Teaching Houston how to BBQ

Some of us saw it as a chance to show the state of Texas just how good our BBQ was.  The rest saw it as a week long party.  Either way, we were headed south down I-45 to Houston in late February to hang out with two hundred and fifty thousand other people choking on pit smoke and drinking a few adult beverages.  This was our first time to cook in competition.  Most of us didn’t know exactly what to expect but we had some ideas.  Six of us made the journey that first year.  The original bow hunting group of me, Steve, Jack and Bill along with two new members, Randy and Gary.  Law & (Dis)Order was the name of our team.  Half of our members were in some type of law enforcement.  One was a constable, a locally infamous man that supposedly shot a hole in the town's water tower while trying to apprehend a burglar, one was a state trooper and another a Texas Ranger.  Now I realize the first thing that comes to many minds when I say Texas Ranger is Chuck Norris but this was hardly the case.  Our Ranger was cut from a different cloth.  Chiffon comes to mind. Silk or lace would be another. Our Ranger is the one who fell 20 feet from a tree stand with vertigo while bow hunting.  The same guy that was bitten by a baby squirrel.  Same one who burned his hand on the tractor muffler, fell off a ladder onto a piece of angle iron and instantly became a Jack-sickle.  The same one that raised a T-Post driver as high as he could, missed the T-post on the way down and hit his forehead instead.   Instantly sending a shock wave across his body, down through his toes, temporarily paralyzing and concussing him enough to make him think he was actually going to die, for real this time. This was our Chucky Norris and this was our (Dis)order part of the team.  The rest of us were there to babysit, keep the peace and post bail money just in case we messed up the first two. 

Set up day was the day all teams would come in and unload. Hundreds of pits all cramming in to one parking lot at the same time along with campers, wood, dishes and tents.  Our crew focused more on the essentials. Fire extinguishers, first aid kits, a designated eye wash location, burn sprays, first aid posters, emergency exit signs, HazMat suits, MSDS sheets and a few others things to make sure Jack returned to his wife at the end of the week still breathing.  We also set up our pit, the camper we would all cram into at night and unloaded a few other necessities.

It didn’t take long for us to find trouble on day one.  In the early days of the cook-off, a team could leave one vehicle inside their designated location and Jack had decided that his truck should be the one left in. His theory was, if something Ranger related came up, he would need to leave in a hurry.  The rest of us knew Jack had a camper shell on the back of the truck and all the wood we needed for the entire week was piled inside. We didn't want to unload it so we agreed. A few hours passed and before long an inspector stopped by.  “This your truck?” the guy asked.  “Yes it is.”  Jack said with his chest stuck out.  “You know that if it’s here tomorrow, it will have to stay here until Sunday right?”  “Once those main gates are closed, nothing comes in or out.”  Jack looked him dead in his eyes and said, “I’m a Texas Ranger!  If I need to leave, I’m gonna leave.”  We all stopped what we were doing and looked over at the inspector figuring Jack had finally got the best of some poor soul that didn’t know him like we did.  The guy took a step forward, almost as to get close enough to whisper to Jack.  A little squint appeared in his eye as he replied, “Wanna bet?”  Of course a unison of oh’s came from behind Jack.  In country boy terms, it meant, now what are you going to do?  Jack mumbled something and nodded his head.  He claimed that he told the guy he couldn’t stop him.  Seeing that the inspector didn’t respond made us think Jack agreed that his truck would be staying inside the fence and remain in park through the weekend.

Our pit was nicknamed Bertha.  She was a rather robust cooker mounted on a 16 foot long trailer surrounded by four walls and a roof.  A large smoker on one side, cutting table, sink and a gas stove on the other side.  Bertha had plenty of room for three people and that worked out well for us because out of the six we had, three didn’t know how to cook.  Thursday night Jack, Bill and I were cutting up a few briskets in the pit and passing out food when Gary stumbled up.  Now Gary’s not a big guy.  If the six of us were cheerleaders, Gary would be the toss man.  The one we throw up in the air before failing to catch him on the way down, giggling as he bounced off the track. He would go a solid 5’5 and weight a dollar and some change so it didn’t take a whole lot of alcohol to get him rather toasty.  It was after five so of course he was pretty hammered.  Gary doesn’t smoke unless he’s drinking and cigars are his choice of tobacco.  Most of us attribute it to his Napoleon complex but Gary always says he just likes the way they taste.  A long dog rocket stuck out of his mouth as he came walking up to the end of the pit.  “I need to get by you guys.”  Gary mumbled.  We could hardly understand him as he tried to talk around that cigar.   “What’d he say Jack?” “I think he said he needs a good guy at night” was Jack’s reply.  Of course the cigar came out of his mouth after that.  “Let me in the damn pit.” It was a little clearer this time.  Gary moved his way up to the front of the pit close to me and started turning knobs of the stove.  “You know what you’re doing Gary?”  No response.  We all knew Gary wasn’t on the team for his cooking skills so it kind of worried us when he started jacking with the gas stove.  It was soon obvious that Gary had to light the cigar and apparently the stove was the easiest way to get that done. With his back turned to us, he bent down toward the stove, placed the end of the cigar close to the coil and boom!  A big mushroom cloud of smoke came up and surrounded Gary’s head as it rose to the ceiling. The small explosion knocked me back a few feet.  After gaining my balance I started over to him.  Bill and Jack didn’t know whether to grab the fire extinguisher, burn spray or eye wash.  Gary slowly rose and turned around and by that time I was eye to eye with him.  I looked at his face and the last of his eyebrows were retreating into his head with little ambers burning on the ends.  They reminded me of little fuses headed toward a firecracker.  Before I could say anything they were gone.  Gary took a deep puff of that cigar and let it out, covering my face with the nastiest smell I’ve ever been around.  It was like a mixture of dumpster fire and burnt hair.  I started gagging as I watched his mustache slowly disappear.  He had no idea.  I tried to tell him but couldn’t get a word out from choking on the smoke. A big grin came across his face.  He thought it was cute watching me gasp for air.  What he didn’t know was that he was now bald from the chin up.  No facial hair whatsoever. No mustache, eyebrows or eye lashes.  If even took his two day old stubble. He didn’t seem to care though.  The cigar was lit and everything was right in Gary’s world.  

 Friday night Jack, Bill and I were back in the pit cooking.  Bertha was popping out briskets and the three of us were slicing, dicing and handing sandwiches over to hungry souls who dared to try it or were too drunk to know any better.  Gary and Steve were in another tent spreading the good word of our mission and nobody knew where Randy was.  At the smoker, I was chopping BBQ, Bill was mixing it up for sandwiches and moving them over into the pan and Jack was strategically placed at the end away from sharp objects, fire and steps.  It was about that time I noticed a guy that we all knew (and cousin to Gary and Randy) come up to our area.   Woody had been by to visit a few times earlier in the week but this time was different.  It was after dark and he had been drinking.  And when I say “had been drinking”, I mean he was still drinking and was starting to speak Russian.   Woody was wobbly to put it nicely.  It took him a good ten steps to advance three.  The only thing holding him up was the number of people he would bump into on his way down to the asphalt.  I kept an eye on him the entire time as he not so casually walked behind Jack’s truck and disappeared.  Jack didn’t see him.  Heck Jack couldn’t see much of anything from all the smoke at that end of the pit where we put him, but I looked over at Bill about the time he looked over at me and said, “You think…” and before I could get the rest of it out, Bill said, “Yep.”  What we both realized was that Woody needed a place to exhale.  A place to prevent all that beer from ending up in his boot.  Porta-Cans were in short supply at the cook-off.  The ones that were there seemed 2 miles away if you were drunk and usually had a line about as long of other drunks needing to get in.  Plus on top of that it was cold that night.  So cold that most of us had on our insulated coveralls.  Woody, in his drunken wisdom, found a better solution.  A semi private outlet turned outhouse minus walls.  After a couple of minutes, ole Wood came back out from behind Jack’s truck having done the duty and headed into the camper.  I’ve been called an instigator on more than one occasion.  I know it’s hard to believe but the guys will tell you I like to poke fun and stir the pot.  I looked over at Bill and whispered, “Let’s see where this goes.”  “Hey Jack, I think Woody just peed on your truck.”  Knowing the whole time that he didn’t but also knowing it would upset Jack.  “Yeah right” Jack said.  “He might be drunk but he’s not stupid.”  “No Jack I think he did too” Bill jumped right in on the gag.  We could tell that Jack didn’t want to believe us but he was starting to have doubts.  I put my knife down and calmly started walking behind the truck.  My intent the entire way there was to tell Jack that Woody had peed all over his tire.  Just to make him mad and come over to look.  What I saw when I got there made me take a couple of steps back to get the full effect of what had happened.  Woody had not in fact peed on Jack’s tire.  Somehow, he missed it altogether.  Woodrow instead started at the passenger side front bumper, continued above the tire on the fender, made his way up across the glass of the door, peaked out at the top of the camper around the half-way point of the truck and then worked his way back down along the back fender, over the tire and to the rear bumper.  I found myself staring in amazement.  I was actually kind of impressed.  First at the distance he had covered, second of the amount of pee,  third at the pressure he must have had built up to get that high and fourth, at the artwork of a near perfect rainbow coming from a guy that drunk.  “Bill, you’ve got to come see this!” I yelled.  “Jack, you just stay there for a couple of minutes.”  This is something you want to let one person at a time see so you can soak in everything that is happening.   Jack, thinking it was all part of the gag never looked up.  Bill came over and also marveled at the canvas.  Pointing out the individual streams that had ran down from top to bottom like the dew on the hood of a truck once you start driving down the road.   After a few minutes of pointing, picture taking and measuring, we headed back to the smoker.  Of course we started in on Jack as soon as we got there but Jack stood firm. Eventually though, after several minutes, Jack had enough of us saying “Just go look” and headed over. Bill and I didn’t know what to expect next.  We really didn't think it out that far ahead.  We looked around for Woody but by that time he had disappeared into the camper.  Why he didn’t use the bathroom in there in the first place, at the time we didn’t know.  We found out later though, at the same time we found out where Randy had been holed up.  As Bill and I watched Jack, walk behind his truck, things went from “haha” to “oh hell” in the blink of an eye.  Jack yelled out a string of cuss words that would make a prison guard blush and took off walking toward the camper.  “Get him Bill.”  I calmly said as I continued to chop brisket.  Jack started coming out of his coveralls one arm at a time as he came around the truck.  “Get him Bill.”  I said a little louder as Jack passed in front of us.  Bill never moved.  “Bill, go get him.”  I repeated a couple more times as Jack got closer to the camper.  Just at the moment Jack walked up to the camper door, Randy happened to be on his way outside.  Now Randy is a happy-go-lucky kind of guy.  He’ll go 6’2 and at the time was pushing 240 pounds.   He’s the kind that tries to keep the peace among people who are upset and wants everyone to have a good time.  A real gentle giant type of person who just likes being around the group and having fun.  That being said, whatever Randy saw when he opened the door and looked Jack square in the eyes must have been something like seeing the Devil himself  for the first time face to face. Now he’ll tell you to this day that it was just the surprise of seeing someone there when he opened the door that made him scream so loud that people in the next tent called 911 to assist a lady in distress. But we all know it was from the fear that Jack put in him. As baritone Randy was hitting the Mariah Carey G7 note, Jack was reaching out to grab the door. Randy, either fearing for his own life or suddenly needing to visit the bathroom again, or both, slammed the door in his face, which just made Jack even more upset.  “Bill, go get him!” I said again.  I’m not sure if it was the high pitched squeal from Randy that changed his mind but Bill finally started walking over.  As he came in behind him, Bill, in trying to hold him back, got credited for the assist in taking off both arms of Jack’s coveralls.  Bill grabbed him again from behind on the shoulder this time and before I could blink, Bill had been spun around in front of Jack and assumed the position of tightly griping Jack’s right hand with his own throat while being shoved up against the camper door.  Bill to his credit had each hand on Jack's shoulders.  Jack was countering with one handful of Bill's windpipe.  “Calm down Jack” is what I think I heard from the garbled voice Bill made. Gary and Steve had heard the scream as well and were getting there about that time to assist the lady in trouble.  Bill, now turning bright red was starting to have a look of panic.  “Let him go Jack.” Steve said.  “Bill must have really done something bad to get Jack this upset” said Gary.  “He’s not after Bill.  He’s after Woody.  Bill just happened to get in front of his choke hand as he was reaching for the door!” was the reply.

A few minutes later calmer heads prevailed.  Thanks in large part to hairless Gary showing up which allowed us to poke fun at him again.  Jack soon returned to his coveralls and Bill’s color soon returned to his face.  Randy, who somehow snuck Woody out the little window in the camper’s bathroom had stepped back out from the camper after everything seemed to be normal. We all got a good laugh out of it after a little while.  Gary and Randy’s cousin had been escorted out to the parking lot with some assistance from friends and things slowly got back to normal.  It wasn’t until sometime just before midnight that things picked back up.  Woody, as if he left bread crumbs on his way out, found his way back to our tent. Gary spotted him first and cut him off before Jack noticed.  “You can’t come back in here cuz” Gary said.  “You’ve worn out your welcome.  You better leave before something bad happens.”  After a little back and forth, Woody took a step back and yelled, “Well F&#@ all you boys from Leon County.” Gary started forward. “Go get him Bill” I whispered.  “You can go to hell Tim” was the answer I got back.

Varmints Attack

The truth of the matter is, there is only once or twice  a year all four of us can get together and hunt. This weekend wasn't a hunting weekend though.   This was a fill the feeders and plant the food plots weekend. The plan was to leave out early Saturday morning and be back Saturday afternoon around 5:30. Roughly about the time Steve gets off work so his wife wouldn't get suspicious. Just after the crack of dawn Saturday morning, about 9am local time, we met in town,  loaded up in Bill's truck and headed out to Jack's place in central Texas.  We took a couple of ATV's and a list of things to accomplish on this day of work.  Shortly after arriving, we get the 1940 model Massey Ferguson tractor cranked, get the disk hooked up and head out to tear up some of the hardest soil known to Texas. Jack is the tractor man, there were better operators, but it was his tractor, I was the seed scatterer on my ATV, Bill was the drag man and Steve, well, lets just say Steve was in charge of refreshments. It wasn't long before we had a good chunk of land disked, seeded, and covered at each stand and next on the agenda was filling feeders.
Upon arrival back at the barn, Jack kills the tractor, hops down and begins to marvel and the job he has done disking our food plots. Just as he leans back against the hood of the tractor, Jack sticks his hand out and finds the muffler of Mr. Massey, still red hot and ready for unsuspecting day dreamers.  Jack let's out a scream that can only be heard by canine breeds in the area and me and the other two do what any good friends would do in a time of distress.  We fell on the ground laughing. Our friend was in pain and we were there to take advantage of it by doing what men do, making fun of the situation.  If there's one thing women don't understand about men it's this.  Guys will take any and every opportunity to laugh at each others expense. Whether it's pain, stupidity, carelessness, accidents, or all of the above rolled into one.  After Jack finds an ice chest and soothes his second degree burns, we walk inside the barn and grab some lunch. After we eat, Jack finds some gloves to wear, I'm thinking why bother now but that's just me.  As we load up our corn trailer we hear a squeaking sound. Nobody knows for sure what it is or where it's coming from but you can bet, we plan on finding, then exterminating it.  Bill and Steve start pulling barrels away from the walls, I'm moving old feeders and unbeknownst to us, Jack is standing directly behind me with a shovel pulled back over his right shoulder just in case he sees movement from something other than us.  As soon as something darted out from behind a barrel, Jack was planning on swinging for the fences. The only things that were gonna impede a grand slam swing from the mighty Jacky would be somebodies head, leg, chest or heaven forbid, groin area. Well, lucky for us, once Steve saw Jack winding up, job descriptions began to change.  "Jack!!  By the time you swing, whatever you're aiming at will be past you!  Slowly back away and put down the shovel." Steve said. Potential disaster and another trip to the emergency room temporarily avoided.
Against the wall, Jack had cabinets that reached nearly to the ceiling of his barn. The tops were a good twelve foot above the floor and ended about chest level setting above a work area. The only way to access the top shelves was by ladder, which seemed strange to us. From the top of the cabinets to the ceiling was a one foot gap that made the perfect hiding spot for all things furry. It had to be where the squeaking noises were coming from.   Jack, in his ultimate wisdom, grabbed a ladder and headed north.  By now you know that Jack isn't lucky when it comes to safety. In fact, there hasn't been a trip we've made where Jack didn't get hurt some how. So when Jack started up the ladder, Steve starting running out to the truck to get a camera. We could have stopped him, him being Steve, not Jack, but when you see an opportunity like this, you make the best of it. This could be our $10,000 AFV moment and we didn't plan on missing it.  Jack gets up to the top two steps on the ladder and peeps over the top of the cabinets. "Do you see anything Jack?" asks Bill.  "Nothing yet but the noise is coming from up here." Jack replied. "I'm gonna move this little box and see what's behind it."  It's at this point that the phrase "Hey y'all, watch this" or "I bet you I can" comes to mind.  Famous last words are spoken in situations just like this and Bill and I both knew it. Not only did we know it but it was confirmed that the other knew it when we looked at each other and grinned.  "Wait just a second Jack."  Bill said.  "Why are you stopping him Bill?" I asked, "Because Steve's not back yet with the camera." said Bill, but by now it was too late.  As we turned to look back up at Jack, he had reached into the box, then almost immediately after, let out what can only be described as a scream made by wildcats in the night.  Something that makes the hairs on your neck stand up then run down your back for cover. A noise that makes all the birds in a one mile radius all fly off in unison.  Bill and I watched intensely to see what it was.  A rattlesnake? Maybe a possum?  We didn't know.   Jack's hand came out of the box faster than most eyes can follow.  It was like a blur of yellow leather glove that extended a good two feet from start to finish, and when it did finish, Jack started shaking his hand furiously back and forth, but there was something different. Something didn't look just right as we watched Jack up there on the ladder. As we tuned in to the glove we saw it. There was a furry little tail growing out of Jack's hand. A baby squirrel had latched onto Jack's middle finger.  This little monster had a vise grip jaw locked down on Jack with no intent on letting go.  How something that small could even open it's mouth wide enough around a glove and bite through it was something we could not comprehend.  We didn't know what to do. We couldn't climb the ladder, Steve still wasn't back with the camera, so Bill and I just watched.  Bill gave me 2-1 odds that Jack would fall before the squirrel but before we could shake on it, Jack grabbed the squirrel with his other hand, letting go of the ladder in the process, and pulled it off his finger.  One problem solved and another presented itself. By letting go of the ladder, Jack, who was at the top anyway, became a victim of gravity. Now Bill and I were below him at this point and seeing what's about to unfold, we reach out to try and catch the baby squirrel.  Jack, on the other hand, was obviously way to big to catch. Well Jack starts heading south and there's all sorts of junk around the ladder.  Barrels, parts, and deer feeders turned legs up. "Squirrel bait" would soon find out that it was a deer feeder leg that would turn him into a Jack-kabob.  A small angle iron leg sticking out from a deer feeder would slow Jack's fall to the ground. Matter of fact, it would be that little piece of iron that would keep Jack from hitting the ground all together. At first glance, it looked to us like a direct shot. What we call being corn holed. Rear ended, a poop shot. Jack was just hanging there in mid air resting on top of this one metal leg growing out of his butt.  He looked like a corn dog.  Like Jack on a stick.  Maybe cotton candy or a Jacksicle would be the best way to describe it.  After closer inspection though, luckily for Jack, that wasn't the case.  The angle iron caught him on the hip. Branded him with a large Nike swoosh on the backside.  Something for him to always remember that little squirrel by. The whole episode didn't take more than a minute. Steve had just got back to the barn with the camera when we were pulling Jack off the feeder leg.  Missed it all. No documented proof. Just eye witnesses to another weekend of defying death at the deer camp.

Central Texas Deer Hunting, East Texas Style

Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Deer hunting trips by groups of 3 or more take time to plan.  You get together, work out times, schedules, lists then stick to the plan.  That's how it starts but that's not always how it ends up.
There were four of us, Steve, Bill, Jack and myself. Deer hunting over a weekend, a span of three hunts and nothing was guaranteed. We drove in Friday night, got unpacked, cleaned the wasps and mice from the outhouse and settled in, ready to bag some deer.
Saturday morning went by without much progress and Saturday afternoon was proving to be the same.  Bill and I both hunted out of ground blinds surrounded by camo.  Steve had a metal tripod stand and Jack, for reasons none of us know to this day, built a tree stand about 20 feet off the ground.  A few deer came in, a small buck or two but no shooters. The sunlight was fading and darkness was filling in the holes between the limbs. I had left my stand and had just made it to the meeting place. I was the first one there and it was dark enough now to turn on the flashlight.  As the beam of light hit the trees in front of me, I heard the most frightening noise that my ears have let pass. It sounded like a bear growling before an attack. But this was Central Texas, there are no bears here, but it made me begin to wonder. A minute passed and I heard it again. This time it was closer. The hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. My goosebumps got goosebumps. It was at that instant that I started looking for a tall tree.  Steve, hunting about 200 yards away, heard it too.  He was so afraid that he wouldn't come down from his stand and Bill was nowhere to be found.  I didn't know where Jack was either. He wasn't answering his radio and and out of the four of us, he would be the one most likely to get eaten first.  Another minute passed and I heard a third roar but this time I saw a light. It was coming from the same direction as the bear and then Jack came over the radio. "Guys, come get me. I can't walk any further." What? What's going on? Are you hurt?  Did the bear get you? "No." Jack said, I'm dizzy and I can't quit throwing up." And then it hit me. That was the bear sound. That was the sound that had me ready to run up a tree. Jack was puking his guts up. After a few seconds of checking myself, and my shorts, I started heading toward Jack. Bill and I both got there about the same time to find Jack on all fours, giving the ants a good shower of bile. Steve was still too afraid to come down from his stand.  I looked at Jack and asked what was the matter. "I'm not sure but my head won't stop spinning and I can't stop throwing up.","I got dizzy up in the tree, tried to crawl down but fell the last 9 feet."  So now fear turns not to concern but to laughter. Yep, our good friend, who brought us all out to hunt on his place, is so messed up he can't walk and we've get to crack jokes now. So after a few minutes of kicking a guy when he's down, cooler heads prevail and we realize that Jack needs to go to the hospital. Only problem is, we are over a mile from the camp house and now Jack can't walk. So guess who gets to carry puking Jack back to the camp house. Yep, this guy. Now keep in mind, Jack's not small. He'll go 6 foot and weighs in around 2 bills. Probably average size unless you have to carry the guy a mile through the woods but it had to be done. Before long we were back at to the camp house and a trip to the emergency room was next on the agenda.
Because there was a possibility of hurling, we took Jack's truck. Apparently Steve and Bill had got together on the walk up to the camp house and designated me to drive.  They were going to follow us to the hospital, after they took a shower and ate supper of course.  We were only 15 miles from town but 5 of that was down a bumpy dirt road and it didn't take long to find out that bumpy dirt roads and dizzy guys throwing up don't mix.  As soon as we pulled out of the gate Jack started in on me.  "You've got to hurry up Tim, I don't know if I'm gonna make it."  Don't know if you're gonna make it? Now you're dying on me? So I sped up.  "Slow down Tim.""The bumps are making it worse" says Jack.  What the heck?  I can only do one or the other.  "Try reading a magazine or something to take your mind off of it." I said.  Well, let's just say that wasn't the best solution but I've never claimed to be a doctor.
We get about a mile down the road and I start hearing a banging noise coming from Jack's truck.  I don't want to stop because Jack might die but it gets louder and louder and pretty soon I know that if I don't stop, I might tear up Jack's truck and his wife will never let me hear the end of it if that happens.  I pull over and look underneath and somehow, some way, Jack's spare tire near the back of the truck had loosened up and was dragging the ground.  How in the world can this happen right now?  I'm betting that Steve and Bill had something to do with it. I crawled underneath and took the tire off and threw it in the back, got back in he truck to see that Jack was still alive.
After what seemed to be an eternity, we pull up to the emergency room and I carry Jack inside.  We get him checked into a room and the nurse asks me to take a seat in the waiting room.  After thirty minutes or so, Bill and Steve show up, cleaned and fed, and take a seat in the the waiting room with me.  Before long, Steve leans over and says, "Did you call Jack's wife?"  "Geez!  I totally forgot."  Who wants to give her the bad news?" Bill says.  We talked it over for a few minutes and after a quick game of Roshambo, best two out of three, I lose and give her a call.  "Kara, this is Tim.  Don't be worried but we had to bring Jack to the emergency room."  I waited for the nervous, desperate reply of a freaked out wife.  "What's wrong with him?"  Kara asked.  "Well, he's dizzy, throwing up, and can't walk."  I replied.  "We're not sure but they are checking him out now."  What Kara said next will be burned into my brain until the day I die."Well,  it's probably just a virus.  He'll be alright." she said.  My eyes opened up like cannon balls as my mouth hit the floor.  Enough to where I heard Steve lean over and say to Bill, "I bet Kara told him to pull the plug."  "You think that's all it is Kara?" I asked.  "Yeah, he'll be fine." she said.  "OK, I'll call you if anything changes" I replied.
I hung up the phone and looked over at Steve and Bill.  :"What'd she say Tim?"  asked Bill.  "She said that it's probably just a virus and he'll be fine.""And we should go back and hunt in the morning".
A couple of hours had past as we hung out in the waiting room, watching TV, tilting the vending machine and waiting for some kind of word when a nurse finally came out and told us we could go back to see him.  None of us knew what it was but it had to be serious because of the long wait.  We got back to the room and pull the curtain back and there lays Jack looking like death warmed over.  He's lost what little color he had in his face and his eyes looked sunken into his head. The only color he had were these big red bumps all over his skin and we begin taking bets on what it was. Cancer was the early favorite followed by measles and then poison sumac.  "Bill, we need to call Kara.  This doesn't look good." Steve says.  Then before any of us could ask how he's doing, Steve peeps over my shoulder and says, "Hey Jack, can I hunt your stand tomorrow "  Bill and I hit the floor laughing.  What little bit of Jack's eyes are showing roll back in his head.   Jack, you alright?  Jack moans and looks up at us.  "What did they say Jack?"  Steve says.  Jack can hardly talk.  His hand shook badly as he reached for a cup up water. After taking a little sip he whispered, "Vertigo". What did he say? Vertigo?  "Isn't that just a balance problem?" I asked.  Yes, but they gave me something to help that caused an allergic reaction."said Jack,  "That's what has taken so long.""And they're gonna keep me here all night."  After a bunch of ribbing and pansy related name calling, the head nurse walks in and politely tells us to keep it quite or she was going to give me a Foley.  "I'm not sure what that is but if you're giving it, I don't want it." was the reply.  After saying our goodbyes to Jack and reassuring him that Kara was truly concerned, we headed back to the camp house.   Sunday morning we hunted,  Steve on Jack's stand, then headed home after that.  We later found out Jack was transported to Temple later on in the night after having a reaction to another drug, then after spending a day there, somehow made it to his mom's house where he would spend the next week under her care.
Jack's doing better now.  Not in the normal sense of the word but considering Jack's proneness to accidents, he's better.  That weekend trip of deer hunting would be the catalysis for many accidents and injuries in the future to Jack on our hunting trips to his ranch in Central Texas.  I later found out the purpose of a Foley  and was glad I shut up when I did.