The first excerpt from Great Pretenders has been on this site for a while, and gets a number of readers. We’ve been asked, “What’s the book about? Where’s the rest?”

Two-Fisted Birdwatcher figures you don’t want to wade through lots of words. That’s why there’s been just one excerpt. But, maybe it’s time for another. A new one appears below.

These are from a novel in progress. A name change is under consideration.  Perhaps, it should be called “The-Two Fisted Birdwatcher.”  Or “Adventures of a Two-Fisted Birdwatcher.” Let us know what you think of that.

It’s about a business geek named Ben Franklin who drops out of the wilds of big city office life and drifts into the wilds of the American west, where he has an adventure.

There’s a lost girl to find. There are birds. Bad guys. Other girls. Guns, arrows, bears, chases, beer-drinking, more birds, fighting, and did we say other girls? Plus deep thoughts, even a little redemption.

Someday this novel might make it to a bookstore. Meanwhile, here’s a second excerpt. Hope you enjoy it.

From Chapter 45…

Ben had stretched the truth a little, an occupational habit, by letting Archie assume he was an experienced rider.  Truth was, he’d ridden as a kid, but only on dispirited day camp horses, dragging their tired butts along the level bridle paths of suburban Chicago.

Strawberry was different, moving with the responsiveness of a sports car.  The horse seemed to dislike trotting as much as any sensible rider does, and had just two speeds.  Walk or gallop.

After the initial whip-lashing surge, the galloping would smooth into an undulating rush through slapping grasses and overhanging leaves.  Ben felt like yelling out, as though on a roller coaster, but there seemed a need to maintain dignity in the quiet mountains, especially in front of the horse…

Strawberry moved deliberately, picking his way over slippery stone while Ben, a helpless passenger no longer feeling he was in the driver’s seat, let the reins rest in his hand against the front of the saddle and gave himself up to the pitch and sway, enjoying the sharp scent of evergreen, the squeak of leather from a hundred complicated connections in and around the saddle, the scrape of metal-shod hooves on grit.

His was a sunny trail this morning, and he nodded his head, going with the motion, as in agreement that this was just a kind of perk, part of doing a job well.  If he twisted around in the saddle, he could make out the red dust road behind him that wound back toward the ranch.  In the distance, white smoke was rising from what must be the barbecue fire.  He wouldn’t really be on his own until he topped the rise and got it between him and this outpost of civilization.

The idea of being cut off plunked a chord somewhere under Ben’s heart, and adrenaline flushed from it, filling his chest with nervous heat, making his pulse flutter, the thin air becoming suffocating.  He was reminded of the feeling he’d had, lost and crazy when separated from the girl that day in the woods.  No way, not this time.  He had the stalwart Strawberry for company.  And all the comforts of home.  You can’t be lost when carrying food, clothes, shelter, fire, water, map, compass, even a radio beacon if needed…

This calmed him.  Only trouble now was that a surprising sadness inched its way forward, caused by the very insight he’d just found reassuring.  The well-packed animal was indeed now house and home.  It was his only true address in the world, having left the city with bridges burned.  What was to become of him?

A bird flew in front of the horse and alit on a trailside branch, unconcerned with Ben’s problems or proximity, not having been conditioned to fear horses or anything growing out of a horse’s back.  It had a deep red body, sharply delineated black wings and tail.  This bird didn’t belong here.  Ben recognized it as an Easterner, like him. And this distracted him from nerves, funk and self-pity.  Ben and the bird looked eye to eye as he passed, two strangers in these parts.  A wordless moment of something like kinship.

When Ben turned his attention back to the trail, he saw it had topped out.  They were in a clearing, under a big sky.  The horse blew a snotty Bronx cheer to announce his arrival, a raspberry from Strawberry, and dropped his head to feed on knee-high grass, sending up clouds of tiny flies which attacked horse and rider with enthusiasm, excited as insects will be by sweat and blood.

Ben dismounted.  He’d only been in the saddle an hour, but his legs were feeling funny, as after ice skating.  He tied the reins to a sapling, ignoring traces of the recent nervous buzz resonating somewhere inside.

He opened one of the overstuffed saddlebags and had the faint impression of himself as a kid, unwrapping presents.  The Jack Daniel’s bottle still carried morning coolness.  He twisted the cap, breaking the seal with a satisfying snap and took a long swallow, enjoying how it bit back. He replaced the bottle, and it clanked against the wrapped-up revolver.

Behind him stood the tightness of trees they’d ridden through.  Ahead, the meadow sloped into a V-shaped landform that reminded him of a woman’s inviting legs.  It was well grown there with summer’s healthy vegetation, making the comparison (coaxed along by the healthy swig of Jack Daniels) all the more inviting.

The horizon lay green and rolling, with hazy mountains hovering above, seemingly unconnected, floating like clouds.  The ad guy in him couldn’t help thinking…fade in music from Magnificent Seven…it builds, swells…but Ben shook the guy off.  This was too good for theme songs.  Too big to need help.

He went back to the saddlebag, this time pulling free the gun belt and its loaded holster.  He buckled it on, enjoying the weight of it.  He adjusted his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, untied the horse and swung into the saddle.  Ben didn’t look back again.  He touched his heels to Strawberry’s sides and lit out across the meadow at a gallop, the old Stetson tipped forward, his long hair flying out from under it, the six-shooter hefty on his hip, good whiskey hot in his blood.

I’ve never been a two-fisted conversationalist, especially around people I don’t know well.

When I was in my teens I somehow acquired a pretty girlfriend. I was invited to dinner at her home. She and I, her mom and dad, a younger brother and two elderly grandparents, a table full. All strangers, except for my girlfriend.

My discomfort was huge, and things just got worse when I found that I had nothing to say to anyone about anything. My silence eventually reinforced itself. I figured after having gone for a long time without joining the conversation, if I ever did jump in, then whatever I said had better be good. But I had nothing.

My girlfriend was looking askance at me. As it turns out, the only word I uttered at the table that night was “bustard.” That and nothing more.

The Bustard is a tallish bird of the crane family found in Northern Africa, Southern Europe and Eurasia. Most ordinary Americans have never heard of it. But birds, hey, now that was a subject I could talk about. And the grandmother gave me my opening.

She and the grandfather had recently returned from an overseas trip and were talking about unusual birds they noticed, birds we don’t see here. They described a bird in some detail that interested them because it had a funny name. It was tan, with a long neck and black and white tail feathers. But they couldn’t recall the funny name.

I blurted out, “Bustard!” Everyone looked at me.

Feeling pretty good about myself for the first time that night, I was about to explain that this is the name of a bird in that region fitting her description.

I had planned to tell these people that I was somewhat of a bird geek, a self-deprecating phrase that would make me likable, I hoped. This was to be the conversational icebreaker I needed. It would also make me look smart. My girlfriend would be proud. The table talk would proceed and I’d join in, salvaging the evening.

The grandmother paused after giving me a strange look. Everyone at the table gave me a strange look. Then the grandmother continued, calmly saying to the others, “Oh, I remember the bird’s name: Hoopoe, that’s what the guide called it.” And she turned to her husband for confirmation, “Wasn’t that right, dear? Hoopoe. Remember it now?”

The husband nodded, his mouth full of mashed potatoes, not really caring. Although out of the corner of his eye, he was still looking at me. I never explained. In any case, my identification had been wrong, so claiming to be knowledgeable about birds wouldn’t have made sense. I didn’t say anything else that night except maybe, goodbye.

Which is pretty much what my girlfriend said to me a few days later.

"Good bye."

The idea of renaming the birds of America isn’t mine. It’s Jim Harrison’s. He mentions it in early writings and makes it a theme in his 2008 novel, The English Major. I wish the idea had been mine. It’s always felt weird to tell people I saw a Peewee or Coot.

I never mind saying that I saw a Raven or Nighthawk, but of course the Titmouse causes a double-take from my non-birdwatching buddies, as discussed in the story “Tits” posted elsewhere on this site.

"Did someone say Rufous-Sided Towhee?"

Some bird names, while slightly eccentric, are oddly likable. There’s the Rufous-Sided Towhee (often called the Eastern Towhee). In a crowded bar, a two-fisted birdwatcher we know once blurted, “Hey, there’s a Rufous-Sided Towhee in the beer garden!” A pretty girl who hadn’t paid attention earlier came over, wanting to know this interesting guy.

"What do YOU know about birds?"

But the best commentary about bird names comes from Art Carney in a conversation with Jackie Gleason in an old “Honeymooners” episode. Black & white TV from the 1950s lives on. The old is new again, thanks to cable channels and vintage DVDs.

Carney’s character Ed Norton tells bus driver buddy Ralph Kramden, played by the two-fisted Gleason, that he was bird watching in Central Park. Ralph, always exasperated with Norton says, “Now what do YOU know about birds?” Norton replies, “Well, I saw a Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker.”

Kramden, smirking, says, “And HOW do know that?” With perfect comic timing, Norton one-ups Ralphie-boy as usual: “Cuz it had a yellow belly. And it was suckin’ sap!”

My dad and I were going to a White Sox game. Not just a Chicago thing to do. But a south-side Chicago thing to do. A two fisted thing. I’m ten or eleven years old. Happy to be going to see some baseball, get some hot dogs, hang out with my dad.

Then as we’re waiting for a light on a tree-lined street I see a tufted titmouse in a tree. I never saw one ‘til then. And I say, hey, a titmouse.

My dad thinks all birds are called birds. Period. Maybe some are called chickens or turkeys, and I guess he’d know an eagle on a quarter, but he doesn’t get into it more than that.

“A what mouse?” He says.

I’d recently studied birds in school so I knew the different kinds and knew this was a tufted titmouse. A little chickadee with a crest on its head. Don’t ask me why, but I remembered it and thought it was cool to see one.

That day was the beginning of my being teased about birds.

Sure, I liked making my dad laugh. It wasn’t easy. What could a little kid say that was funny enough to make a grown-up laugh? But this did it.

Titmouse. He laughed a belly laugh on that car trip. And later telling this to family and friends: “Hey, we saw a titmouse today.” Laugh, laugh.

Then whenever I went hiking in woods or on vacations to nature-heavy resorts like Starved Rock State Park, I’d get: hey, going to look for some tit-mice, are you?

As a kid this embarrassed me. I knew full well what tits were, the kind guys talked about in schoolyards. The kind I really wanted to see.  But that wasn’t a family subject, tits.

I guess his derision of my interest in tits, the bird names, contributed to my becoming a little defensive about bird watching. Hence, the whole two-fisted thing which might be a bit of an over-compensation for feeling like a bird nerd as a kid. Well, so be it.

In America we have the tufted titmouse and maybe one other kind, a western titmouse. But in England and Europe they have birds just plainly called tits.

There’s the blue tit and others like that. Also, let’s not forget the great tit. I looked for this bird on a trip to Europe. So I could come back from a hike and say, “Saw a couple of great tits today.” But I didn’t see them and couldn’t say that.

Now, let’s not forget that there are also birds named boobies. Blue-footed booby, red-footed, etc. Tits and boobies. Is this a great hobby for guys or what?

By the way, the team playing the White Sox that day? The Baltimore Orioles. On the south side of Chicago those words had only one definition, even to me. Freakin’ ball players.

From Chapter Two 

….the  young blonde woman was standing above a pretty little creek in a remote part of the Rockies.  The clear water moving over red-brown stones was deep and cool.  It looked to her like iced tea.

Being far from the trail, she assumed she was alone.  But young blonde women are a suspicious lot when it comes to getting undressed, so she double-checked, squinting behind her, scanning the hills, then across the creek into the pines.  Seeing no sign of anyone else, she took off her sweaty hiking clothes.  The cool air against her skin made a welcome change.

...being far from the trail, she assumed she was alone.

Down by the water’s edge the smell of damp stone was strong, overpowering the pine smell that had been with her all day, especially in the early morning before sunshine heated and thinned the air.

A nagging sense of insecurity.

She hesitated, then jogged back to her belongings.  She knelt over an open backpack, rooting around, her loose hair falling forward.  With one hand she flicked it back, laying it over a bare shoulder, and with her other she withdrew a sheathed hunting knife which hung heavily from a weathered, leather belt.

She buckled this on and returned to the creek, now primitively armed, anticipating the pleasures of a swim.  She waded in until the moving water touched the junction of her legs, dampening blondish curls there, turning them dark.  She took a deep breath and dove in against the current, swimming below the surface, kicking, arms forward.  She broke the surface, stood and tossed her head back, her long hair throwing off an arc of silver spray.

Refreshed, now needing warmth, she waded to the other side, to a flatrock overhang sitting above the water in dry sunlight.  In the distant hills, the man with binoculars watched.  It was his lucky day.  The girl lay naked on the warm rock.  Eyes closed.  Skin and hair drying quickly in the mountain sun.  There was only the steady sound of moving water and the occasional breeze quivering the aspens, making their leaves crackle softly.

She stretched, a lioness at midday.  Then a speck of red streaked overhead, crossing the creek into the pines behind her.  She turned.  A cardinal?  Rare for this altitude.  Not found in the mountains.  The girl happened to be a student of such avian esoterica and became interested, no, not just interested, intrigued…

She stood, looking again for hot red against forest green.  Nothing.  Then a flash as the bird flew to another tree.  Red with black.  “A scarlet tanager?” she said aloud, to no one (as far as she knew), and walked off her warm rock, away from the creek toward the trees to get a closer look.

...a species not of these mountains

The bird flew to another perch and the girl followed, jogging naked on the stony ground, climbing above the bank now, entering the woods, eyes on the bird.  It swooped away and down, disappearing behind a rocky outcrop.  The girl moved quickly, making use of this temporary screen to shorten the distance without the bird seeing her.  The sheathed knife flapped against her naked buttock as she ran, an encouraging pat, pat.

She peeked around the rock.  Nothing.  She scanned the trees but the bird was gone.  She thought it could have been an Eastern bird, a species not of these mountains.  It would have been an important sighting, but the bird didn’t sit still long enough for her to confirm it.  She turned, walking back quickly to her place by the creek.

The distance back seemed greater than the distance away.  She had no thought of time when following the bird.  Suddenly, she felt unsure.  Was it this far?  The creek had to be just through the trees ahead, and she ran toward them, feeling chilled.  She got to the trees and saw nothing beyond but more trees.  She stopped, heart pounding, knowing she was lost.

As originally appeared in a literary journal

Dad had already left, and I was just finishing my breakfast when Grandfather came into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat. Right on time again. Funny how an old man keeps such a regular schedule.

As he always does at this time, he pushed the book toward me and said, “Pick a good one today.”

Mom set a plate of food down and said, “Eat your breakfast, Grandfather.”

I looked at her. Mom in the morning. Her rollers. Her impassive voice. So flat, so mechanical. I thought, funny that she always calls him Grandfather. He’s my grandfather. It was just her way.

“Pick a good one,” Grandfather said.

It was a beat-up and well used old bird book. He knew all the birds in it by heart. As was our little custom, I closed my eyes, flipped through the pages and poked my finger suddenly down onto one.

We both looked to see what bird I picked for him.

“Ferruginous Hawk?” he said.

“First time I ever gave you that one.”

“A challenge, all right,” he said.

“Eat your breakfast, Grandfather,” Mom said.

*

When my grandfather was my age, he liked the birds, and knew their names. Since he retired, he’d taken up bird watching again. It got him out of the house so Mom could do her work during the day.

To make it interesting for him, one morning long ago, I kiddingly picked a bird at random from the old book and said, “See if you can spot this guy.”

Every day after that we played the same game. Evenings at dinner, I’d ask him how he did, and he’d lie, “No problem, kiddo. Just gotta know where to look.”

Mom would say, “Eat your dinner,” to both of us.

*

That evening, on the day I’d given him “Ferruginous Hawk,” Grandfather didn’t come back. When Dad came home from work, we went to look.

“Damn foolish, this bird thing of his,” Dad said. And I could see he was worried more than mad.

Grandfather’s tracks were easy to follow, and they went on for more than a mile. When we found him, he was barely alive.

He was lying bareheaded on the ground, his face awfully gray, his breath shallow and raspy.

“I saw one,” he said to me, his excitement plainly there under the weakness.

“Let’s get him back,” Dad said. We collected Grandfather’s things, got him up and breathing better, and led him home.

“I saw one,” he said again.

We were still feeling worried and serious, so I didn’t say anything back. I was tempted to say, “Ferruginous Hawk?”

It could wait.

*

Once inside, Grandfather’s breathing became completely normal, and his strength returned. He went directly to the kitchen table, sat, and began leafing through his bird book, looking at it harder than I’d ever seen him look at it before.

Dad sat and said, “Pop, this bird thing, it’s gone too far. You’ve got to stop.”

Grandfather didn’t even look at him, but just kept studying the book, turning its pages and looking at them one by one.

“Pop?”

“Shhhh.”

“Eat your dinner, Grandfather,” Mom said.

Then Grandfather closed the book and put it down gently on the table.

“I saw one,” he said to me, and smiled. But it wasn’t his usual smile.

I didn’t know what to say now.

Dad said, “Saw one what?”

Mom said, “Eat your dinner, Grandfather.”

Grandfather threw the bird book at Mom then, and when it hit, it hit hard, exploding, and all those brittle old pages flew around the room, scattering themselves over the floor.

Grandfather stood, and in one smooth movement, surprising for an old man, kicked Mom in the side hard enough to knock her off her rollers.

She fell onto her side with a clang. Sparks flared under her. And the room smelled of hot ozone.

“Eat your breakfast, Grandfather,” Mom said, her voice flat. Then she said it again, and Dad had to get up and switch her off.

*

“What’s gotten into you, Pop! First you practically kill yourself, going around without your air helmet. Then you break the robot!”

“I saw one.”

“One what?” Dad screamed.

“One bird.”

“There aren’t any birds, Dad. Not for at least fifty years!”

“What kind was it, Grandfather?” I said.

Dad said, “Stay out of this, son.”

Grandfather looked at me and laughed. “It wasn’t no Ferruginous Hawk, I’ll tell you that much.”

From “Got A Minute” Column in Chicago Tribune

A bunch of guys are hiking near a woodland river. Enjoying the wild, shooting the bull, being guys. One sees a toad. “Yo, a toad. Let’s grab it.” They kneel over this warty creature who looks at them with prehistoric contempt. The toad knows he can jump if they get too close. One guy reaches. Toad jumps.

This sudden movement tweaks an inborn danger response and the guy recoils like a baby. Then a second guy pushes forward and scoops up the toad before it can even think of jumping again. The toad is surprised by this scoop because it came with no hesitation. Now the toad’s cupped in two strong fists, being stroked and studied. The toad’s not the only one who’s surprised. The other guys are, too, because the toad’s picker-upper was a young woman. A skinny, pretty blonde. Once again, we reluctantly have to admit: sometimes a girl can be a two-fisted guy.