Gamesmanship

The basketball court in the athletic club was empty. My jump shot banged loudly off the rim. Waiting for the rest of the guys to arrive for a full-court game, I was playing a little one-onone with Bunk. You had to win by two. I finally lost 13–15. Toweling off, I told Bunk I needed some advice about critters.

“What kind of critters?”

I described how two nights ago Meg and I were in bed, almost asleep, when suddenly on the ceiling we heard something like rain patter, but isolated, moving from place to place. Meg bolted upright. My God, what’s that? At first I thought birds had come through the louvered vents and gotten trapped in the attic. But the skittering was too loud for birds. I started to think squirrels. Our yard is full of them. I wasn’t in the mood to go upstairs, open the crawl-space door, and shine a flashlight around. What if they got out and into the house? Then the pattering stopped. We went back to bed. I told Bunk that in the morning I found droppings.

“Mmmm.” He shook his head from side to side: “Was it bird shit?” Except for faint bruise-like circles around his eyes and a few facial creases, Bunk looked younger than he was, a tumble of blond hair over his ears, a tiny diamond stud in the wing of his nose. He owned an exotic pet store and knew a lot about animals.

“No, it wasn’t bird shit,” I said.

“What kind then?”

“You’re the expert on shit, you tell me.”

“Okay, what did it taste like?”

We started laughing. “It’s bigger than what a mouse would leave,” I said. “I’m thinking about phoning Rid-A-Pest or Critter-Gitters.”

“Don’t do that,” Bunk said. “I know a guy. He works for himself. He’ll be a lot cheaper. You got problems with raccoons, hornets, snakes, rats, bats—he’s your man. Everyone calls him Trapper. I’ll hook you up with him. How about tomorrow after work at Hammy’s?”

“Great.”

Hammy’s Pub has atmosphere and good draft beer. If you live in your hometown, you need a secluded place like this to escape and not be seen by certain people. The bar was fairly quiet until Mayor Dray woke up. “Hey, for-get about it!” he said with a deep growl. We call him “Mayor” because our real mayor will sometimes drop in, and one winter night they got into a fiery argument. A retired newspaperman, Dray is capable of color and brilliant conversation if you catch him early enough. With winesap cheeks and wild hair, he has a huge voice and, like many alcoholics, argues with great authority about everything. After the strain of holding forth, he’ll sometimes drop his head on the bar and fall asleep. When he wakes up, he’ll look around, uncertain for a minute where he is, then bray his patented “For-get about it!”

I looked at my watch. Where the hell was Bunk? The place was dim and felt like an aquarium, silhouettes moving about, disappearing and reappearing from the back room where a poker game was always in session. A high-def tv hung over the end of the bar. Bald, bantering, and refilling glasses, Hammy moved back and forth with a polio limp, always ready with some kind of comedy. He pointed to my empty mug and asked if I wanted a little more joy in my life, so I had another beer, watched the sports news, then shoved off.

Meg was working late. I collected mail from the box at the end of our drive, gave it a glance—bills, ads, solicitations—and tossed it on the kitchen table. Our black cat, Bernadette, rubbed against my legs and meowed until I opened a can of Friskies and refilled her dish. The red light on our answering machine was blinking with a message from Bunk. He was sorry about Hammy’s. He didn’t realize it, but Trapper is a teetotaler and didn’t want...