trying to figure out why she’s doing that—you hear that?” He guns the engine.
Henry can’t hear a thing. Nodding sagely, he says, “I bet it’s perfect for the terrain around here.”
“Oh yeah. Best thing in the world for hunting.”
“Hunting, really?”
“Hell, yes. Best big-game hunting you ever saw on this island. Do you hunt?”
Henry feels compelled to exaggerate: He once had a BB gun and plinked bottles and lizards. Other than that, the only shooting he’s ever done was in the Marines—at things that shot back. “A little bit when I was a kid.”
“Well, the way we do it is you flush a pig into the open, give chase, and stick ’em with a javelin on the fly—why do you think the Mexicans call ’em javelinas? Greatest fuckin’ sport in the world.”
“Are you serious?”
“ Hell , yes. We don’t fuck around. The traditional way to do it is from horseback—these wild hogs can tear you up good if you’re down on their level, and a javelin doesn’t drop ’em like a gun. But this is almost as good as a horse. It’s hog heaven up there, dude. I almost never buy meat. Just last weekend me and him run down a big ol’ papa boar back up in the arroyo seco —had tusks this big, I swear.”
“No kidding. Wow.”
“Yeah—even gutted and skinned, the carcass weighed out at two hundred eighty-eight pounds. We had us a hell of a barbeque, didn’t we?” The other, larger man doesn’t smile. His sunburnt forearm is crudely tattooed with a buffalo head.
Henry asks, “Do you need a permit for that?”
“For hunting? Not if they don’t catch you.” He nudges Henry in the ribs. “Nah. Where you from, brother?”
“Uh, well, I live in the Midwest now, but I grew up in L.A. I actually lived here on the island for a little while when I was a kid. This is my first time back.”
“No shit. So that kind of makes you an islander, huh?”
“Sort of, I guess. I’m actually here to look up my mother. That reminds me—” he digs for the address “—maybe you guys can help me out. Do you know where this is? Shady Isle?”
They scrutinize the letter. “Well sure. All you gotta do is keep right on following this road here past the Casino. About a third of a mile down you’re gonna see a steep driveway on your left—just follow that right on up to the top. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks guys. Well, I guess we better head off before it gets dark. Nice machine.”
As he turns away, the man says, “You ever ride one?”
Henry hesitates. “What, one of these? Not really.”
“Come on, did you or didn’t you?”
“Just once, years ago, at Pismo Beach. But it was a three-wheeler.”
“Well hey,” the driver says, climbing off, “give ’er a spin.”
Henry tries to make light: “Oh, yeah. That’d be good.”
“Why not? Go ahead.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could. Why the hell not?”
“I’d probably wreck it or something.”
“Wreck it? You’re not gonna wreck it—a ten-year-old could handle this. Trust me, this mother’s been through a lot worse than anything you might do. Nothing you can do to wreck it. Come on.”
“Thanks anyway—I better not.”
“Come on, man, try it out. Just once around the square. What’s the big deal?”
Henry wavers before the force of the man’s insistence—there is something challenging about it, almost hostile: Let’s embarrass the stupid tourist . To them he must appear so useless and soft, but there was a time not so long ago when Henry would have jumped at the chance to show off. Before the car accident. Before his daughter was born. But now he pictures himself putt-putting around like an overcautious idiot, or the opposite: turning a little too fast and flipping the thing over, ending this trip with a broken back, paralyzed for life.
“No, thanks—the wife would kill me. Besides, we really have to go. Thanks anyway, though.” He waves and gets away.
“What was that all about?” Ruby asks.
“Just shooting
Henry can’t hear a thing. Nodding sagely, he says, “I bet it’s perfect for the terrain around here.”
“Oh yeah. Best thing in the world for hunting.”
“Hunting, really?”
“Hell, yes. Best big-game hunting you ever saw on this island. Do you hunt?”
Henry feels compelled to exaggerate: He once had a BB gun and plinked bottles and lizards. Other than that, the only shooting he’s ever done was in the Marines—at things that shot back. “A little bit when I was a kid.”
“Well, the way we do it is you flush a pig into the open, give chase, and stick ’em with a javelin on the fly—why do you think the Mexicans call ’em javelinas? Greatest fuckin’ sport in the world.”
“Are you serious?”
“ Hell , yes. We don’t fuck around. The traditional way to do it is from horseback—these wild hogs can tear you up good if you’re down on their level, and a javelin doesn’t drop ’em like a gun. But this is almost as good as a horse. It’s hog heaven up there, dude. I almost never buy meat. Just last weekend me and him run down a big ol’ papa boar back up in the arroyo seco —had tusks this big, I swear.”
“No kidding. Wow.”
“Yeah—even gutted and skinned, the carcass weighed out at two hundred eighty-eight pounds. We had us a hell of a barbeque, didn’t we?” The other, larger man doesn’t smile. His sunburnt forearm is crudely tattooed with a buffalo head.
Henry asks, “Do you need a permit for that?”
“For hunting? Not if they don’t catch you.” He nudges Henry in the ribs. “Nah. Where you from, brother?”
“Uh, well, I live in the Midwest now, but I grew up in L.A. I actually lived here on the island for a little while when I was a kid. This is my first time back.”
“No shit. So that kind of makes you an islander, huh?”
“Sort of, I guess. I’m actually here to look up my mother. That reminds me—” he digs for the address “—maybe you guys can help me out. Do you know where this is? Shady Isle?”
They scrutinize the letter. “Well sure. All you gotta do is keep right on following this road here past the Casino. About a third of a mile down you’re gonna see a steep driveway on your left—just follow that right on up to the top. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks guys. Well, I guess we better head off before it gets dark. Nice machine.”
As he turns away, the man says, “You ever ride one?”
Henry hesitates. “What, one of these? Not really.”
“Come on, did you or didn’t you?”
“Just once, years ago, at Pismo Beach. But it was a three-wheeler.”
“Well hey,” the driver says, climbing off, “give ’er a spin.”
Henry tries to make light: “Oh, yeah. That’d be good.”
“Why not? Go ahead.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could. Why the hell not?”
“I’d probably wreck it or something.”
“Wreck it? You’re not gonna wreck it—a ten-year-old could handle this. Trust me, this mother’s been through a lot worse than anything you might do. Nothing you can do to wreck it. Come on.”
“Thanks anyway—I better not.”
“Come on, man, try it out. Just once around the square. What’s the big deal?”
Henry wavers before the force of the man’s insistence—there is something challenging about it, almost hostile: Let’s embarrass the stupid tourist . To them he must appear so useless and soft, but there was a time not so long ago when Henry would have jumped at the chance to show off. Before the car accident. Before his daughter was born. But now he pictures himself putt-putting around like an overcautious idiot, or the opposite: turning a little too fast and flipping the thing over, ending this trip with a broken back, paralyzed for life.
“No, thanks—the wife would kill me. Besides, we really have to go. Thanks anyway, though.” He waves and gets away.
“What was that all about?” Ruby asks.
“Just shooting
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