The construction crew ate lunch together in the house they were building and discussed the state of the world. There were differences of opinion, but perhaps some listening was going on,, some digestion of new facts or insights. Someone might have even changed his mind.
I worked my way through my typical vegetation fare. The boss gnawed away the bratwurst he’d prepared from an elk shot by a neighbor. Another crew member wolfed down an elk burrito. He offered me a taste but I politely declined. The other member of the crew, the burrito eater’s 16-year old nephew, sat next to me. He’d shot the elk his uncle was now devouring.
That was a lot of elk at that moment. I said aloud we must be the only construction crew in Oregon where half the crew was eating elk for lunch on the site. The kid said he doubted that. He was probably right. This was Oregon after all.
I decided not to tell the crew I was working on a erotic story where an elk rutting in the rain turns on a sexless hipster couple from Portland and they get it on in the back of a Kia at an elk viewing area. They wouldn’t get it. I’m not sure I do either. But I was going where elk led me, and it wasn’t bratwurst or a burrito.