James McKew

I woke at 1 a.m. with both my legs stuffed into one hole of my underwear, sweat drenched my pillow, and the most blindingly terrible thought raging through my head: What if all the good outdoor stories have been told?

—then, at 2:30, salvation arrived.

“Honeybee,” I whispered, “are you awake?”

“Is there a burglar?” she groaned.

“No, but I was wondering…who thought camouflaged underwear was a good idea? Name me one practical use for them?”

A groan came from her side of the bed, followed by, “You woke me for this?” Without turning over, she said, “Ninjas and cheating spouses, now leave me alone.”

“Fair enough,” I said, patting her side, then lay there another three hours drumming my fingers and thinking of my dear departed, Uncle Ed.

Ed lived down the road during my childhood years. He once told me a story about stalking deer in olive-drab underwear, how it helped him blend into the natural surroundings.

The thought of meeting my collapsing uncle trudging through the woods wearing only a loincloth made me shiver—the stuff of nightmares, really. Yet…something about having only a swatch of green cloth separating me from the world had an undeniable Tarzan appeal.

“I’m gonna swing by Dollar General and buy myself some camp britches,” I told Honeybee over breakfast. “You okay with that?”

“That’s fine, or you could put them on your Christmas list.”

The holidays were still weeks away. No, I needed to know now if there was a magical advantage to turning my bouncing buttocks into a Mississippi swampland.

For years, I have worn the same old outfit during hunting season: sagebrush-patterned camouflage shirt, pants, and ball cap. Perhaps switching to a nice pair of dirty-green unmentionables was the secret sauce I’ve been missing.

At The General, I found a three-pack of 2XL hardwood-patterned boxer briefs buried under a stack of pink cowboy hats and glow-in-the-dark footsie socks. Right where I expected them to be.

Home from shopping, I slipped on the underwear and stood before the bathroom mirror.

“Honey, come look!”

“I’ll pass.”

I sucked in my gut until my face turned raspberry red. My abs took on the taught appearance of a winged Valentine cherub covered in monkey hair. 

“But I’ve finally found my calling,” I yelled encouragingly. “I’m gonna be an underwear influencer for Mossy Oak!”

From the sofa, I heard a murmured, ‘Not cashing the check yet.’

The stretchy fabric looked as if someone had erased my body from waistline to mid-thigh. I could already feel the mystical cloaking power of blended cotton and Spandex working against my skin. Oh Yes! This was it! The elk would never see me coming!

I started out small, learning the ways of invisible skivvies by sneaking up on our cat in the backyard. My feet, which normally crunched like I was chewing celery, suddenly became whisper-quiet. I moved slowly and steadily, from woodshed to lawn mower, to travel trailer, to flowerbed, and realized quickly that the cat was blind. How else could she not see the glowing white torso of Santa Claus slinking around between the tulips and azaleas? Unless, of course…the magic camo REALLY WAS CLOAKING ME!  

Nope.

Old Mrs. Cradlebriar, our neighborhood spy, called the cops, and while I was being loaded into the patrol car, the officer was kind enough to mention that Brazilian Rainforest was this year’s fashion must-have for the local Peeping Toms.

Desperate to stay out of jail and keep my booking photo off Instagram, I switched tactics and wore them over my jeans to a Halloween party at Amos’ house, a cracking affair where I earned the nickname, Major Mossy Oak, for my fully clothed cannonball into his kid’s wading pool.

I earned my stripes the hard way that night.

The actual field test of the Great Cloaking Underpants Experiment will have to wait until next September, but for now, I keep a pair in the glove box and wear them as a headscarf in case a wild turkey has the misfortune of crossing paths with the invisible man.