The Field

The Field

            “At the second fork on the (dirt) road, after the taking the left road at the first fork on the (dirt) road, bare left again and come up the hill.  Once over (crested), it’s on the left right along”.  The Field

            Is on the left, right along.

            “Looks like it’s been driven over”.  Mowed.  Then driven over some more.  Once there was a little wooden sign saying ‘The Field’.  Once.  Now someone puts up a cardboard sign once in a while.  Sort of - maybe.  Everyone knows where it is already anyway.”

            “The Field”.

            “Yep.”

            That’s about it for small talk.  About where your going.

            They don’t like it, they say, when they drive over it before it’s mowed.  Who’s they and who’s the other they?  None of anyone’s business.  Actually there isn’t a real first ‘they’; an ‘owner’ they.  “No one OWNS it”:  “The Field”.  The first ‘they’ takes the hay off.  And sells it.  It’s not good hay.  But they take it off.  And don’t like it (having the hay) driven over.

            The second they wants the field mowed and don’t like it when they have to drive over it not mowed.  They don’t care about the hay or about tics or ANY snake in the grass.  They just want it mowed so they don’t have to wade around in the tall grass.  They are ALL dressed for that.  These fellas... they can walk out into the woods at the end of The Field and

            Never come back.

            Oh they’ll come out on that Appalachian Trail somewhere.  When they want to.  Their boots won’t be wet.  And you won’t notice ‘em.  Either.  Keep that in mind when your trying to figure out what the men at The Field look like.  Most of them are sinewy rascals who can carve a sixteen foot canoe with their jackknife.  In the middle of nowhere:  In the Maine Woods.

            That’s where we are.  In the Maine Woods.  At “The Field”.  Yeah it’s ‘up there’ but not as far up there as you think.  You ain’t going there so don’t THINK you are.  Nope.  Everyone will know if your coming.  Before you know.  Your not coming.  That’s why ‘The Field’ works the way it does and ...does the way it works.  The Field don’t need a sign and it don’t need to be mowed.  Just show up.  If

            You know where it is.

            And know what to do

            There.

            Character One said he counted “forty-two guns” for sale the other morning  “**** HAD FIFTEEN”.  “Had twenty” was what a second character verified to me later.  “That’s a lot” said Character One.  NOW JUST BE a little CLEAR about what a one of these “guns” actually is.  Before you go off accidentally not knowing what your talking about.  These (old) guns are, very much for the most part, NOT what your stupid mind’s eye THINKS they are.  Nope.  The guns, for the vast most part, are old Maine farm ‘guns’.  That is, they are mostly rifles (and/or ‘a shotgun’) made in the 20^th century that were never very good (quality) or ever intended to be very good and are very well known to be the ‘guns’ that an average Maine (hardware) store in an average Maine village “always” “sold” over the counter to “anyone” “cheap”

            “Always”

            One could buy the same sort of gun as a ‘hand’ ‘gun’ (“pistol”)

            Too.

            This... is not going to Abercrombie and Fitch OLD STYLE to buy a gun or “GOING DOWN TO BEANS”.  That latter was a very special expedition.  “Basically”

            I am talking about JUNK 20^th Century U.S.A. made “cheap” (cost and quality) “GUNS”.  Maine.... and Maine farms... always had “A LOT” “of them”.  For example, IF MOM AND DAD had six children ‘at the farm’ EVERYBODY, including Mom and Sis, ‘had a gun’.  Or two.

            OR THREE.

            And ‘some’ ammunition... some of the time.  The aspect / prospect of that is....:

            “Ammo costs money”.  Being out of one (money or ammo) means one could be out of the other TOO.  Any twelve year old  Maine farm boy with a ‘twenty-two’ knows what I just said:

            “I have one bullet”.

            But the bigger point is... many (lots of) ‘old’ ‘cheap’ ‘Maine farm’ ‘guns’ (rifles and hand guns) “are around” “in Maine”.  A very many a lot.  AND

            These old guns are bought and sold... a very many a lot.  And they look just like what I said they are... lined up on a saw buck table top.  Sort of.  Car hood.  Sort of.  Truck tailgate down sort of.  Car trunk open sort of.  “GATHER ROUND BOYS I’M SELLING MY GUNS”.  At the field.

            Now just keep being a little careful here about ‘snap judgments’ and other cosmetic criteria.  FAT AS BUTTER one boy is.  No driver’s license.  No house.  No street address.  Pool hall ‘after nine’ is a working address.  Telephone calls that are pay as you go and can be thrown out too.  “No one’s home.  No one answers”.  Was it TWENTY guns they said he had; ‘a trunk load’.  Of old cheap made in USA Maine farm guns.  Who has that many guns

            Anyway?

            “HE’S GONNA GET CAUGHT DEALING GUNS THAT WAY YOU KNOW”.

            “You better stay clear or YOU might be the one getting CAUGHT”.

            “One of ‘em ‘ill be USED in a ROBBERY.”

            “Said he SOLD fourteen hundred ($1,400.00) the other morning (before 7:00 AM).”

            At two hundred dollars per gun... that means he sold seven guns.  Out of fifteen.  Or was it twenty.  Or was it more; more guns cheap.  More cheap ...old Maine FARM guns.  “Got ah LOT of THOSE”.

            Who said that?  A little ‘low rent’ gun dealer(s).  “SEEMS TO ME... (****)... he come AROUND and said to him he’d TAKE thirty of his worse guns down to

            The Field

            For him and ‘sell ‘em’ for commission.  He didn’t get thirty.  But he did get twenty

            Old Maine farm guns.  “CAN’T SELL THEM DAMN THINGS TO ANYONE

            Except to them rigs at

            The Field.

            “Yep:  Rigs at The Field”.  Didn’t that just make sense

            To you?

            NOW you know where The Field is.  Don’t you.  Just didn’t quite lean your old gun up next to the umbrella stand aside the FRONT DOOR.  At first.  “When I was a kid Daddy kept it there.  I never moved it.  Never.  Grandpa did:  His gun Daddy ALWAYS said.  Been there leaned up... probably the BARREL’S PLUGGED.  By now.  Old gun.  AIN’T IT.  HOW MUCH YOU GIVE ME FOR THAT, you said,

            OLD GUN?”

            “Twenty-five?”

            “No just FIVE.  Rusted old CRAP.”

            “FIVE!”

            “Stock’s chipped”.

            “YOU SAY SO?”

            “Ginny Rock’s got TWO of ‘em for sale for TWENTY EACH.  Both are MINT.  NEVER FIRED you’d SAY.

            “Ginny Rock is a CHEAT”

            “He’ll give me all the guns I want to sell for him.”

            “Don’t say that about a cheat.”

            So one trunk full of old guns shows up at The Field.  Other guns show up on truck tailgates.  Dash boards.  Duffle bags.

            “ALL KINDS OF BAGS”.  Full of guns.

            Old guns; old Maine farm guns:  “WHEN’S the LAST TIME you think THAT ONE was

            FIRED?”.

            Two hundred dollar gun?

            Five dollar gun?

            Twenty-five dollar gun?  You’d know the difference.

            Wouldn’t you?  “The barrel’s up front and the trigger’s BACK THERE.”

            “NO I DON’T HAVE ANY BULLETS.”

            “Probably better close the trunk and drive away.  Seems to me that fella over there... I can’t figure him right.  Seems to me.  One or two guns is okay.”

            “You say?”

            “I don’t want him making me poop in my pants”.