Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
78 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S the 5 a.m. position woke me. For a moment I tried to concentrate on work, but the loud hum of the janitor's floor buffer and residue from the night's events convinced my throbbing head otherwise. After all, nothing is better for a hangover than fresh air. With a little luck, I could make it to the woods by mid-morning. A ruddy fog was rolling in and out from the sea as I left the city. It blanketed the countryside like an ominous shroud, then lifted for a bit, then thickened again. I all but turned around—I am thankful now that I didn't. When I reached my hunting spot and parked the car, several fugitive rays of sunlight lit my path into the woods like a doorway, and I ambled along. I had hardly begun to hunt when I noticed motion. It was the flick of a deer's tail. I stood completely still. Through the thick foliage, my eyes traced the outline of a deer's partially hidden back, up to an ear, then a tine. A buck . . . what luck! I had hardly registered the thought before he bolted. Quickly I picked up his trail and gave chase. My pursuit was sluggish and tedious. Each time I thought a shot would present itself, the deer ultimately disappeared again. This went on for over an hour, then I lost the trail altogether. But going native had been just the ticket. I felt alive, so alive. Between the lingering jolt of Martha's electric lips and the thrill of hunting again, I was feeling more alive than I had in years. I sucked in a deep breath of cool air through my nostrils and smiled. Doesn't seem like such a waste now, I thought. Then my smile deepened as the old saying "a little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest of men" came to mind, and I chuckled to myself then carried on in pursuit. Eventually I made my way to a lonely stretch of forest. The capricious fog rolled in again, making the surroundings more unusual and more unsettling. I tried to put my finger on it but couldn't—something was eerily wrong. Then I realized what was bothering me—I was lost. I wandered for some time about the gray forest. I was bumping into trees and slipping on stones worn by age. I stumbled over vines and dead branches and even my own feet. There was a bite in the air, and the dampness clinging to my clothes chilled me to the bone. The wind was strengthening and beginning to make a weird noise, almost human-like. It moaned through the trees like a wailing woman, and a feeling of foreboding began to overtake me. Then the gray gauze lifted higher and higher. The trunks of the trees around me seemed as if they would stretch all the way to heaven itself as the rising gloom revealed their great heights, until at last I could see their leafy tops stirring on the breeze. Somehow, I had stumbled into a sort of ancient forest. Sequoias . . . redwoods, I thought, No way, not here, not possible . . . I must still be drunk. The tall brown trunks of the trees walled me in, and the forest was cast in a sickly green hue that clung to everything like mold. The undergrowth of moss and ferns was dense and rank, and I found it even more difficult now traipsing my way through the slippery woods. Several times I thought someone or something was watching me. Every so often I'd glance back over my shoulder, but no one was there. That's when I noticed something I hadn't before. The trees— into the trees were names, carved into the bark, similar to those thought you left early?" "I don't have any rye, but this scotch should suffice," she replied in a saucy tone. "I was referring to food. I'm famished." I muttered, but still hanging on that saucy tone. "Thirst, you know, can mask itself as hunger. How about we start with a drink, then move on to the main course," she continued provocatively. "Not so fast, Martha. If we're caught . . . we could be . . ." I scrambled. "Walter . . . Walter . . . Walter . . . No one works this late but you, and you know what they say, 'all work . . . no play . . .'" she suggested in a low, demur voice. "Now let's not talk shop—not tonight." "What would you like to talk about?" I responded slyly. "You . . . and . . . me . . ." she purred, as she sashayed over and sat above me with her back arched and chest out. Her floral skirt blanketed the corner of my scuffed desk. At the end of her tanned, crossed legs, a dangling shoe did a balancing act on her sexy toe. I glanced at the glasses she held—one in each hand—both loaded with Scotch. "Not so fast," she whispered while shaking a skinny finger in my face. Then she threw the first glass to her mouth, followed by the second. My eyes bulged from my head. And before I could speak, she leaned in. Her plunging neckline nearly sent me over the edge. She pressed her wet lips to mine and kissed me three times. I would've remembered each and every one had it been 30 or 330. Her lips were alive—intoxicating—electric. Every kiss till hers was, in comparison, as cold and lifeless as a dead fish. I knew, in one more second and with one single glance at that look in those big blue eyes, that I wouldn't care about clients, or the firm, or a million dollars even—so I turned away. Another time I might have a different idea about her, but right then there was work to be done. Her shoulders slumped. She seemed embarrassed, then abruptly she pulled up. "At some point a man should settle down, take a wife and start a family. There is a life outside of here," she began to rant. "Martha, you know how busy I am. What were you expecting?" I dodged "I think the world of you." "Well, I hate to be a killjoy," she said sarcastically. "I just thought . . . that maybe you were interested in me for more than just dictation." "I'm sorry . . . I do," I said, but I didn't know how to respond. She seemed ashamed, and I was embarrassed for her. "Don't feel bad Walter, I mean, Mister Hibbett. You have to live to learn. Maybe someday you'll wise up. There's more to life than . . . than work. See you on Monday, Mister Hibbett." Then she stormed out of my office. My grandfather used to say, "Walt, my boy, never make a decision on an empty stomach." Of course he did weigh 260. But after my sandwich and coffee, I was definitely thinking a bit more level-headed, and I felt like an idiot. A beautiful woman like that . . . A kiss like that . . . Martha, her wet lips. Working was futile; she was all I could think about. So I killed the rest of the bottle and retired to the sectional sofa. I was lost in slumber when the jerking of the wall clock into