Curtsinger’s

Thursdays were always lonely. Especially after 6, when the sun morphed into just another hill carving the horizon, not many cows, not many cars—so much nothing. There seemed to be no last-minute patrons for Curtsinger’s Sunrise Outfitters, the best sporting shop in the Danville area. 

My foot tapped the display case, knocking hello to the different arrowheads and grips. A traditional point, a bulbous triangle, a serrated edge, and one that looked like a grappling hook: a fine collection for many experienced hunters who pledged, here, their allegiance. I had come to recognize several regulars in my limited time at the establishment. There was John, a friend of Mr. Curtsinger since he opened the place decades ago. Now, he fixes tractors and fishes with his family in his spare time. John never failed to be the warmest; he considered the shop his second home, the wrinkles in his aged skin like the cracks on the walls. Tammy, a tightly wound woman standing less than five foot three, was also a normal occurrence. Both treated me with kindness as I became a familiar sight behind the counter. 

I have been sitting on this stool watching the door, and the shelves, and whatnot once a week for the last few months. After a year of constant underperforming, I decided to invest in private archery lessons in hopes of regaining some type of stability in my scores. Most highly recommended was Ms. Jessica Curtsinger, which led me to hours like these ones. While she did turn half my technique on its head, our conversations were always pleasant. I learned a bit more about hunting practices, Jessica urging me to try it at least once despite my assurance that I keep no intention of ripping through flesh.

Time went tremendously slow without patrons. The air settled but was never heavy. Bob enjoyed singing along with random country songs, swinging his long brown beard side to side while restringing a recurve bow. I couldn’t help but fidget with my phone case, twisting the plastic in between my fingers. I went back to my fletching sorting, separating the straight from the helical and recounting some unfamiliar faces from the previous hour. 

First, there was the older gentleman dressed in a red plaid button-up shirt and jeans. I’d been putting up the arrow rests while he hobbled into the adjacent aisles, perusing the variety of worm bait. It wasn’t until he turned the corner that he caught my darkened hair and complexion. He walked strangely after that: keeping me at least a glance away, measuring my distance like a lion ready to pounce. I lent a nod to him, continuing to ruffle through the releases. 

And then there was the middle-aged man, a John Deere green cap snug against brown locks curled at the ends. He was definitely more clean-cut than most around here, shaved face housing a full set of visible teeth (he’s still got a few more years to go though). His gait slowed as if his shoes became weighted with water when our eyes met. His gaze wandered around the shop, so many expectations being trampled by observation; I couldn’t help but feel a little pity. Jessica recognized him. The man’s father worked as a pastor at the church down the road. They engaged in casual chatter about local gossip across the counter. 

It was the boy, however, that piqued my interest. The tiny fellow stood beside his dad (I presumed), eyes wide. He was a kid in a candy shop of worms, stabilizers, bruising blunt tips, and camo gear; it was something all children his age would wish for, an outing like this with his father, who was then consulting the available hooks on a display carousel. 

I returned to the boy, asking, “So what’s your name?” 

“Mox!” exclaimed the small fry, still delighted by the wonders around him. I chuckled at his excitement before answering

“That’s a cool name! Y’all goin’ fishin’ er huntin’ soon?” I replied heartedly. My usual drawl returned; it always did at Curtsinger’s. The kid’s father glanced over and grinned, now adjusted to my presence and confusion long gone. 

“We’re goin’ to go fishin’ t’morrow! Me, Dad, and Papaw, and Mamaw.” 

“Oh wow! Is it your first time?” 

“Yep! I want to catch a big big fish.” He responded. I laughed at his bubbly nature. 

My sleepy daydream crumbled like stiff foam firing cones when Jessica squeezed my shoulder. 

“You alright?” She asked, gray eyes not leaving the door. I nod. We stayed like that for a while, slumped against the countertop, listening to the squeaking bow rest. The television mumbled the local happenings in between commercials with instructions on how to convert your money into gold.  Jessica fiddled with her necklace and its silver cross pendant before letting out a huff. 

“He’s late.” 

I was well aware of who she was referring to—the 10-year-old boy who took lessons after me, the last of the evening. “Hopefully, he’ll come soon,” I replied. 

“Doin’ anythin’ fun for the weekend?”

I hesitated before saying “...I got another tournament at Woodford County, that school with that angry bee.” 

Jessica smiled, happy to not hear my usual answer of “I have homework to do.” She thinks I study too much. I always tell her it’s just the way it is and don’t bother to elaborate further. I consider myself selfish like that, delving into a world without telling of my own. They don’t press, though. I don’t want to break their cycle as much as they don’t. It would be genuinely bewildering if they did, like a clock stuck on the same hour and minute, ticking but going nowhere in particular.

“Invade the hive. Go get those bumblebees.” She cheekily chuckled as I grinned.

DING, DING ding. The comfortable ambiance startled when the door swung open by none other than Teddy Greene, a regular. He hailed from the high hills, each mound the sleeping belly of his forefathers that never left, generation after generation.

“Hey, Bob” greeted Teddy.

“Howdy Mr. Greene, how’s it lookin’ out there?” Bob asked about nothing in particular. It was like a tradition, an exchange I knew too well, a Curtsinger would throw out the question and the older gentleman would answer:

“Same ol’, same ol’…” He paused before continuing.

“Well, there was sometin’ outside: a man outside, talkin’ on the phone, awfully interested in the barns in the yard.”

“Hmmmmm…” Bob racked his brain for clients who had recently shown interest in the steads. 

“I don’t know what he’s doin’. How do ya look at framin’ without proper light?”

“What’d he look like?” Bob questioned, still puzzled. 

“I don’t know who he is. Well, well he was the lightest black man I’d ever seen!” At that, the man behind the counter scrunched his eyebrows, even more perplexed than before. However, upon hearing this exchange, I stopped my fletching sorting, snorting at the whole thing.  I was familiar with that description. 

Swiveling to look at Jessica, I saw her bewildered features, holding eye contact until a laugh sputtered out of her lips. “Sounds like that’s my queue to leave.” I grab my bow case and jacket and stroll to the other side of the counter. I wave goodnight to the Curtsingers and Mr. Greene, mumbling “Have a good evenin’, y’all.” Walking out the door, I am met with my father dressed in hospital scrubs and kicking gravel around the parking lot. He looks up. “You ready?” I nod.

“Let’s go home.”

Kiran