The Major

It was mid-July. "Summertime, and the livin' is easy," so goes the old Gershwin tune. During July in Philadelphia, whenever one is away from the air-conditioning, the livin' can be hot, sweaty and generally uncomfortable. In spite of living in an air-conditioned apartment, Major Na-thaniel Peabody (USA, ret.) is apt to be a bit depressed during the summer heat-unless, of course, there is a hunting expedition in the offing. In July the Northern Hemisphere hunting seasons are mostly closed. The Southern Hemisphere is the place for a hunter.

The prospects of a trip to some southern latitude where dogs and shotguns are not viewed with alarm could have lifted the Major's spirits and changed his attitude from mel-ancholy to smiling, charming affability. However, Peabody already had used his July Spendthrift Trust installment to replace his well-used hunting clothes with new Gore-Tex boots, brush pants, a hunting jacket and all the other paraphernalia that had struck his fancy. As a result of those expenditures, the Major's cash position had been reduced to a point approaching nonexistent. When he complained about his situation, I had to again remind him of the provision in the Peabody Spendthrift Trust that banned any kind of advance. There would be no hunting expedition to break the muggy monotony of this July. Peabody couldn't afford a trip to Wilmington, let alone to the kind of back-of-the-moon locations he and his shotgun seemed to prefer. Because he had no way to escape Philadelphia until the arrival of his August stipend, I suspected Peabody would be in a seriously depressed state. I also suspected a dinner followed by cigars and brandy would lift his spirits. I phoned to extend an invitation to him. My suspicion of his frame of mind was immediately and fully confirmed. The Major usually answers the phone with the words: "This is Peabody." This time he simply grumbled: "What do you want?" "This is your friendly attorney," I responded. "Well?" he questioned, rather gruffly. After I explained the purpose of my call, the Major's tone changed only slightly. "That's very kind of you, young man," he answered and, without pause, told me: "I know just the place. It's called the Gemutlickheit-in German that translates roughly as 'good time.'" He repeated the words "good time" and gave a scornful snort that emphasized his unhappy attitude. The silent and subdued trip between the Major's apartment and the restaurant was something akin to following a hearse on its trip to a cemetery. Once seated in the Gemutlickheit, the Major ordered for us both-ox joint and beer. As soon as it was served, he attacked it with obvious relish, informing me that it was of superlative quality. I found the information to be of questionable accuracy. My stomach rebelled against the heavier Teutonic fare. Peabody called me "dainty" when he saw how carefully I separated the meat from its surrounding layers of fat and ox skin. "Eat the whole thing," he said. "It's not only delicious; it's good for you." Peabody's suggestion did nothing to change my opinion of either the food's taste or its health value. It wasn't only the ox joint. The associated vegetables were equally unattractive to me. Cabbage gives me gas, and the dumplings reminded me of solid tennis balls. I knew my stomach would disapprove and show its displeasure. Nevertheless, I did the best I could to follow Peabody's suggestion. I knew I would pay a heavy price, but I ate the whole thing. During dinner, Peabody's mood became increasingly cheerful, and he began to smile. His conversation showed signs of animation. He was returning to his old self. In spite of my growing and acute discomfort, I was pleased-nearly to the point of smug satisfaction. I cleverly had manipulated the Major out of his mild depression. I choked down everything and managed (barely) to keep it in. I even found myself unable to refuse Peabody's suggestion that we celebrate the German meal with an after-dinner drink of schnapps. Although the shock of the liquid (thankfully) removed some of my memory, I seem to recall Peabody laughing when he saw my repeated gurgling and tearful reaction. As the evening progressed, my discomfort progressed. The cabbage produced the effect it has on me. My unhappy stomach rumbled its displeasure over the contents I had provided. Then my intestines took over, and I did so want to get back to my apartment for the Pepto-Bismol, Maalox, Rolaids, Gas-X and other remedies that crowd my medicine cabinet. As the minutes slipped by, my discomfort turned into agony. Peabody, however, had fully recovered his jovial good humor. He blew smoke rings and happily chattered away. He ordered more schnapps. To add to my discomfort, Peabody recounted stories about ferocious bears, stopping only when I reminded him of how much I feared them. Then he talked about how otherwise nice dogs suddenly and viciously would attack people who they sensed were afraid of them. I thought of the many times I had to pass snarling and barking hunting dogs when delivering Peabody's checks in various woodland locations. Those thoughts added to my distress. The Major was enjoying himself, but I sat at the table, silent and increasingly tortured by a combination of ox joint, cabbage, tennis balls and thoughts of fearsome animals. It was only with great difficulty that on more than one occasion I got him to change the subject. You have no idea of the magnitude of my relief when the Major got the waiter's attention, pointed at me and called for the check. On the drive back to his apartment, my head ached, my stomach ached and I couldn't seem to forget Peabody's descriptions of snarling bears, vicious wolverines and fanged dogs. I was dejected, dispirited and despondent. Peabody, however, was quite cheerful. When I parked in front of Peabody's apartment, my primary interest was to get to my medicine cabinet ASAP. The Major didn't immediately leave my car. He took a few minutes to inform me that I would do well to acknowledge the existence of the hunter gods. "They protect hunters," he explained. Then he looked at me in a fashion that only can be described as accusatory. "Attorneys are quite apt to cause trouble for hunters," he said. ""They prosecute them for trespass, sue them just because they don't pay their bills, cause them to be fined for forgetting to buy licenses and create all sorts of mischief. "Can you believe it? Some of them have dedicated themselves to drafting Spendthrift Trusts with the most offensive of terms. They are the ones who are responsible for making honest men sweat in Philadelphia in July rather than allowing them to enjoy duck or dove hunts in the more pleasant Southern Hemisphere climate of Argentina. "Sometimes the hunter gods visit retribution on such men in the form of headaches and gastric distress. Whenever I witness that retribution taking place, I remember there is justice in the universe and my spirits are revived." Galen Winter's favorite Major stories have been collected and anthologized in The Best of the Major, available for $25 (plus shipping) at www.shootingsportsman.com; 800-685-7962.