The Net

by Matt Kuehl

I believe they were deer hunters. Not the .30-06 (thirty-aught-six) kind, though; rifle season opener was quite some time away. This breed preferred fletching and string over barrels and steel. Perhaps this affinity for bows was due to the more sporting nature of arrows, or the adrenaline high that comes from steadying and releasing the draw. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because hunting with a bow means you can slay a large, antlered mammal at least one whole month sooner.

I don’t have problems with hunters. My father is a deer hunter. So was my grandpa. My friend Tom, god rest his soul, was a hunter, too. A school janitor by trade, he hunted locally during winter and kept game meat in his seasoned pickup truck, wrapped up in butcher’s paper to give to friends. In the summer, he vanished from his home in the lonely suburb in northern Minnesota and migrated somewhere down south, living off the land and hunting game. Hunters, much to the objections of hippies, can be good people. And as an ecologist, I can appreciate the balance they can provide to an ecosystem.[1]

However, that night I didn’t find these hunters in deer stands or hunting shacks. From a naïve perspective, if they weren’t in the forest with a quiver in hand, they were out of their element. But if one remembers that hunters are people too, they were exactly where they should be. Rustic oak-stained tables, a plethora of neon domestic beer displays, deer heads, moose heads, fish heads (and bodies) taxidermied and hanging on the wall, this was a bar made for them — a place where men (and the occasional woman) could come together to relax, talk about the trade, and get piss drunk. The Net was a Mecca for hunters in northwestern Minnesota, which then makes you wonder why the fuck we were there.

While one of us slaughtered a deer with a car grill and several hundred pounds of speeding metal, for the most part, none of us were hunters. We were college-age teaching interns.[2] Our purpose: Travel from the big city university to a country high school, bringing our fresh knowledge of science with us. Typically, most of our time was spent teaching biology, chemistry, or anatomy in the classroom, but occasionally, as part of our internship program, all us interns met at Itasca State Park for pedagogical training. During the day we worked, learning teaching technique or listening to professors lecture about research. At night, though, like all teachers secretly did, we partied.

One session, instead of staying back at the cabins,[3] we decided to explore what the local establishments had to offer. The locals weren’t unfamiliar with our kind. Itasca State Park is home to a well-known university research station, so there is an annual summer influx of undergraduate student researchers. However, once autumn came, the college students were gone, and a new blaze orange demographic[4] migrated into the rural countryside.

The door swung open, a group of small bells clanged, and we took a seat at the only table able to accommodate us: a larger table, close to the karaoke machine, in the middle of the joint. A pair of staring eyes accompanied every half-drank bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the bar. These were not glares, however, but more confused looks followed by the thought, “I wonder if they are having car trouble.” While this was not home for any of us, I felt particularly out of place for one major reason: I was the only one wearing sandals. And not your basic sandal either. I was wearing the sandal equivalent of Ugg boots.[5]

For your entertainment and mine, let me indulge in a related tale. Four weeks before the events at the Net, I joined a Tae Kwan Do class and suffered some immediate setbacks to my goal of becoming a professional kick boxer. Three days into the classes, I bruised my toe doing some type of cool roundhouse kick. Not one to be discouraged by pain, after recovering, I jumped back in to practice.

Several days after I restarted my training, fate again tested my convictions as a martial artist: I demolished my other big toe, again at Tae Kwan Do. This time, I am sad to admit, I didn’t break it while performing an awe-inspiring, soaring jump kick. Actually, I was trying to kick a ball during some bizarre Tae Kwan Do ball exercise and I smashed my toe into the ground. For the few of you who are smart enough to read, but are somehow not intelligent enough to understand levels of physics even barnyard animals have mastered, foot vs. ground always results in foot’s defeat. Man may be able to destroy the Earth with nuclear weapons, global warming, or perhaps a giant drill that reaches to the core, but the Earth will never lose to a man’s foot. The spoils of my defeat: a toe so broke, so swollen, I could not fit it into shoes.

As the season was autumn and I wasn’t a hobbit, I needed a substitute shoe that could accommodate my Hulk-like digit. Something with an open toe seemed the most suitable for my condition, but the timing of my fracture was not on my side. Stores in northern Minnesota tend to be seasonal, and summery footwear is in short supply in fall. As a result, the only thing I could find that would accommodate my foot was a pair of brown women’s flip flops from Target. The ambiguous nature of brown may have saved me from some strange looks or innocent childish harassment about my choice in sandals, if not for the faux sheep’s fur insole. They were girly, which is perhaps okay if you have a broken toe and two X chromosomes, but when you are a 20-year-old boy surrounded by drunken tough guys who probably just skinned a deer in some dude’s garage, a manly steel-toed boot is preferred.

Once our table ordered their first round, the other patrons knew we were there to stay. Truthfully, where else could you go out here in the wilds of Minnesota? The six of us, three girls and three guys, started out by playing cards. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty lame thing to do, but when you are as awesome as we were, you can play cards and not be hassled. Nobody had noticed my unorthodox footwear selection, and surprisingly I wasn’t too worried. I probably would have been a lot less anxious if I were drunk (I was underage and the designated driver) but the present company made things fun and relaxing.

“That chick is pretty hot.” An unfamiliar voice interrupted my conversation with one of my friends.

I laughed. “Yeah, you should go introduce yourself,” I said jokingly to the man. In a matter of seconds, however, he did exactly that.

Soon enough, I would find out that his name was John, he was a plumber, and while he didn’t need to tell me, the blaze orange cap and vest were sufficient evidence that he was a hunter. John was a cool, confident guy, the type that a jealous person would call an arrogant bastard. He drank. A lot. But I could tell that besides his slightly slurred speech, his confidence level and personality were not affected with varying degrees of booze. The hot chick that he was referring to was my friend and co-worker, Virginia. While I wouldn’t disagree with him on the “hot” part (though I personally would have phrased it in a more sophisticated way), her real charm was her carefree and charismatic spirit. She was the kind of girl who could pull a cigarette out of a man’s mouth, lecture him on the dangers of smoking, and after it was all through, leave the guy smiling. Sure, he would light up again, but he would at least wait 20 minutes to do so.

John and Virginia soon were talking. He was being an ass, which would have been annoying if she didn’t so effortlessly put him in his place; perhaps that is what some people consider flirting. I, on the other hand, didn’t mind observing; this was comedy gold. Eventually, as if proving this mysterious band of strangers meant them no harm, his cronies came over to chat with us as well. While not nearly as cool or confident as their kingpin, they turned out to be interesting people nonetheless; one guy and I turned out to be best buddies after we discovered our shared respect for law enforcement.

Time passed and people were drinking beer and singing country songs as I dwelled on the uniqueness that was probably a usual night at this bar/off-sale liquor store in rural Minnesota. Then John and his buddies came up to me.

“Which one of these girls are you going to hit on?” John asked

I laughed at his directness. “What are you talking about?”

“There are all these girls here and you are not hitting on them.”

“Well, we work together. It would be kind of awkward.”

“What kind of shit are you talking about?”

“Plus, hitting on girls at a bar really is not my style. I am a little classier than that.”

“Fuck. You don’t know how to pick up a girl do you?”

Again I laughed. “Okay, so let’s say I am a little young and naive. How about some tips from a master?” I said jokingly.

“Okay, lesson one: simple math. Six of you came here tonight. Beat up the two guys and you have three hot chicks to yourself!”

The party continued, people got drunker and drunker, and we were letting the good times roll on at the Net. John was giving me drunken advice throughout the night about how to hit on girls, most of which was the cliché junk I can’t really imagine myself, or anyone who didn’t want to be slapped, doing. Also, from all the attention that we had garnered, I was amazed (and relieved) that no one had noticed my effeminate footwear.

Toward the end of the night, someone selected a sappy slow song from the jukebox. Old couples grinned and began swaying with each other, while lonely old drunks shed a metaphorical tear into their Buds. Virginia was talking with some of our friends. I just stood there, wishing for something a little bit more upbeat. John came up to me.

“Go dance with her.”

“With who?”

“Virginia.”

“This isn’t high school.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, she’s cool.”

“Can’t you tell that she is waiting for you to grab her and sweep her off her feet?”

“No, that isn’t my style.”

“Fuck. What is your style? Stop being a pussy!

“What, I just go up and ask her?”

“No, just grab her and start dancing.”

“I can’t just grab her. That just seems way too rude.”

“Girls like her won’t beg.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Look at the way she looks at you. She wants you.”

I contemplated his words. Each fading second brought me closer to some sort of redemption from this lecturing. While I believed there was chemistry between Virginia and me, I also didn’t want to ruin a good thing. We were good friends. Perhaps that is where I was always conservative like that. I had seen friendships get ruined by advances and such; I didn’t want to fall victim to the same trick.

“Come on, do it,” he said.

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I am a married man, and besides, she wants you.” He urged me on. “Do it!”

I wondered what would happen if I screwed it up.

“Get out there and do it you pussy!”

Or if she said no.

“This is your chance, man.”

Would it make everything different?

“Don’t live in regret.”

Was there really a more opportune moment to come?

“Eye of the Tiger.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on son, go out and grab her!”

And I didn’t ask. I came to her, wrapped one arm around her, and dipped her. She looked surprised, but then genuinely smiled. I can’t remember what she said to me, but I believe she called me by my full first name, the way that she endearingly used to do. The dance was simple. And even though it lasted only part of a song, and even though it was amongst crusty old chairs and ash trays, the stained glass beer chandeliers, and with a broken toe that was not yet prepared to walk, let alone dance, it was beautiful. Looking and perhaps hollering on with his two friends, John knew his mentorship had been successful. His student didn’t beat up two guys and get three girls, but he did get a dance with an incredible woman, a victory that they celebrated, of course, with beer.

************

Five years have passed since the events at the Net. While I sit here alone drinking a coffee, working as a teacher in a school and a community not so different than the one in northern Minnesota, I can’t help but think back on those days, and her, with affection; she is the one that taught me to appreciate coffee, you know. Virginia, John, the Net — I haven’t seen them in five years now. And while I don’t think that we were right for each other, I don’t regret dancing with Virginia that night; I don’t regret being less conservative than I usually was, and I don’t regret chancing it in the company of the camouflage and blaze orange patrons that night.

After all this time, I think I am finally beginning to understand the hidden truth to John’s teachings that night.[6] In five years, I have seen many important friendships come, and while they don’t necessarily end, they go. In this migratory society, the ones you play it safe with, shy from, or grab on to, more often than not, they leave you all the same; this is the unfortunate reality of growing up. But even if this is true, the memories you make with the ones you did reach out to, they aren’t generic or stale or filled with what ifs or should’ves. They are like your trophy bucks, the ones this system tried to deny you, but the ones you took back because you decided it was worth doing something crazy, like sitting in a tree stand for several hours and then taking the shot, or going out in women’s sandals. And oh man, are these memories beautiful. They sound twangy, or ache like a fractured toe, or taste of mocha. The Net is what life feels like when, to paraphrase John, you stop being a pussy and grab on. And sometimes, if you are lucky, you’ll find someone who is willing to grab back, too.

[1] When I get a flamethrower and a katana, you are on my list, Australian cane toad invasion.
[2] Side note: Being a teacher or intern teacher and a hunter are not mutually exclusive activities. However, we were generally more interested in DNA than 12-point bucks.
[3] No alcohol was allowed at the research station, which I am sure would be contested by many of the greatest scientific minds in the world.
[4] Prey for those of the blaze orange species may also include ducks, pheasants, grouse, and for the lucky few that get a permit, moose.
[5] While considered a hearty winter boot by some, they are most often worn by (slutty) girls in miniskirts.
[6] And even if John believed their use was only for trying to score with chicks, the hidden truth is real nonetheless.