From the book Waiting for White Horses by Nathan Jorgenson. Nathan is a dentist from
a community about 40 miles from us, and we have met him. He claims the hunting
stories in this book are all based on actual events in his life:
“That’s why they call it ‘hunting’ instead of ‘shooting.’ I guess the ducks win that
one,” Will said as he leaned back and unscrewed the lid from the second thermos of
coffee. He poured some coffee into the dented thermos top in his left hand. “Ducks or no
ducks, it’s good to be here.” Will spoke to no one in particular. He appeared completely
satisfied as he looked out over the lake and took a sip of coffee. A second later, he
convulsed forward and spat out the coffee. Coffee and curses sprayed from his mouth
like a shower. “This shit is really nasty! What the hell did you do to this stuff?” He was
spitting, trying to clear all the coffee from his mouth.
Initially, Grant thought it was just the usual criticism of his coffee, though maybe a
little overly dramatic. Will had an unpleasant look on his face, though, and Grant knew
soon enough that perhaps he wasn’t kidding. “It’s the same stuff we’ve been drinking.
You filled both thermoses from the big pot on the stove! Gimme a hit.”
Will made a point to throw the contents of his cup over the side of the boat.
“Probably kill the fish,” he mumbled. Then he filled the cup for Grant and passed it.
Grant sniffed at the cup and then furrowed his eyebrows slightly. He took a sip and
swished it around like mouthwash. He immediately lurched forward and spit it out on the
floor of the boat.
“Whoa! This stuff is kinda foul! Lemme see that thermos!” Grant took the thermos
from Will’s hand and began to pour the coffee onto the floor of the boat. The boat was
always strewn with dirt, swamp grass, candy wrappers, rainwater, and empty shotgun
shells; the coffee would make no difference. A stream of brown coffee ran from the
container. As the flow began to lessen, Grant flicked his wrist to raise the bottom of the
thermos above the top. As he moved his hand, something sped out of the bottle and
bumbled to the floor. It made a noise like a wet dishrag when it hit - “splat.” Nellie
jumbled back in surprise.
“AHHHH, SHIT! It’s a fuckin’ dead mouse!”
I can’t get ready to head out hunting a single morning with out visualizing this scene.
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