Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [32]
“Hold it there, young man.” I stopped dead in my tracks and looked around, trying to find out where the voice had come from.
“What?” I was surprised. Even though I had never heard my father’s voice, I was one hundred percent positive that it was his.
“Come over here.” There was a certain amount of authority in the voice.
“Where?” I asked, turning around in circles, trying to find the direction where the voice was coming from.
“Over here.” I swung around once more and my father was pointing a high-powered rifle at me. He had a silly smirk on his face as if he had just caught me dipping in the cookie jar.
“What’s this all about?” I asked.
“Well, for starters, you’re not a hunter. You’ve been following me since the restaurant. Now I’ve been in law enforcement for decades and I have a lot of enemies; most of them good-for-nothing Niggers. But you, I’ve never seen you before. The only reason I didn’t shoot you is because you remind me of my son. He wouldn’t be caught dead out here though; he’s a big-city lawyer.” My father stopped and lowered the gun. “What do you want?”
“I heard that you’re the best hunter out here. I was hoping you could teach me a thing or two. This is my first time.”
“This being your first time is quite obvious, but you trying to learn to hunt don’t sit right with me. You could’ve approached me at the restaurant.”
“You were involved in a heated conversation in the restaurant. I didn’t want to interrupt.” I was hoping the third degree would finish soon.
“What’s your name, Son?” my father asked.
“Peter. And yours?”
“Jim. I retired from corrections five years ago,” he stated proudly.
“Where’s the best place to hunt around here?” I asked, hoping to get us walking again.
“Well, Son, if you have it in you, let’s go. I usually hunt alone but I guess there’s nothing wrong with someone tagging along.” My father turned around and headed into the bushes. “I’m too old to change diapers so either you keep up or you get left behind.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you every step of the way.”
I pulled the bag tightly over my shoulder and followed my father’s footsteps. I was concerned about our introduction but, as always in life, things take care of themselves. I thought I was going to hate my father, but it wasn’t working out that way. Jim seemed like an old man who was happy to be alive, doing what he wanted to do. Yes, my father was an ordinary white man.
The trek through the bushes was long and painful. My father led the way with grunts and minor conversation about the other hunters. After about forty-five minutes of fast walking, we stopped in a heavily wooded area with a clearing in the middle.
“Now we sit and wait. You can take out your rifle now,” Jim said as he laid down and adjusted his rifle to point at the grass clearing.
I reached into my bag, took out the 9mm and put it in my waist.
“How was it, working in corrections? I’ve heard all these wild stories about men raping each other in prison.”
“I never worked in a male prison.”
“Where did you work?”
“Bention; the female prison a few miles away from here. I worked there for forty years. I had the best time of my life. I met my wife in prison. We had three children, but she passed three years ago.” I heard some sadness in his voice. “From the first time I met her in prison, I knew she was innocent; not like all the other Niggers who were claiming they were wrongly convicted.”
“There were a lot of Niggers in the prison?”
“That’s where they all belong, my friend. And we had fun with them too. We had black pussy any time we wanted. Those who wouldn’t fuck us for a cigarette or some clothes, we took those asses anyway.”
“What do you mean by you took them?”
My father looked around, like he was afraid someone might overhear our conversation in the woods. “We held them down.”
“You mean you raped them?”