I Own a Gun
By Bill Simmons
I own a gun. A shotgun. Nineteen-forty pre-war Belgium-made Browning Over-and-Under with a cuts compensator given to me by my Granddaddy. I shot it once sometime during the early 1990s. At a merganser. Which is a kind of duck. Killed it dead, too.
For a long time this fine gun constituted the single most valuable asset on the Simmons’ balance sheet. I kept it in the safest place I could imagine; under the couch at my apartment where it hunted dust-bunnies in season.
A couple of years later I was having my own personal Wall Street-style financial meltdown and feeling serious heat from Blockbuster over late fees and massive overdue book fines from the Jackson Public Library.
In a panic, I offered to sell the gun to my duck hunter/brother-in-law to ease my credit crunch. He refused to buy it but generously bailed me out with a cash infusion and offered to hang on to the gun and take proper care of it until I got the irresistible urge to go duck hunting with him again.
I had the distinct impression as he took the gun from me that he felt a bit like Angelina and Brad Pitt saving a starving orphan from a horrific existence. I am happy for the gun.
As I said, I did take the gun hunting one time. And hoo boy, what a fabulous time was had! Mark, the afore-mentioned duck hunter/brother-in-law had kindly offered to take me duck hunting one coolish day in December. We agreed to meet at his place at like 10 minutes before the day before yesterday’s moonrise; the word “early” just doesn’t do it justice.
He mentioned beforehand that it might be a bit chilly at the Ross Barnett Reservoir, so as a former under-achieving Boy Scout (Tenderfoot), I wore my warmest and tallest pair of tube socks. I believe I also wore my snuggest Ole Miss Sweatshirt and even my red Rebel bank robber hat.
At any rate, I felt pretty darn prepared.
It was 12 degrees that morning.
A vintage 1973 Toyota Land cruiser would get us there. We cranked up the heater and sped off to the Rez. I had no idea that International Paper was in the business of trailblazing paths through wilderness areas for the benefit of hunters. What a great company!
The trail was a bit rutted, sure, but blindly hurtling through the dark was quite the thrill. Tooling down frozen paper company ruts in the dark is a lot like sitting inside a commercial clothes dryer on the “tumble dry” setting. Thoroughly fluffed, we arrived at our spot.
Now, I fish. If the fish aren’t biting at the lake you simply crank up the boat and move on to your next spot. I mean to say, you know the fish are in there somewhere, you just have to go find ’em.
Not so in duck hunting. Here the illogic works this way: As Carl Sagan might say, with all of the billions and billions of available air space your “Wile E. Coyote Acme Genius-Level Duck Hunting Plan” is to pretend to be part of the frozen landscape and ambush any and all ducks who might, as statistically unlikely as it sounds, happen to cross through your particular 50’ Cone of Death.
It’s a little like standing at an intersection and waiting to film a car accident. Or finding an LSU football player with a degree. It’s possible—just unlikely.
But forget about the diabolical fiendishness of the hunting strategy--we’ve got bigger issues to deal with. First, you have to put on your waders. Because, you see, you aren’t just hunting at the Reservoir, you are hunting while actually in the Reservoir. These rubbery waders with their 2-ply layers of Vulcanized Cellophane are now, to your sock-clad toesies, what the hull of the Titanic was to the passengers inside. Perfectly adequate on the ground, way too thin to be messing about with ice and freezing water.
I splashed my way to the middle of the small shallow bay above which great flocks of flapping greenheads were sure to darken the sky. Meanwhile we would wait, be quiet, and I would get to practice my teeth-chattering skills. For three excruciating hours we stood there as a beautiful blue-sky day dawned.
Exactly four ducks flew over us. One landed nearby. My heat-starved brain ran down my menu of moral choices: Should I yell at this lone idiotic duck that was suckered in by our clever plan and then try to plunk him as he rose? Would that be marginally more “sporting” than the alternative? Or should I just go ahead and pot the love-starved thing as it sat there quacking sweet nothings at our super-effective plastic decoy?
In the wild, rabid hope that this poor creature’s sacrifice might entice my hunting partner to end this swell adventure I parked my moral uncertainty, blew warmly on my finger, pointed my weapon, and pulled the trigger. Bam! One dead merganser. What fun.
“Let’s go,” said Mark, not unkindly. He seemed a bit dejected that the hunt hadn’t gone better. As we trudged back to the Toyota he said “Hey, next time, we’ll go when it’s drizzly, overcast, and freezing; hunting is much better in those conditions.”
“Caaaaannnnnn’t wwwwwait!” I stuttered.
But wait I have.
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