For a Handful of Feathers by Jim Harrison

Author:Jim Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 1995-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

II

My neighbor, Marine Sergeant Retired B. J. Pruit, owns seven acres of land adjoining mine, on which he lives in a single-wide trailer raised on cement blocks. B.J. is in his late fifties, short, and, except for a big mouth and a perfectly round stomach, bone thin. He builds and repairs rifles and demands that the utility people, the mail lady, and the UPS delivery boys call him Sergeant.

B.J. is a martinet and a bore who will tell you that during his tenure in the corps he made life hell for his subordinates. “Rubbed some grit into the bastards, made ’em into men.” I don’t believe the man has the sense to pour piss out of a boot, but he does have opinions, particularly about guns and politics. His companion, Pigskin, is a mixed-breed bulldog-Rottweiler; Pruit is most proud of him for learning to attack trees on command. Pigskin takes his job seriously, and the trees surrounding B.J.’s trailer are wanting for bark.

I went bird hunting once with B.J. and his buddy Johnny (Bubba) West on a piece of land that they leased for deer hunting but on which they swore to me there were quail. I was new in the county, accommodating because B.J. was my neighbor, and interested because I had heard he was an oddball. I should have known better, but didn’t, so I got stuck riding around in Bubba’s Jeep Renegade for two hours, drinking beer, dodging chew tobacco spit, and listening to the kind of trash that fuels civil uprisings.

I sat in the back seat next to Duke, a big white pointer with warts on his head. Duke was a nice old dog with some hound blood hidden in his ancestry. Every so often he would stand up and bay for no apparent reason. I could tell that Bubba liked the old dog because every time it stood up, he would reach a thick arm behind the seat and absentmindedly play with Duke’s nuts, which dangled inches from my face.

B.J. spent the morning making endearing comments that ranged from a simpering “Well, no one left any buffaloes for me,” to a rebellious “I want to be remembered as the man who kills the last grizzly.” When I mentioned coyotes, Bubba roared, “Sums of bitches eat all my deer, bucks and butt-aids alike, don’t make no difference.” Butt-heads is a colloquial, low-rent nickname for does. I don’t see B.J. much anymore except late in the season, when he’s desperate enough to try and talk Bill out of a doe permit. I do hear him sighting in his rifles, though.

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