I had never heard a shotgun blast before…
As I trudged through the golden field of brittle corn stalks towering over my head, the view ahead dissolved into a confusing patchwork of bent and broken debris. The early-morning sun cast long, strange shadows across the maze, and with each step on the uneven ground, I felt more ensnared—trapped in a labyrinth of uncertainty. Panic rose in my throat as I pushed through the dense overgrowth and lengthening shadows.
This “fun” Saturday morning was my uncle Don’s idea. We had already finished pulling weeds from the strawberry patch, and now he sent three boys—my brother Carl, my cousin Ken, and me—into the corn to “flush” pheasants for the business end of his 12-gauge shotgun.
Little did I know my real fear would erupt not from behind, but directly ahead.
I took another step. Suddenly, a pheasant exploded into flight only a few feet away. The burst of noise startled the bejesus out of me. Cowering, I braced for the shotgun blast that never came.
Perplexed, I looked around for Carl or Ken, the other pheasant-flushing patsies. But I was alone in my distress. Where had they gone? What should I do?
I angled toward what I thought was the edge of the field, desperate to escape this prison of broken stalks. Just as I pushed aside another husk, a second bird erupted—this time flying straight at me. I froze, unsure which way to move, terrified of triggering another eruption or the cannon blast I imagined behind me. Lost, alone, hopeless.
After a few more skirmishes with explosive fowl, I finally stumbled out of the maze. There sat my uncle, brother, and cousin on a patch of grass by the roadside, sipping bottles of Coca-Cola.
“You ready to go home, Gary?” Uncle Don intoned. “I guess the birds are in another field today.”
I asked if he had seen the birds I flushed. He just laughed.
“There are no pheasants in this field today.”
That day I suffered indignation, fear, and loathing of the pheasants—and to what end?