TOO SHINY FOR YOU

Everyone hates the DU Banquet because it means the season's long over and you'll leave the site about three hundred light--if you leave at all. Somehow John's worked it out to where the local police overlook his lack of permit. I ask him how while he rolls in five kegs of Budweiser. He smiles and says nothing. Some guy I've never seen is opening large cardboard boxes and pulling out handles of Jack Daniel's and setting them on the bar. David Allen Coe plays over the PA, the discoball painting the florescent walls starshower twinkle. It's a fucking skating rink. John hands me a solo cup of Budweiser foam. I drink it. Some guy I've never seen hands me a smaller solo cup of Jack Daniel's. I drink it and tell him to hit me again. He smiles. His teeth are stained Skoal brown and his gums look like a dog's. David Allen Coe turns into the Allman Bros. Folks start showing up. Chip gives me shit for not shooting my limit every hunt. He wants to arm wrestle, leg wrestle, play slaps. He pulls a flask out, hands it to me. I sip. Takes my breath away. Chip laughs. Latest batch. Too shiny for you, lighweight?

Cori works the grills. Six large Weber's loaded with porterhouses, bacon-wrapped duck breast, strips of deer heart soaked in jugwine for a night. John whips him with a bar towel. Asks him why he spells his name like a stripper. You put a smiley face over the i? Just sayin. Sounds like a goddamn stripper name. Bocephus turns into Atlanta Rhythm Section's "Champagne Jam." Police Chief's face is redder than a paddled ass. He's got two small solo cups of Jack Daniel's. John asks him how DU locals were able to work "this" out without a permit. Chief acts like he's gonna belt him and then laughs like hell. One of those smoker's laughs that stumbles off into deadly wheeze. Molly Hatchet blares over the PA. It's $5 all you can drink. Beer. Whiskey. Chip's omnipresent flask. Look around. Ruddy faces. Unstructured sport coats. Linen and seersucker suits. Weejuns, no socks. Some asshole in Max-4 crocs. Lots of frayed collars and sleeves and bowties. John tells me the story about his bowtie for the sixth time. His dad's dad's bowtie. The piss boy. From H. Stockton. I know, heard it before. But look, Stew, he's mid fuckin stream.

DU girls in Max-4 midriffs and hotpantz. I've never worn Max-4. Alan keeps telling me he's gonna fuck the redhead. You want any tickets? she asks. Y'all good? See, Alan says, you got to buy tickets to bid on the guns and shit. Yeah, I know, Alan. This is like my tenth banquet. Aw man I'm a little shitty already. Darlin we don't need no tickets right now, but I sure would like a little kiss. Redhead holds Alan's hand up and shows him his wedding band. REM's "Driver 8" plays. There's a guy in patchwork madras pants doing a kegstand. Chip throws his croc at me. Spill my eighth beer. Nathan wins all the guns. He always wins the guns. Wins them every fucking year. Must have a safe the size of a shopping mall in his house. When the dinnerbell rings, everyone lines up, loads up, sits down. Cuts, forks, chews, sighs. More beers, a shot here and there. Baked potatoes drowned in butter and sour cream, crumbled jowl bacon. Steaks sitting in blood. Duck. Deer heart. Whole jalapenos grilled and blistered. Alan eats them like they're pickled okra. You gone shit fire in the mornin, Alan, Chief says, his face like the sun's core, throbbing, roiling red.

Johnny Cash turns into more Johnny Cash. "Ring of Fire" comes up and everyone cheers. Gunfire. Oh shit, Alan says. Outside Nathan and Harold shoulder Benellis, unload on doves sitting telephone wire. Chief is not happy. We're in the city limits. Get the fuck back inside and give me those guns, Nathan. You can have em when you leave. Johnny Cash turns into Waylon. Go outside to smoke a cigar with John, Alan's puking in the parking lot and you can smell it from the front door, sourmash and beer, sweet as candy.