SKUNKED

Victor spring trap

     I don’t mind sitting alone in a booth at Hyde’s Diner, drinking a cup of hot coffee and keeping my hands warm. I come here often. My name is George, but the waitstaff calls me “R. G,” and that means retired guy. They probably know my social security number too.
     The food here is good and the people who work and eat here are sociable and friendly—what you might expect in a small place like Cortland. If you visit Hyde's Diner, ask for Jess. She's the best. She and her sister wait on customers; mother does the cooking. I know most of the people who eat here. When someone recognizes me and waves, I just smile and nod my head. I’m a quiet man usually, unless provoked.
     I’m waiting for Sam at the moment. I spoke to him by cell phone a few minutes ago and he said he was going to be late. Traffic snarl, he said. Traffic snarl in Cortland? I asked. Damn right, and I’ll tell you about it when I get there, he said. I can’t wait to hear about the big city traffic snarl in Cortland. I'd be surprised if anything about it was true. 
     Sam has a reputation for story-telling and he has a way with words. He confounds and stretches them beyond dictionary meaning. None of his friends call him a liar to his face. They tolerate him as I do because he's a good-natured old fart. Sam and I meet here at Hyde’s Diner every Saturday at 9 A. M. for a small breakfast and a big B. S. session. We’re two retired old farts. Speaking of old farts, here comes one of them now.

     “Skunks, George, skunks.”

     Walking through the front door, Sam got plenty of attention with that opening line. He smiled at curious diners and approached my booth.
     “I don’t think skunk is on the menu,” I replied.
     “Not on the menu, on the road,” he corrected, as he sat down. “Caused a two-car accident by the Water Works and a huge traffic snarl light to light.”
     “How the hell did that happen?”
     “Like I said--skunks. Mama skunk and six baby skunks walking on Broadway like they owned it. One car got rear-ended by another car when a driver put on the brakes to avoid hitting the skunks. Traffic stopped in both directions. Couldn’t go around or back up. Two police cars came.”
     “Is this another story?”
     “No, it really happened.” He gave me a look of consternation.
     “I suppose you got a pre-breakfast whiff of those skunks?” I said.
     “No, my windows were rolled down and there wasn’t any stink. Most of the drivers stayed in their cars and trucks, I noticed. Two cops were talking to the drivers who had been in the accident. Nobody bothered the skunks.”
     “So how did the traffic get unsnarled?” I asked.
     “When the skunks went back across the road into the grounds of the Water Works, that’s how. Black coffee, sausage and eggs-over-easy with sourdough toast—no butter,” he added while the waitress stood by our table with pen and pad.
     “I’ll have the same,” I said.
     Sam and I both wear blue baseball caps. His cap is highly decorated. He has a few collector decorations pinned to his coveralls too. I don’t mess with decorations or slogan pins. That’s the clearest difference between us. He likes to draw attention to himself. I prefer incognito.
     “You have a new decoration pinned to your baseball cap. VFW. Veterans of Foreign Wars, I suppose.”
     “That’s what it means to most folks. But it means Very Few Wrinkles to me. Take a closer look. Do you see any wrinkles on my face?”
     “No,” I lied.
     We ate our breakfast with few words exchanged between us. Eating can be a serious business, especially when dentures come loose. We got coffee refills. Then Sam brought up the subject of skunks again.
     “You know, those skunks I saw by the Water Works remind me of a God-awful experience I can’t ever forget.”
     “I’m all ears,” I said. I always say that to him. It must get under his skin but he don't show it.
     “My partner and I had a trap line about three miles long," he continued. "Our line of traps, about fifteen, started in the woods and ended at a pond. We were after raccoons and muskrats. We used sardines and apples for bait.”
     “How long ago was this?” I asked.
     “It was back in the fifties. My partner's name was Cliff. We were thirteen years old when we started that trap line and we were still in school. We used to get up early and check our trap line before school. We walked and ran and returned home in less than half an hour. Most often, the traps were empty. We were amateurs.”
     “I remember the fifties and early television shows with Fess Parker playing Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett.”
     “That’s right. Parker wore buckskin clothes and a raccoon fur hat. The hat had a raccoon tail. Most of the kids and some parents too wanted a hat like that. Jackie Gleason wore a hat like that on his TV show. They were very popular. They were available in most clothing stores. The widespread demand made the price of raccoon fur go up. Prices went through the barn roof. And that’s what got us started trapping raccoons.”
     “How many did you catch?”
     “Oh, about five or six. I can’t remember exactly. Some muskrats too. But we didn’t know how to skin these animals. We did a horrible job on the first two. We used razors and cut holes through the pelts. Even so, the raccoon tails were still valuable.”
     “How much did you get for them? Where did you sell them?”
     “We sold them to a furrier who was a wholesaler. We got from one dollar to two dollars for the raccoons skins. We spent the money on new traps and candy.”
     “Would you call yourselves young capitalists?”
     “No, capitalists don’t eat candy.”
     “That’s surely a bit of country conjecture that I will wisely pass on. What about your God-awful experience?”
     “Well, we caught a damn skunk in one of our traps. At first we didn’t know what to do. The skunk was looking at us and we looked at the skunk. It was an awfully big skunk and it struggled to get out of the trap. It had beady black eyes and a big bushy tail. It was dark, very dark black with white stripes spreading down its back. We had a pellet gun. We intended to shoot the skunk and kill it with that pellet gun. We loaded one pellet at a time and cranked that thing for maximum air pressure.”
     “Allow me to interrupt and ask a stupid question, Sam. What is dark black? Isn’t black, black?”
     “I would define dark black as a shade blacker than black. The definition is peculiar to skunks. Hey, it don't apply to cats and dogs.”
     “I think I understand now. It’s blacker than black.” Sam ignored the sarcasm.
     “We shot our pellets at the skunk from a safe distance. But that damn skunk wouldn’t die. It jumped and pulled on the trap-chain, which was fastened to a stake and anchored in the ground. The skunk didn’t spray us right away, but we did get sprayed, and that’s a God-awful stink up close. We realized quickly that we couldn’t kill the skunk from a distance, so we got closer to it. Cliff and I loaded and shot again with the same result. It was still alive and fighting mad. After getting within fifteen feet of it, Cliff loaded and fired what we believed would be a fatal shot. The skunk jumped off the ground, lifting trap and chain, spun so its tail was facing us, and shot back. We got skunked. I swear it looked like a dark green mist as the spray hit us. It was so strong that it hurt our eyes. George, the stink was God-awful. We each wiped our eyes and peered at the skunk, which was standing on the ground glaring at us. Why, that skunk didn’t look like it was wounded at all—plenty of fight left and no sign of blood. Cliff and I were surprised, disappointed and desperate. We wanted that skunk out of our trap, dead or alive. We tried to free the skunk with a long stick pushed against the stake that held the trap-chain.  It didn’t free up but we must have loosened it. The skunk gave a yank and suddenly up comes the stake. The skunk walked away, dragging a 1 ½ Victor jump trap and chain. Did I say Victor? Let me explain. That was the name of the trap company. But Cliff and I reckoned the real Victor was the skunk and it was walking away with our trap and what little was left of our pride. It took two weeks, several baths and changes of clothing before that God-awful stink on us disappeared.”  

     "Is this another story?"

     "No, it actually happened. I may exaggerate a little but I never lie. You know, as I recall, my partner and I never went to school when we got home that day. We stayed home--confined to the house, even after clean up. Too stinky, I suppose, to be around decent folks especially teachers and serious students. The next day was a Saturday, no school. Cliff and I decided to test that pellet gun on paper and cardboard targets. We fired several pellets. The pellets penetrated paper but not cardboard. We decided there was an air leak in the pellet gun. No matter how many times we cranked and pumped to build air pressure, a seal was leaking air. It was Cliff''s air gun. He was thoroughly disgusted. So was I. Too bad we didn't test it before we used it on the skunk. Coffee's cold." 
     "No offense, Sam, but that story stunk."

Stinky.