Reality TV comes calling for Hunting Club members
I arrived at Doreen's 24 HR Eat Gas Now Cafe a little late, and the large, round corner booth was full of Hunting Club members and friends. I didn't mind. Sometimes I like to sit at the counter and drink coffee.
The boys were unusually loud, and we spent a considerable amount of time calling back and forth between the counter and table. Doc also drifted in late and slipped onto the stool next to me. Without a word, Doreen thumped a thick mug into his big paw and filled it with hot coffee.
A late season snow event threatened, and we kept an eye on the weather through the large glass windows. That's when I saw two men get out of an expensive car and hurry through the spitting snow. They stepped through the doors and beamed around the room.
Club members mostly ignored the pair. They were dressed for a day on the coast, but we're used to seeing varied patrons enter the cafe due to its proximity to the highway.
Still, I became a little uncomfortable when they split up to sit on either side of myself and Doc.
Then an argument ensued at the corner table.
"That's not the way you tie a Yellow Humpy," Youngster told Wrong Willie.
"Mind your own business," Willie said and resumed his attempts on the fly, which was clamped into a vise affixed to the table.
The young man with artfully mussed hair and a telephone stuck into one ear turned to me. His hair hadn't moved in the wind, so I knew it was either sprayed or moussed into place. I know about those things because I live with three women.
The other guy sitting beside Doc looked like a used-car salesman.
Hairspray boy stuck out his hand to shake, obliging me to remove my finger from the mug's handle.
"Hello, I'm Derek Bravo," he said. "I'm a scout for Dynamic Reality Television. You've probably heard of us. We produce Life With Hormonal Teen Girls, Beach Blanket Babes, Hammering Up a New Tool Shed, which is where we find people with falling-down tool sheds and rebuild them, so they can weep in joy over a new place to keep their shovels. And we produce Uncle Charley's Life."
"You made that name up," Doc accused, leaning over to look at the young man, who was undoubtedly a professional television manager.
"No, Uncle Charley's Life is about an elderly retired New York dock worker who lives alone with 87 cats and is an activist dedicated to preserving New York heritage."
"I meant your name," Doc said.
Derek looked around and tried to grin. "Well, I always like the Johnny Bravo cartoons, so I just changed my name when I got into this business."
"Must work pretty good," I said. "A made-up name in a business supposedly about reality but in reality about contrived events has to be more interesting."
He frowned and pointed at the other guy. "That's Tony Flatt. He's my assistant."
Still sitting beside Doc, Tony was making notes on a napkin. He didn't look up.
"I used to be a used-car salesman," he said, "but now I work with Derek."
"I wish you guys would tie your flies on the other side of the cafe," Woodrow told Youngster. "It gets in the way of my toenail trimming."
Doreen came roaring out from behind the counter to be sure no pedicures were being performed in her cafe. With her out of the way, I reached over the counter to snag a fresh pot of coffee and refilled our cups.
"What brings you guys to this part of the world?" I asked.
"We're here for the preliminary legwork for a new reality series about a group of guys from around here who hunt and fish together," Derek said. "We'll follow them through a year of hunting and fishing in Texas and document the excitement they feel when they shoot something, or catch their reactions when someone catches a huge pike ..."
"This is Texas," Tony Flatt said, scribbling on his napkin. "They don't have pike here. I've told you that. They have bass and catfish."
Derek bared his teeth. "You don't have to be so testy! I just hate working with you. When I say pike you know I mean bass!"
"We have pike here!" Jerry Wayne called across the cafe. He can't hear it thunder, but he picked up our conversation. Go figure.
Tony ignored the interruption.
"No, you didn't, Derek. You're mean and stupid and ..."
"Anyway, boys," Doc interrupted. "What were you saying?"
Derek looked away from Tony and focused on Doc.
"We're hoping the people we're looking for have distinct personalities that emerge on camera. We like conflict. We like action. We like tears and emotion. We like anger," he whispered.
"So you're just gonna hold auditions with outdoorsmen to cast this program?" Doc asked.
"Oh, no," Tony Flatt said. "We know who we need. Someone sent an e-mail to our office recommending..." He pulled out a wad of napkins from his pocket. I wondered if their budget would allow him to eventually purchase a notepad. He rustled through them "... uhhhh ... a group called the Hunting Organization."
"You mean The Hunting Club?" I asked.
"Yeah!"
"That's us," Doc said. "But I don't think you'll get much to hang a whole television season on."
"He's ri..." I began as the front door to Doreen's blew open, and Delbert P. Axelrod, chased by game warden Hub Freeman, ran into the cafe.
"There's no law against running over a turkey with a truck!" Delbert screamed.
Hub got a good grip on Delbert's shirt collar just as he shot past the corner booth.
"No, but it's against the law to assault an officer by running over his foot with that truck while trying to get away!" Hub shouted.
Tony leaped to his feet, scattering napkins. "Action! Drama! Violence! All we need is sex and bad language, and we'll have a reality program."
Delbert's hand flailed sideways, hitting Wrong Willie's coffee cup. Steaming coffee flew.
Startled, Youngster accidentally stuck a hook in Jerry Wayne's hand. The Club members around the table rippled like a wave at a football game, spilling Woodrow onto the floor. He leaped up, knocked Doreen to the floor and fell atop her.
"There's the sex," Derek said.
"Get the *&$@* off of me!" Doreen shouted.
"There's the language. We have a program!" Tony said gleefully.
I sighed and turned back to my coffee while the melee swirled around the cafe. For the next few months, our lives would be on television, a medium we'd not yet violated.
"I'll shoot you guys for this," I mumbled.
"That's it!" Tony shrieked and scribbled on a fresh napkin. "We'll call it Just Shoot It! or maybe Men Gone Wild."
"How about Harried Old Men Gone Wild?" I said to myself.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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