My dad loved to show people around his trophy room, so when my college roommate came over for Thanksgiving, of course Dad gave him the tour.
“You’ve done a lot of hunting!” Kiefer said. I rolled my eyes. Don’t encourage him.
“Yep, I sure have,” my dad said, making a sweeping gesture to encompass all the license plates on the walls. “This here was from my first one. It was a ’68 Chevy Chevelle. I got it going down Route 46, not far from here. Single shot—bam!—right to the engine block. Damaged the body a bit but stopped it dead.”
“So you mostly go for sedans then?”
I tried giving Kiefer a warning look. My dad was going to talk for hours at this rate.
“I have tried all kinds.” Dad was beaming now. “When Bobby was little, we’d go out for hatchbacks. We tagged two in one day over in Breathitt County. We could only bring the fenders home, although of course Bobby liked to keep the spark plugs as souvenirs.” I blushed.
“Do you think I could give it a try?” Kiefer asked. My dad’s face lit up.
“Why sure! We’ll go grab you and Bobby some licenses and head out tomorrow. You haven’t tried car hunting until you’ve done it on Black Friday. You can use my SUV rifle.”
“Aren’t you a member of Greenpeace?” I whispered to Kiefer.
“This isn’t nature,” he said. “This is cars!” He and my dad high-fived and I knew that I’d lost him.