireflies, I see a group of boys holding flashlights, and I get a look at the sack.

Steve's the biggest of the kids at five-seven and a hundred and forty pounds, so it's no surprise to see his meaty hands holding the sack shut. Whatever's inside is big and it's writhing like a pit of snakes. A high-pitched squawk comes from the sack, but it's brief and clipped.

I look around the group of boys and start to count faces. It takes a minute to match them all up to their fathers in my mind before I realize that everyone is accounted for. Unless they found another kid, a co-conspirator, this is not a trick. They really found something out there and captured it. The other fathers have deduced this, too, and once again we glance at each other.

"What should we do?" Mark asks.

I make the decision. "Stand back, everyone. Steve, you, too. But it'll get out if I let go.

"Okay. Let go when I say." I kneel down to grab the bottom of the sack, and my cigarettes and lighter fall from my shirt pocket. I hurry to rescue them from the dirt, but it's too late. Philly has seen them, and his mouth is as thin as a paper cut. I haven't had any," I tell him. "I just have them, well, you know. Just in case.

I can vouch for him," Don says.

Philly says nothing. His face says it all. Why does this upset me so much? I can smoke if I want to. Philly's just a kid. He can't make me do anything. I jam the pack into my pants pocket. When I look at my hands, I see they're trembling. "Give me the sack," I say. Steve hands over the bunched opening, and I grab the bottom. I try to turn the sack upside down, but it is heavier than I thought it would be. "What the fuck is in this thing?" I say this before I remember I'm surrounded by kids. None of the fathers seem to care about my loose lips, though; all eyes are on the sack. "Open it up, Teddy," Mark says.

To hell with it. I pull the sack over to its side, and the thing within topples over with a squawk. It struggles harder, and I can feel it pushing at the opening with something long and hard, like a blade.

The boys back away a little, and so do their fathers. Only Philly stands with me.

It's okay, Dad," he says. "You can let go."

I let out my breath, and my fingers drop the opening of the sack. I tense up, waiting to see what will crawl out.