James McKew

From the kitchen, Honeybee suggested, “How ‘bout those photos you’re so crazy about?”

“Our vacation shots of Mexico?” I answered back. “That nude beach we found in Cozumel?”

“No,” she looked around the corner, oddly. “The ones of bears driving golf carts.”

I looked back at her, feeling confused myself. “Bears in golf carts?”

“Clean your ears out, Jim. I said bears on game cameras!”

Oh yes. That’s perfect. What could be better than the year’s best game camera photos plastered big as a billboard with the entire hunting community there to see them? “I know just who to call,” I said, heading out the door. “And Honeybee, forget what I said about Cozumel.”

My hunting buddy Amos made a little side cash by sneaking onto private ranches and setting out game cameras. Some might call it trespassing, but that’s harsh. He came away with stunning photos of world-class bull elk and mule deer bucks, which he sold to local hunting guides to post on social media and generate bookings. Harmless American enterprise at its finest.

With my phone in one hand, a breakfast burrito in the other, I steered the truck with my chin and shouted, “Amos?” over the rattle. “I got a great idea. Bring the game-camera photos of the bears to tonight’s banquet. You know what I mean? The bears from last summer? Game cameras? Bears?”

“Got it,” Amos said. “How about the elk and deer? Can I bring them as well?”

“The more the merrier, in fact, bring all of them. Know what I mean?”

“You sure, Jim? All of the photos?”

“All of them. I can’t wait to see their faces.”

“Okay. Got ‘em, and I’ll bring the projector. Don’t worry about a thing, man, this is going to be awesome!” Click

I drove on, looking at the phone and wondering if Amos heard me correctly. Little swirls of doubt danced behind my eyes. But then again, I was probably overthinking the whole thing. Amos understood game cameras better than anyone I knew. His images were more like studio portraits than the poorly framed, out-of-focus ones I was used to. This was going to work.

And it did. The banquet was great. The Methodists graciously donated their meeting hall, and the food line moved along briskly. Plates of venison, elk, and duck breast were served. People were laughing and talking, the volume high. In the midst of it, Amos caught my eye across the room and gave me a big, smiling thumbs up as he turned on the projector.

Bright photos appeared on the wall, images so large they were like being at a drive-in movie. World-class bull elk with enormous antlers sent the audience gasping, and curious, cinnamon-colored bears brought a laugh. Those were followed by a sly coyote and a graceful fox. Everything was perfect. I gave myself a clap on the back for being such a clever dog.

Then a man in a white cowboy hat appeared in a couple of frames before vanishing. Someone called out, “Hey Harold, ain’t that you?” To wit, Harold, still wearing the hat, looked up from his plate, lips slightly parted with macaroni salad.

A night image of an elk herd filled the wall next, followed by a daylight scene of mule deer in a meadow, then Harold was back, only this time he wasn’t alone. A woman was holding his hand. They stopped to embrace, and someone exclaimed, “Doris Anglebottom? What’s she doing? That ain’t her husband!”

Murmuring voices filled the room as we watched a shared kiss unfold in a frame-by-frame exchange that would have made a busload of honeymooners blush.

I looked at Amos in horror. He was smiling back, giving me that same thumbs up when a red solo cup arched across the room, followed by a dinner plate and streaming profanities.

Seeing the world coming to an end, I leapt for the projector, stretching out, fingers clawing for the off switch, but the rolling table shot away from me. Graphic scenes spun against the walls. Skin and camo blurred past a stained-glass Jesus in the garden, and Moses holding the Ten Commandments, until finally coming to rest on an American flag stretched across a wall. Nothing says ‘God Bless America’ more than the red, white, and blue splayed with naked bodies.

Remembering it now, a cloud of dust and crescent rolls filled the air where jealous spouses slugged it out. Echoes filled the space with sounds like “Whammo!”, “Oooof!”, “Zonk!”, and the ever-popular, “Kapow!”

Mothers dragged their mesmerized children to the exits. I managed to escape by crawling under tables to the baptismal and hiding out there.

Once the fire department left and the sheriff took our statements, I caught Amos on the sidewalk. “What in the world were you thinking?”

“You kept saying, ‘bears’ and ‘now what I mean?’, and it took me a second to figure out you were sending me a coded message. So, yeah, I know exactly what you mean, partner.” He punched me in the shoulder. “You ol’ dog. You wanted to add a little jalapeno sauce to the party, and brother, bares did the trick, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!”