James McKew

I’m in the truck and driving up a single-lane gravel road in the Rocky Mountains. Sundown is in the rearview, and the stars are beginning to poke through the tree limbs. Next to me sits Amos, my hunting partner. In the back seat is Scar-fee, a contractor we sometimes hang out with, and beside him is Lil’ Samson, Amos’s six-year-old son.

“I’m hungry!” Lil’ Samson screeched over my shoulder.

“Soon, son,” Amos called back to him. “We’ll be in deer camp soon enough, and I’ll make some yummy spaghetti for you, okay?”

Lil’ Samson listened for a half second and started kicking the back of my seat.

“Can you control that kid?” I said to Amos. “I can’t hardly keep us on the road with my seat bucking around.”

“I want to eat NOW!” the boy demanded.

Amos rolled his eyes and sheepishly raised his hands in surrender. “What am I supposed to do? When he’s hungry, he’s hungry.”

As we crested the top of the mountain pass, I slowed down for the lights of a motel with a restaurant.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Lil’ Samson gnawing on Scar-fee’s forearm like it was a turkey leg.

“That’s it. We’re stopping!”

We found the last open table.

Amos opened his menu, looked a minute, and said, “Uh, oh.” His skin turned sickly pale. His eyes met mine, and he silently mouthed the words: This place is Chinese!

“That a problem?” I asked.

Without waiting for his answer, I said, “Guys, listen up. I’ve got something important to tell you. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’ve decided I’m pan-sexual.”

Scar-fee’s eye flicked on mine, then back to the menu. He sniffed and said, “Knew it all along.”

Amos looked over the top of his menu, reading me a second, then asked, “When did you know you were pan-sexual?”

“When I walked in here, because I’m in love with whatever they’re cooking in the pan back there.”

Amos leaned in and whispered in my ear what pan-sexual actually meant.

“Oops. Sorry, guys. What I meant to say was, I’m wok-sexual.”

Amos gave me a stern glance, like I said something wrong.

“What?”  I said with a shrug. “I’ll admit it. Chinese food turns me on. I dig it.”

From behind his menu, Amos nodded at his fussy kid and whispered to me, “Samson hates Chinese food.” Amos then glanced around the dining room as if calculating how many paychecks it might take to repair the place after Lil’ Samson went on one of his angry tears.

Amos cleared his throat and said to all of us, “Gee guys, this sure is a really nice…hamburger and french fry restaurant we got here. Don’t you think?”

Taking his lead, I added loudly, but with good enunciation. “Yes, Amos, and I am sure they can make a special burger for young Samson here.”

Amos’s hands were shaking now, turning the menu into what looked like a winged dinosaur ready to fly off the table.

Lil’ Samson’s gaze drifted around the room, his terrible, yet intelligent stare, appraising the surroundings. He said, “Those are funny-looking pictures on the walls. Why do all the bald men have such long beards? Why are they all wearing bathrobes out in the woods? It doesn’t look like bedtime in the picture. They look like Chinese men, Daddy.” He spun on Amos. “Are we in a Chinese restaurant?!”

“Dang it, Amos!” I said, “Why couldn’t you have brought one of your dumber children along?”  

The waiter appeared with a tray of water glasses.

“Do you have h..h..hamburgers?” Amos squeaked out at the waiter. “Please answer the question slowly. All our lives may depend on it.” With the heel of his boot, Amos tapped out Morse Code on the floor…S.O.S…S.O.S…“For all of our sakes, bring us a hamburger and fries, ASAP.”

We sat and watched Lil’ Samson chew dents in the silverware until the food arrived.

“Look at that boy eat!” Scar-fee exclaimed. He scooted his chair back out of caution. “He’s like a woodchipper with eyes. I’m lucky he only took a single bite out of my arm and not the whole thing!”

The table shook with the boy’s ferocious mastication. Forks and spoons bounced to the floor. The three of us ate with our plates in hand to keep from spilling.

Afterwards, the waiter put four fortune cookies on a silver tray and slid them across the floor to us using a mop handle.

Though he was against Chinese food, Lil’ Samson was first with his fortune cookie, handing the piece of paper to his dad. Amos unfolded it. He looked at Scar-fee and me, and read, “Your future is a bridge to new adventures and experiences.” Amos smiled warmly at the boy. “Good job, son.” He rubbed the kid’s hair, the only spot on his entire body not covered in ketchup. Amos turned to me. “How about yours, Jim? What’s it say?”

“A cynic is only a frustrated optimist,” I said, tossing it on the table. “That’s me for sure.”

“And you?” Amos asked Scar-fee. “What’s yours say?”

Scar-fee twisted his lips and eyebrows until his face resembled a gnarled piece of driftwood. He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh heck, those stupid things. I don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus, crap. I don’t read fortune cookies, don’t like knowing what’s going to happen next.”

“Come on, man,” Amos pleaded. “We’ve just been through a near-death experience together and we haven’t even gotten to camp yet. Spell me a minute, just this one time. Tell us what it says.”

Scar-fee mumbled something nasty under his breath and unfolded the skinny white paper. He read it silently:

Your mission, if you choose to accept it: Wake at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, go down the trail alone to the riverbank. There, you will find this year’s trophy deer, a twelve-point buck. He will be wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. Over his shoulder, he will be carrying a flyrod. It’s an easy shot, you can’t miss. Good luck.

Scar-fee balled up the paper, stuck it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

“Well?” Amos said, leaning in over the table. “What’d it say, Scarf?”

Scar-fee looked at our expectant faces and said, “Man who stands on toilet seat is high on pot.”