It’s the second Friday of deer season in Alabama. I’m putting the finishing touches on packing my old Blazer. Tossing an extra shirt into a duffel bag, rummaging through drawers for headlamp batteries, and raiding the pantry for anything edible that doesn’t require cooking. I’m heading to a deer camp. My phone is lying on the kitchen table. It’s on speaker, and Roger is walking me through directions to the place in between bites of whatever he’s having for dinner.
“Yeah, man, I’m heading that way right now. You said the place was up around Clanton?”
“Kind of. If you go to that pin I dropped, you’re most of the way there. Google Maps gets squirrely up here for me. Who do you have?”
“AT&T”
“Yeah, you’re not gonna have a lick of signal. Look, get to the pin, then go another 3 miles down the road. There’s a sharp bend with a red gate to the right. It’s just dummy-locked. Go through it and I’m about a 5 minute drive back. You’ll see me. Black truck with a camper shell parked under a tin shed. Up on top of the hill on this clear cut where we can soak up all of that north wind. Road’s wet but it’s got a good bottom. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
“Uh, Google says about ten thirty.”
“Well, you’re on your own for dinner then. But there’ll be beer and a campfire if I can get one going in this rain. You got a heater or anything for your truck?”
“I’ve got 2 sleeping bags. Should be fine. Worst case I’ll crank the truck for a bit.”
“I’d say we could snuggle for warmth, but I don’t want your missus to get jealous.”
My wife glances up from the book she’s reading on the couch, brow furrowed. She shakes her head.
“I mean, if it’s as cold up there on that hill as what you’re saying, she may have to live with it. Just promise not to do anything to my butthole while I sleep?”
There’s a pause while Roger chews his dinner and considers my terms.
“I promise not to do anything to your butthole that you didn’t ask for.”
“Fair enough. See ya in a bit.”
I hang up and continue packing. My wife has put her book down.
“Who is this guy again?” she asks.
“I told you. His name is Roger. His uncle has a lease up the road that they’re losing this year. He’s up there to shoot all the deer before that happens and invited me to come. Should be a good hunt.”
“And you know him, how, exactly?”
“We met on the internet. Deer hunting forum.”
“But you know him, right?”
“I told you. His name is Roger.”
“So, you’ve never met him?”
“Well, I’m trying to!”
She shakes her head. “I guess at least I know roughly where he’s dumping your body. You’ll call when you get there, right?”
I walk over and kiss her on the cheek. “If I’ve got signal. Roger says…”
“Right. “Roger” just said you wouldn’t have a lick of signal.” She closes her eyes and rubs her temple. “Awesome. You and Roger enjoy yourselves.”
We did enjoy ourselves. Roger did get a fire going, and as promised had a beer and a chair waiting on me under the tin shed we called camp that weekend. We shot three deer, and could have shot more if we’d felt like cleaning them in the drizzling rain that persisted the entire time we were there.
Four years later and we both have pictures of each other’s kids on our fridge doors. My wife hugged him the last time he was over at our house.
Most importantly, he’s been true to his word and has never done anything to my butthole that I didn’t ask him to.
🤣😂🤣 Bless your poor wife’s heart. I look forward to Friday mornings and reading your blog or whatever you wanna call it. I must admit with the butthole caption I was most hesitant to open it. Then thunk, WTH, my husband is retired military, there’s not to much that I’ve not heard when he gets around his fellow comrades for an informal dinner at our house. Have a great week.
I enjoy reading your Friday morning blog. Keep on writing and fishing.