Читать книгу The Journals of Major Peabody: A Portfolio of Deceptions, Improbable Stories and Commentaries about Upland Game Birds, Waterfowl, Dogs and Popular Delusions - Galen Winter - Страница 7

Disappointment

I am convinced the senior partners of the Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen law firm decided to test my metal when they assigned me the task of managing the Peabody Spendthrift Trust. The trust instrument specifically requires remittances to be delivered on the first day of the month. That means I, personally, must deliver his check.

At the end of the month, Major Peabody is often “in the field”. That means I often have to spend month-end evenings in backwoods cabins or tents, waiting for the stroke of midnight when I can hand Peabody his remittance and, as quickly as possible, return to civilization.

The first time I ever fired a gun was after the Major conned me into accompanying him on a Cuban duck hunt. Of course, I couldn’t hit anything and when I returned, I had trouble with the Canadian Customs people. They accused me of smuggling because someone stuffed Cuban cigars down the barrels of my then new, but now confiscated Arrieta shotgun.

All my recollections of that trip are bathed in discomfort and distress. I remember the annoyance of not being able to appreciate the abusive camaraderie of the Major’s hunting companions. I remember the irritation of being forced to eat black bean soup. I remember being terrified by the unprofessional looking system of bare and actively sparking electric wires running to the shower head and carrying current for the purpose of heating the shower water.

I remember the evenings listening to Major Peabody and his friends as they talked about the various calamities they experienced during hunting expeditions. I most vividly remember the stories about encounters with ferocious animals and the deadly poisonous Cuban spiders and snakes and scorpions found in the immediate area of the rice field where we hunted. No one complained about those dangers. In fact, they all seemed cheerful about their misfortunes and perils - particularly if I seemed frightened by them.

I don’t believe I’ll ever understand hunters, but, then, I was born and raised in a Philadelphia suburb where golf and duplicate bridge were infinitely more respectable than shooting at things with shotguns.

* * * * *

I was in the Philadelphia airport, waiting to pick up Major Peabody and drive him to his apartment. The flight from St. Louis was on time. As Peabody came through the tunnel and into the waiting area, he cordially greeted me. We walked toward the luggage carousel and his conversation was light and infectiously jovial. Clearly, he was in a good mood.

“You must have had a good hunt,” I observed. “How many turkeys did you kill?”

“Not one. I didn’t even fire the gun.” He smiled, apparently enjoying some private recollection. “I ran out of cigars and single malt,” he said, still smiling, and showed only modest displeasure when reporting: “My host provided only blended Scotch.”

Knowing Peabody’s affection for imported cigars and aged single malt Scotch, the Missouri turkey hunt must have been a disaster. I wondered why he was in such good spirits. Then it came to me. “The Poker Gods smiled on you?” I asked. Peabody gave me a stern look supported by a pained expression. He answered my question with the statement: “I believe that’s my luggage coming down the chute.” I felt it prudent not to pursue the subject.

As we drove to his apartment, the Major avoided comment about the Missouri hunt. Still, his demeanor was that of a happy and satisfied man. Curiosity was killing me. After parking the car and bringing his baggage into his quarters, I could stand it no longer. “I’m sorry the turkey hunt was a disappointment.” I expected the Major would describe the hunt and the disappointment and, thus, satisfy my curiosity.

Peabody was sitting in his wing backed chair next to the fireplace. “Disappointment? Disappointment?” he said, as if the thought never occurred to him. “I was in no way disappointed.” He reached for the humidor containing his H. Upmann cigars. “I believe you’ll find some of the Macallan under the sink,” he said, casually. I took the hint and soon returned from the kitchen with a brace of Scotch and waters.

“Disappointment,” he began, “is a product of improper expectation. ‘Hope springs eternal from within the human breast’ and when it is not fulfilled, hope ends in disappointment. A realist limits his expectations. Therefore, he limits his potential for disappointment. Hunters sometimes miss.” He looked at the tip of his cigar, indicated satisfaction with the way it was burning and amended his statement.

“No. That’s not right. Hunters often miss. They very often miss. Down deep, they don’t really expect to hit what they shoot at. They are, thus, not disappointed when they miss, but they are elated when they happen to hit whatever they’re shooting at.

“Duck hunters have learned to expect the worst. Even though the TV weathercaster has confidently promised a Saskatchewan Screamer bringing cold Canadian air, blustery winds and, probably, driving huge flight of late Bluebill before it, duck hunters go forth in pre-dawn November mornings expecting a day of calm, warm, bluebird weather.

“Turkey hunters, on the other hand, are always ready to experience the cold and the rain that keep them inside the cabin and the turkeys hunkered down, unmoving in the thickest of cover.” (Now I know what happened in Missouri.) “Only the most naïve hunter expects a weatherman to tell the truth.

“Hunters know the elements and the fates conspire against him. The smarter ones avoid the disappointments by expecting their forays to end in disaster or, at best, discomfort. Thus insulated, misfortune brings no disappointment and their occasional successes bring them great satisfaction. That is the reason for the truism; ‘All hunting trips are good. Some are better than others’.

“This does not mean the hunting fraternity sails through life without problems. I have been visited by bitter disappointment more than once. I embarked upon the sea of matrimony, expecting a calm and serene voyage. Soon buffeted by blackened skies, gale force winds and steep, angry swells, I suffered violent mal de mer.

“You may not believe this, but in my youth I harbored the insane expectation that the printed word was accurate. The particular text I have in mind appears on page 163 of the 1966 edition of The New Hunter’s Encyclopedia. I still remember it: ‘Experts claim that a skunk can be captured without danger of ejection if the tail is grasped and held down, possibly on the theory that the animal will not foul its own tail.’ I vividly recall my extreme disappointment when I tested the theory.

“To avoid the destroyed hope which, surely, will result if you believe newspapers or any written publication, I suggest you begin by refusing to read the Congressional Record. Personally, I’m never surprised by those in political office. I expect so little of them there is no outrage they can commit that might cause me to be disappointed in them.

“But you, Counselor, live in a lawyer’s world. You are constantly involved in planning to bamboozle judges, mislead juries, outwit tax collectors, and starve widows and orphans through manipulation of Spendthrift Trust provisions. What great expectations all of you must have. But, in every case, one lawyer wins and one lawyer loses. That means half the lawyers must be terribly disappointed when justice triumphs.”

Peabody set his empty glass on the stand beside his chair and prepared to rise. “As I said, disappointment is the product of improper expectation. For example, during last night’s unfortunate experience at the poker table, I was sustained by the knowledge that you fully expected to invite me to dinner. It is an entirely proper expectation and I won’t disappoint you.”

We went to Major Peabody’s favorite restaurant.