Chapter Three
Trenton McClelland's Story: Part Three
Charles Fulman was sitting at a long banquet table that had been set up on the stage, on the far side of Aspen Hall. Hundreds of people were taking their seats, with mounds of different foods on their plates. Additional tables had been brought in and several people were setting up an extended patio dining area outside, to accommodate everyone that arrived for the dinner. Though the temperature was quickly becoming frigid, most people had no choice but to take their food into the cold September air. The patio did have several propane heaters scattered around it, but Charles doubted they made it comfortable enough to those seated ountside. The sun was low on the horizon, and would set before dinner ended marking the start of the next phase of the tournament.
Charles looked around the hall and could not help but be pleased for what was still to come tonight. The people that he had just been addressing out in the park, were now all engrossed in their own conversations. Looking down the buffet line at the people deciding what to eat, his eyes wandered over to the entrance. Charles noticed that Clay Briggs and his two man crew had just walked in the door, accompanied by the stunning Sonya Briggs. Charles had met her once before, at last year's Northwest Pro-Am that took place in Spokane, Washington, and had never forgotten about her. Not just for almost sixty, she was gorgeous (period) as far as Charles was concerned. He was also aware that one of the two boys with them was Clay's best shooter, Trenton McClelland.
Charles had seen him shoot last year, and was dazzled by his performance in the longshot. What Charles knew and had informed Clay of, being that he was one of the sponsors, was that this year, a new event that McClelland should excel in, would be taking place. When the dinner died down a bit, and more people were focused on him rather than their food, Charles would announce the exciting news. For now, he contented himself to a juicy fried chicken breast.
He looked over to the Hayes' table. This family had always traveled together to the different AFA events. He had seen them in Houston, Texas for the Southern Pro-Am not even two weeks ago. The father, Benjamin Hayes, was the champion of the first seven AFA main events Charles had hosted, when he was made Director. That was fifteen years ago. Benjamin's oldest son, Everette, had been the reigning champion for four years now, and would be competing tonight in the longshot, as well as the next day, in the main event. Benjamin's middle son, Brady had just taken second place in the Juniors 13-17, and as a favor to his father, not to mention the lack of competitors, the seventeen year old boy would also be competing in the longshot. Charles was clear though, that Brady still would not be allowed to compete in the Pro-Am tomorrow.
Placing a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, Charles continued scanning the crowd. To his left sat James Greene, Vice President of Bowtech, and to James' left sat Doug Howsen. To Charles' right, Brenda Gotts, his Assistant Director, was giggling her shrill giggle that made him want to stab his fork through her piercing little vocal chords, maybe taking with it her hideous red, plastic pearl necklace that she always wore. He cringed as she let out an extraordinarily loud nasal snort followed by more agonizing laughs.
Trying not to let his mind dwell for too long on such evil, yet relaxing imagery, he set his focus back to those people in Aspen Hall. He saw Anatoly Petrov, a mean, drunk Russian from Vancouver, Washington that most people just called Tolik. What always confounded Charles was that, as drunk as Tolik could get, he was undoubtedly one of the top fifteen archers in the world, as long as he kept his temper.
Sitting with Petrov and having a very shifty-eyed conversation, was Lincoln Hough, also from Vancouver. While they weren't raising their voices, this talk they were having seemed to be a very heated discussion. Lincoln continued glancing around at the other tables and finally locked eyes on Charles. They stared at each other for far too long, making Charles exceptionally uncomfortable. In Lincoln's stare, Charles saw an intense flash of anger. He was going to look away, when Lincoln had brought Tolik's attention to him as well. Tolik looked about ready to leap from his chair and charge Charles with intent to kill. However, Tolik looked back to Lincoln, said a few inaudible words, then both men stood and left Aspen Hall. They would miss the announcement Charles would be giving momentarily, but he didn't mind so much right then.
As Tolik and Lincoln's table was cleared, Trenton McClelland had finished piling his plate with food, and staked claim to the available seats before someone else could. Charles watched as he sat down his plate and told two people behind him that the rest of the seats were taken. The couple seemed to get upset over this and were about to argue with him, when Clay Briggs and his other employee walked up and took their seats. Sonya showed up only moments later, and Darby Wilson, the young girl with the bruised face, who had just won her division tournament, was in tow.
The table filled with the group, and the couple that had missed out on the only seats inside, bit their tongues and marched out the open doors leading to the patio. Charles laughed quietly to himself and took another bite of fried chicken that he had topped with the last of his garlic mashed potatoes.
He looked at Darby, and couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She had won her tournament, but it had cost her something. Her face now stained black and blue, with a constant reminder that she had been punched awfully hard. When Charles had told her she would be allowed to compete in that night's longshot competition, she thanked him and explained that she would be at the dinner, but her parents required her home by seven. Charles didn't question her about it, but something about the way she had declined, told him that she was going to have trouble explaining what had happened to her today.
Brenda Gotts leaned in toward Charles. “I think now would be a good time to tell them all what's going on,” she said, spitting as she talked, her mouth full of food.
“Yes, you might be right,” said Charles through gritted teeth as he wiped some of her dinner off of his neck. “I will announce in three minutes, for I must excuse myself at present.” With these words spoken, he stood up, the legs of his chair scraping the stage beneath him as his legs straightened. He made his way towards the bathroom.
As he stood up, a hush fell over the crowd but, as Charles started walking away, the conversations of the hall began again. There were still over eight hundred people left between the main hall and the patio of tables outside. He was glad to see that there would be a good crowd to hear about the new event that had just been arranged. He walked into the men's restroom.
While he stood at the urinal, Charles thought of the strange old man that had approached him earlier that day. He'd had bright green eyes, though he must have been nearly seventy years old. His lips showed the years more so than even his drooping cheeks. The old man was possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but he had spoken clean, unaccented English, so Charles didn't know for certain. He had very little hair, only a few strands on the back of his head, and a large, beak-like nose. What was most peculiar about this man, was that he had been wearing a chocolate colored robe tied with a simple, sandy colored hemp rope, and leather sandals even though it was an exceptionally cold day.
The old man had come to Charles during the last tournament, and had asked to speak with him privately. When they were out of sight and earshot of the people surrounding the final match, the old man presented Charles with a large manilla envelope. He had told Charles that this was to remain an anonymous donation, and that it must go (in full) to the winner of a secondary longshot competition. Charles was astonished, and found himself speechless at the time. He was about to express his gratitude, but the old man simply said, “There's no need,” and he had turned around, and left the park.
As Charles returned to his seat, he did not take the time to sit down. He looked out over the people eating their dinner. After a moment, when everyone seemed to be ignoring him, Charles raised his hands into the air and yelled, “May I have your attention, please?” He then reached down to the table and picked up the microphone that had been placed there for him. A second speaker system had been set up outside.
Instantly, there were hushing sounds coming from every table, including those from the patio. “Thank you,” he continued, “I would like to thank a few people before we get started, can everyone hear me outside?” From the open doors, you could hear about a hundred collective “Yes”es. “Good. I would like to thank Kayla's Kitchen for catering this incredible buffet.” There was a large round of applause from the full bellied audience.
“Next, I want to recognize all of the work that the crew from Briggs Archery Supply have done for us today. They have offered up prizes for the Junior's events and have supplied us with the targets that you're shooting at.” Charles smiled down at Clay Briggs and mouthed the word “Thanks.” Clay smiled and nodded. “I want to thank Jack's Traditional Archery, archersunlimited.com, and of course Bowtech for all contributing to such a successful Northwest ProAm!”
The crowd gave their polite applause once more. Rumors had begun to fly about the hall, so more and more of the audience were hanging on his every word. Charles lived for the times that he was the focus of attention. He liked being important. He was important.
“In about forty minutes time, we will begin the longshot competition. There are nine shooters registered. If anymore would like to sign up, please see either Brenda Gotts, James Greene, or Doug Howsen.” Charles pointed to the people on either side of him as he said each of their names.
“For those of you already signed up for the longshot, I have some news that I am sure will please all of you. Tonight, for the first time at any AFA tournament, we will have an additional, similar event. The winner of this particular event will receive a cash reward of a minimum of eleven thousand, two hundred thirty-five dollars.” A sudden intake of air came from several tables at once, followed by the buzzing of confused and interested voices. The sound soon stifled, and Charles continued on.
“The longshot competition will begin at one hundred fifty feet. Each shooter gets three attempts. If there is a tie, the remaining shooters will move to one hundred sixty-five feet. If still there is a tie still, they will move back to one hundred ninety-five feet. There is little chance we will see that happen, but I am telling you this for scale.” Everyone just stared quietly at Charles (and stupidly, he thought) with confused looks, each of them thinking they had missed something.
“Our new event will follow the longshot. It is the ringshot competition.” Understanding began to fill a few of the faces. Charles was just as surprised at the suprise that McClelland's face showed. He thought for certain Briggs would have mentioned it to him. “For those of you unaware of what the ringshot competition is,” he continued, hoping to stifle the murmurs, “let me please explain. Quickly though, each of the shooters in the longshot that would like to enter this, you will also need to speak to either Brenda, Doug, or James.” He paused for a moment before continuing.
“Okay, so in the ringshot, shooters line up at two hundred seventy feet. This is a very difficult distance, and it will only be made more difficult to the shooters, because they aren't just aiming for a bull's eye. Within the three inch bull's eye, there will be set a one inch metal ring. Each shooter is only allowed one arrow. If no shooter penetrates the metal ring, the archer that gets the closest, receives the money I've just discussed. If a shooter does penetrate this ring, there is an additional $15,000 being put up by Bowtech. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
Charles sat down, slightly winded from his longest speech of the day. The hall filled with excited chatter instantly, as the news was now sinking in. Charles knew that most of the people that were planning on leaving after dinner, were now figuring out ways to stay and watch. He hoped that the young Ms. Wilson would be one of them though, he somehow doubted that she would be there, even still.
Charles had made one more trip to the salad bar and then one trip to the desert bar over the next twenty minutes. At this point, he watched as Clay and Sonya Briggs, Trenton McClelland, Darby Wilson, and the other young man with them got up, cleared their table, and left the hall. Tables were emptying left and right and Charles turned to his left where sat James Greene. “James,” he asked, “did you get any other sign ups?”
“No,” said James.
“What about you, Doug?” Charles looked to the man sitting next to James.
“Negative there, chief.”
Charles turned finally to his right. “Brenda?”
“Sorry Charles. But, I do think there will be loads of people there to watch. It should be a fun night, be it eight or twenty.” She smiled, revealing lipstick on her two front teeth. He wanted to choke her right there, with his bare hands. Oh, how he hated Brenda fucking Gotts. He returned her smile, casually.
Trenton, Mark, and their newest companion Darby, all walked toward the parking lot in Shevlin Park. They had left Clay and Sonya at Aspen Hall, so the two of them could have a moment alone together. Trenton pulled out his pack of cigarettes and Mark did the same.
“Can I get one of those,” Darby asked, pointing at Trenton's American Spirits. He handed one to her, and struck the flint on his lighter, holding the flame out for her to use. When the three of them arrived at Mark's truck, she said, “This is me.” Confused, Mark almost said something, but then she unlocked the driver's side door of the neon purple Geo Tracker parked next to it. She inhaled another drag from the cigarette as she started the engine.
“You're parked right next to me,” said Mark. He then unlocked the truck's passenger door, as if he felt he needed to prove he wasn't lying.
“Coincidence isn't coincidental,” Darby said back to him. “I am sure I will see you guys again, soon. Tell Clay and Sonya I said thank you. I still don't know what I'm going to tell my parents when they see me. They're just ridiculous.”
She had talked a lot at dinner about her family. Being an only child, her parents were extremely protective of her, but she said they just didn't understand her desires at all. She was a brown belt in her Aikido training, which she had to keep silent from them, and she had been shooting archery for three years without their knowledge.
They were a wealthy couple that lived on Awbrey Butte, Bend's west hills, and believed that a daughter should take ballet and classical piano lessons, and other pretentious nonsense that they referred to as “proper” things for a girl. Darby put up with it for most of her life, and really loved the equestrian meets, but when she turned twelve, she had gained her own sense of independence and began seeking out intrests on her own. She just didn't enjoy the things her mother and father wanted her to.
“Just tell them you fell off the stage at an impromptu dress rehearsal or something, or kicked by a horse,” Mark offered. Trenton noticed that Mark had been offering quite a bit of advice to her over the course of the evening. While it wasn't his business, he thought it inappropriate for Mark to pay so much attention to Darby. For one thing, she was only sixteen years old and Mark would be twenty-two next month. The thing that was really getting to Trenton though, was that Mark had a girlfriend. Mark, however, didn't seem to notice any of it.
“I doubt that'll work. They'd probably try and sue the dance studio or the horse trainer. I'd be better off if I wrecked my car on the way home.” Taking another drag off her cigarette, she dropped the last of it, still burning, to the asphault. She closed the door to her car and buckled up. “See ya!”
The gears clicked into reverse, she backed out of her spot, switched into first, and drove away. Trenton looked down to the parking lot. Darby had only smoked half of the cigarette. Not willing to let it go to waste, he scratched the cherry on the ground, then placed the filter between his lips, and blew into the cigarette, to expel any stale smoke inside. He reopened his pack, and set the halfie in with the rest of his cigarettes. He and Mark stood there, finishing their own.
“You know she's sixteen, right?” Trenton finally said to Mark.
“What's that supposed to mean?” replied Mark, indignantly.
“You know what I'm talking about. What would Ashley say if she saw you drooling all over Darby?”
“Fine, Trent, I'll smoke this bowl by myself. You can get fucked.”
“Seriously, Mark, you're an idiot.”
“Truer words, my friend, truer words.” Mark loaded a bowl into Pipesces, as they could make out the silhouettes of Clay and Sonya approaching them. Mark took the first hit, and handed it to Sonya as she walked up. She took a long, gentle pull off the pipe, and handed it to Clay. Clay in turn took a hit, and passed it to Trenton. The four of them smoked another bowl when the first died out. Trenton moved around the still open passenger door of Mark's truck. He climbed halfway into the cab, and pressed the volume knob on the stereo inward like it was a button. It was a button. When he released the pressure from his thumb, the display lit up showing 6:16. Forteen minutes to go.
Just then, two huge racks of lighting were switched on, illuminating everything in the dark park. Four spotlights in different, strategic placements, thunked on, and the single target that Mark and Trenton had moved prior to going to dinner was now bathed in bright light. The sun had set as they had finished their meals, and the moon was only a silver sliver due to the fact that first quarter moon was still two days out. It was offering very little help in brightening anything. The new long stretch of shooting field that Mark and Trenton had set up before going to dinner was now completely visible.
At the time they were setting up the target, Trenton had questioned Clay why they were making room for a three hundred foot sight line for it, knowing that two hundred feet was normally all that was needed. Clay had even been silent on the subject of his conversation with Charles Fulman, outside of the trailer.
During dinner, Director Fulman had announced the reasons why. Trenton remembered the wave of excitement he had felt at hearing the plans for a ringshot. He knew that if he couldn't beat Everette Hayes at the longshot, which was likely to be the case, the odds were now even with him to win the ringshot. It didn't matter how good a shooter Everette was, at two hundred seventy feet, he would have just as much trouble seeing a one inch metal ring as Trenton would. “I need to grab my bow from the trailer,” he said, with a hint of the nervousness setting in.
“Let's getta move on then,” said Clay, boisterously. In a two by two formation, the group hurried over to the trailer, before making their way to mix in with the rest of the crowd.
Charles Fulman stood atop the stage near the fifteen unmoved targets. Ropes had been tied up the whole length, and on either side of the path to the new target. The sole purpose for these ropes was blocking off the bystanders from standing within the football field-length shooting lane. The crowd was much thinner than it had been throughout the days events, but that was not only because about a third of the crowd had left for the night, but now there was a much larger area for people to gather around and watch from.
The podium he had stood at in the daytime, however, had been moved from the center of the front of the stage, to the center of the side of the stage, closest to the action. Staring to his right, facing the same direction he had been facing earlier in the afternoon, he saw Clay's mobile store, where the two had discussed the ringshot competition prior to dinner. About fifty feet to the side of that trailer was where the shooters would be lining up for the bonus event.
About a hundred feet closer to the stage than the ringshot shooting area, Charles saw Doug Howsen and Brenda Gotts sitting at a fold out table, right at the mark in which the longshot competition would begin from. James Greene was still marking the two hundred seventy foot line for the ringshot, and had not returned to the table. From where Charles stood, however, he was visible to everyone, and was simultaneously able to view all of the action. And he was nowhere close to Brenda.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are underway,” thundered Charles' voice through the PA. The normal crowd response was not what he got in return. There was mostly just a small round of applause, everyone seemed to be apprehensive. “There are still only eight competitors for either the longshot, or the ringshot. These competitions are quick by nature, so let's go ahead and have the shooters draw for position in the line-up.”
Trenton walked up to the little table that the two people from the AFA were sitting at, ready to dole out draw cards. There were three remaining, and he, and Brady and Everette Hayes were the only one's who had not yet drawn. Brady drew first, and his card had the number 2 written on it. Everette was right behind him, and drew number 8. Trenton didn't know what was left, but when he flipped over his card, he knew he would be the first to shoot.
“Well, that sucks,” he said to himself quietly. He reached down to the ground and picked up his red leather “Chief” quiver, full of brand new arrows, only four of which he was going to get to shoot. His brand new bow he'd gotten for his birthday, even though his birthday was tomorrow, was resting in his left hand, parallel with him, just the bottom end sitting in the grass. As he flung the strap of his quiver over his neck and right shoulder, he raised his bow from its resting point on the ground, turned around, and awaited the start of his round.
“Alright,” said Brenda Gotts of the AFA, “it goes in order, Trenton McClelland, Brady Hayes, Lincoln Hough, Donald Davis, Tolik Petrov, Clyde Magnuson, Richard Ballard, and Everette Hayes.” She handed a copy of the line-up to a young man behind her, and he ran off in the direction of the stage. “Shall we get started then,” she said, staring straight at Trenton. This was his cue.
He walked over to the hash line that marked one hundred fifty feet to the target. He looked down the field, and for the first time, glimpsed the crowd. People lined either side of the shooting lane, from where he stood, all the way down to the target. The air was popping with utter silence. Maybe the crickets and frogs were still singing their twilight reveries, but if they were, Trenton didn't notice. His ears were throbbing with every heartbeat, and his pulse was racing.
Trenton lifted the quiver off, over his head, and placed it and the bow on the ground, so he could remove his sweatshirt. Though the desert night was a biting type of cold, and though he'd worn the hoodie all day, he remembered it obstructed his full movement as he had been practicing that morning. To himself he muttered, “better cold, than off.” It helped that adrenaline was warming his core temperature dramatically.
As he dropped the sweatshirt on the ground, near his equipment, he pulled one arrow from the quiver, and lifted his bow. When he stood up straight, one of the other shooters yelled out, “Yeah, you tell 'em McClelland!” A few people started making whooping sounds. “Read his shirt,” another person called out.
Trenton looked down at his shirt. Though the writing was upside down, he read quietly to himself, Try as you might, I will keep my ground. “Fitting,” he thought to himself. He nocked the first arrow to the string of his bow. Pulling out to full draw coincided with the bow lifting itself into firing position. Using the Hallow Pino sights, the needles set to 150, he took aim, staring fifty yards away from a three inch circle.
He raised his aim slightly above the bull's eye, and just before he let go, a flashing image of the old man from his dream shouted “BEGIN,” in a voice that vibrated his entire body. Trenton felt his fingers slip off of the string, and saw the arrow zip away into the distance. It landed roughly fifty-five feet shy of the target, and stuck in the ground at a thirty degree angle. The whole audience began to roar with laughter.
With his hands convulsing violently, his face flushing furiously, Trenton made to grab another arrow from the quiver laying on the ground next to him. Nocking the arrow, he took three very slow, very deep breaths, exhaling so lightly that his breath came out of his mouth like swirling steam in the cold March air. Again, he stretched the bowstring back, and took aim. Before, he let go, he made sure no more sudden attacks of his psyche were imminent. He fired.
Though it took the arrow less than one full second to hit the target, Trenton felt three minutes pass. It had stuck on the outer cusp of the bull's eye. The crowd, instead of laughing hysterically, gave him a welcomed round of applause. Certain that he was not going to be advancing, he felt all of the pressure that had been mounting dissolve, though, it was being replaced with a weighty depression, and just a hint of rage. He fired the final arrow that he would shoot in the longshot competition. It had struck directly in the middle of the bull's eye. The crowd cheered for him, but he knew that his chance had been blown, and not even by himself, but that damn old man from his dream. Trenton walked away from the line as Brady Hayes began to take aim for his first shot.
The audience let out another ovation as Trenton threw his sweatshirt back on. His arms were already red and stinging from the cold. He meandered back over to where Sonya, Clay, and Mark were. They all watched him as he got closer until finally, Mark yelled out, “What the hell happened, Trent?”
Clay lightly, but firmly, backhanded Mark on his left shoulder, and said, “Shut it, boy.” Mark rubbed the spot he'd been hit, but didn't say anything else. “So, Mark's kinda right, though id'nee? What was that first shot all about? You looked like you'd been hit in the head with sompthin'. Like y'almos' fell. Ev'thing alright, kid?”
Trenton had tried to talk to Clay about his dream earlier, but didn't get the chance. He also didn't feel like telling Mark about it, because then he would certainly never hear the end of it. Before he even knew what words had fallen into his mouth, he said, “Got stung by a bee.” Clay looked at him, appraisingly. Sonya just smiled at him, then turned to Clay, and the two shared a meaningful and concerned look with each other.
“Well, it's not over yet, is it. Don'tcha start losing your head and focus in this whole mess. Just let these guys let this game work out. Take a seat off to the side and have a smoke. Letch'r self calm down a bit. Mark, you go with him. Don't ask unwanted questions, neither. Just let 'im smoke, right?”
“Yeah, alright boss,” said Mark. Trenton was sure that the bee story had been good enough for Mark to swallow, so there weren't any unwanted questions that Mark was prepared to ask. They made there way over to the tree line and sat down in the grass. Trenton pulled out his cigarettes. He pulled one out, and counted what was left in the pack. Seven. Seven cigarettes left after he smoked this one.
The flame from his lighter flickered as it lit the tobacco. Trenton handed his lighter to Mark, and took a long, deep drag. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment then exhaled. He felt a little of his concern melting away. With each drag he took, more and more of his worry was evolving into hardened focus. Fifteen minutes passed before the people watching the longshot erupted so powerfully, it brought Trenton from his trance. “What just happened,” he asked Mark, who was trying to catch sight of the action.
“It looks like that nasty Russian guy toe lick or whatever, and Everette are the last two shooters.” Mark looked at Trenton with a shocked expression. “Everette just tied the Russian at one sixty-five and they're walking to one ninety-five.”
Trenton quickly jumped to his feet. He did not want to miss watching how the two men would fair at that distance. The one ninety-five was seventy-five feet shorter than the ringshot's two hundred seventy foot field. This was the closest he would get to seeing what the competition would be like for the next event. In four shots he would feel no less worried.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Charles boomed into the microphone, “you're final two archers of the longshot, Anatoly Petrov and Everette Hayes. The winner will join me after this event for a brief presentation. Mr. Petrov, you are first to fire. Good luck.” With this brief announcement, the crowd was immediately fixed on Tolik. Charles stepped aside of the podium, and sauntered over to the corner of the stage. He watched Tolik sink the first arrow into the bull's eye. As well as the second, though both shots lingered desperately close to being in the second ring.
Tolik's final arrow was only a half an inch closer than the other two. John Ayers, a young page, one of five the AFA invited to all of this year's events, quickly disassembled the target. He had carefully removed all three arrows from the target sheet, then removed and replaced the sheet itself. This was done after each shooter in the longshot and ringshot. The pages were also tasked with this routine after each distance during the main tournaments. Charles knew it was mostly thankless work, but they did get paid (though not much) to travel around the country, so, Charles made a point not to thank them.
Everette Hayes nocked his first arrow. The audience was completely silent. He aimed carefully, and did not draw for almost a full minute. From as far away as Charles stood, he still thought he actually heard the tension of Everette's bow stretching. At full draw, Charles watched as Everette aimed yet again for nearly a minute. The excitement was unmistakable.
Everette fired. The arrow rocketed the length of the field and stuck less than an inch from the center point. The longshot was over. The crowd was in pandemonium as Everette waved at everyone. Charles stepped back around to the front of the podium. “Everette Hayes has won outright at one hundred ninety-five feet,” yelled Charles. “Mr. Hayes, if you would please join me on stage, just briefly of course.”
Everette was running briskly toward the stage. The crowd parted to let him through and he hurried up the stairs to Charles. “Fancy seeing you here,” said Charles, smiling. The two men shook hands. Everette was twenty-nine years old. He had three or four days worth of blonde stubble covering his face and a dirty blonde, almost tan, crew cut. Charles had no trouble noting Everette also had quite a firm handshake. Everette had dark, brown eyes and Charles met them with his own and said, “Congratulations.”
“Thanks again, Chucko. I must say, I still haven't gotten sick of you.” Everette cracked a small grin and he said, “Get on with it then, I want this ringshot.”
“Of course you do, Hayes. But, I'm sure you also want your money.”
“What is it, seventy-five hundred? Yeah, I'm in a hurry to collect. What was it you just gave me in Houston? Oh, yeah, two hundred fifteen thousand. And how about Minnesota? That was actually called the Bloomington Quarter Million, wasn't it? Look, not to be arrogant, but that check won't pay for a fifth of my travel expense.”
“Well, I understand,” Charles said. He turned back to his podium. “I would like to congratulate this year's winner of the Archer's Federation of America's Northwest Longshot Champion, Everette Hayes.” The audience roared beneath them. “I am presenting him with this check for $7,500.” Charles opened a large flat briefcase that was three and a half feet long, and two feet tall. Inside were three, very large, cardboard checks. With a black Sharpie, he quickly scrawled out Everette Hayes, on the “Pay to the order of:” line. The rest of the check had already been filled in. As he pulled the cardboard novelty check from the briefcase, the crowd again gave an emphatic round of applause. Everette grabbed hold of the check with his left hand, and again shook Charles' hand with his right. He then waved to the audience one more time before running down the stairs, hurrying all the way down the remaining length of the field to the card draw for the ringshot. When he got to the tables at Briggs Archery Supply, there was only one card sitting face down as if it had been suffering a lonely wait. Everette turned over the card and revealed the number 8 for a second time.
Brenda Gotts stood from the chair she had been sitting in. She wrote down E. Hayes in the eight slot on the paper attatched to her clipboard. “Archers will shoot in this order,” she said, getting straight to the point. About fifty people from the audience had made their way over to the spot where the contestants would be shooting from. Most, however, were contented to getting a better view of the target. “Donald Davis, Richard Ballard, Clyde Magnuson, Lincoln Hough, Tolik Petrov, Brady Hayes, Trenton McClelland, and finally, Everette Hayes.”
Benjamin Hayes shouted out from the small crowd that had joined the shooters, “Go get 'em, boys! Show 'em how we do it!” Several people chuckled, but the rest remained silent.
“Remember, shooters,” said Brenda, ignoring Benjamin Hayes' comment completely, “that each of you will only shoot one arrow. If none of you successfully hit within the ring, the closest to the center will win. If someone does manage this shot, you will receive an additional payout. Good luck to each of you. Mr. Davis, you're first, Mr. Ballard on deck.”
Donald Davis walked to the hash line marking two hundred seventy feet from the target. He nocked his arrow and, with little aim, fired. His arrow hit the outer circle of the target, just about as far away as it could get from the little one inch metal ring hooked in the center.
“Richard Ballard,” said Brenda, “when you're given the all clear, you may take your shot.
The older gentleman slowly moved to the hash line. Holding back at full draw, he took his aim. When the arrow hit the target, the crowd at the other side of the field let out a loud, frustrated groan. Richard Ballard had hit the bull's eye, but it was outside the ring. Still, this would be the mark to beat.
Now with the operation running itself, Brenda took her seat once again. She did not need to inform Clyde Magnuson that he was the next shooter. He seemed overly ready for his chance. When he released the arrow, he let out a small yelp. The inside of his left forearm had a straight, bright red welt developing on it where the bowstring had snapped.
From opposite the park, people had screamed and quickly were dispersing on the left half of the lane. The arrow had flown wildly off target and zoomed over the heads of the spectators. His face began flushing heavily as he sulked off with his head and shoulders drooping heavily.
Lincoln Hough, who had travelled down with Tolik Petrov from Vancouver, stepped up to the line with one arrow. His road trip mate would shoot next. They were currently both furious with each other and had not spoken since dinner. Down the length of the field was a little tiny image of what was likely a fully grown, adult male, waving a white flag showing the lane was clear. He nocked his arrow.
The chinking sound of metal on metal gave everyone watching at this end of the field a cause to stop breathing. There were several moments of nothing, as people were very curious to hear what had happened. In the distance, Charles Fulman's voice came on over the speakers. “Three quarters of an inch to the outside!”
“Mother FUCKER!” Lincoln screamed. “Fucking can't fucking believe.” As he stormed away, apparently unaware he was currently the shooter to beat, he angrily continued berating himself. Tolik Petrov stood like a brick wall and, as Lincoln came marching by, he purposefully caught Lincoln's left side with his own. This caused Lincoln, who wasn't looking, to lose his balance and fall backwards.
“Doh'n be sush a poosie,” was all that Tolik felt the need to say, and really, of all the English he spoke, it was his favorite phrase. Lincoln, leapt up from the ground and seemed to be fighting himself as to whether or not to throw a punch at his “friend.” Tolik let out a deep, booming laughter that sounded more threatening than humorous. He walked up to the line and pulled an arrow from his quiver.
With Tolik's back turned, Lincoln grabbed a small stone lying next to him in the grass. Just before Anatoly Petrov fired what could have been a perfect shot, no one watched Lincoln throw the rock. It landed hard on Tolik's left elbow and caused his arm to flinch as he released.
Lincoln ducked out of sight behind the black trailer of Briggs Archery Supply, prior to Tolik being able to whip his head around to catch him in the act of escaping. He ducked into the woods and was pretending to still be fuming when Tolik came charging at him.
“What the fuck is it now, Tolik,” Lincoln shouted, trying to slow the bulk that ran at him. “Leave me the hell alone!”
“You cohst me my mahney!” Tolik was raging. He closed the last few steps in on Lincoln Hough and threw a heavy and accurate fist straight to Lincoln's temple. “Fohcking piece ohf...oh!”
Lincoln moved so quickly that Tolik's sentence was startled silent. He took a large, fast step to the left and caught Tolik's fist in both hands. He pivoted on the balls of his feet and a loud cracking noise burst into the air, but was immediately stiffled by a roar of pain, and vulgar Russian slang. Lincoln bounced backwards a few feet and, turning around to face Tolik, felt a large tree branch collide with his rib cage. With no breath in him, he fell.
Tolik had never left his feet. Though his right wrist was broken, he had immediately grabbed a nearby fallen branch with his left hand, spun around as hard as he could, and landed the branch into Lincoln's side. Once Lincoln was on the ground, Tolik swung the branch again, only this time aiming for Lincoln's head.
At the exact moment the branch smashed into his skull, Lincoln had already aimed a furious kick at Tolik's groin. Both men connected these final blows of their fight at the same time, and a half dozen men were then sprinting into the woods to stop it.
“Now what's it you two got injured for anyhow,” a smiling Clay Briggs asked Tolik, who, though writhing on the ground, clutching his crotch with his good hand, was the only one of them still conscious.
The ringshot competition had been haulted the moment the crowd around the shooters realized what was happening. Down the field, everyone was still waiting for Brady Hayes to take his shot, wondering what could be taking the final three shooters so long to figure out.
A skinny twenty-five year old John Ayers came bolting up the steps leading to the stage. He was winded because he had run from the stage, to the where the shooter's stood, and back to the stage after that to find out what had unfolded.
“So, John, what is it?” Charles Fulman was standing back turned to the podium, waiting impatiently for this news.
“A fight broke out at the end involving Anatoly Petrov and Lincoln Hough. Brenda says that both men are to be disqualified. Furthermore, Hough has broken Petrov's wrist, and Hough is being taken to the hospital. He has still not regained his senses.”
Charles stared at the young page. “Ayers, tell Ms. Gotts to continue. On second thought, go nowhere.” Charles turned to his microphone and explained to the anxious crowd what he had just been told. “Brady Hayes will shoot next,” he concluded, “followed by McClelland, and then Everette Hayes.”
Brady Hayes stood at the two hundred seventy foot hash mark. He stared down the field at the glowing target in the far reaches. The familiar stretching sound of his bowstring tightening brought on a wave of nauseating uneasiness. Though he had already been shooting in front of a much larger crowd, he was able to, at the time, see what he was shooting at.
He gently altered his aim upwards and let fly his one attempt. The arrow disappeared from them and within a single second, had burried itself in the second ring out from the bull's eye. Though the two closest marks had been disqualified, and though Brady's shot was within the range of Donald Davis' attempt, Richard Ballard was within the bull's eye, and was still the mark to beat. Two archers had yet to shoot.
“What I wantcha to do right now,” Clay said, holding Trenton back from taking his mark, “is let it all go. Don' worry 'bout none of it. Not the money, not the longshot, not the hundreds of people watchin'.” Trenton thought that rehashing the very things he had been trying to forget about was an odd way for Clay to help him, but then he continued.
“Jus' take your time, and think about that stag you bagged last Se'temba. We were easily this far when you took aim. Take yerself to that mornin' and the rest'll close i'self out.” He patted Trenton firmly on the shoulder as if to send him off.
Trenton meandered over to the line. He again dropped his quiver and bow next to him and removed his sweatshirt. Benjamin Hayes gave one of those “sexy” whistles, and everyone, including Trenton, laughed. He picked up his bow and drew out one arrow from the quiver. Repositioning himself, he nocked the final arrow that he would shoot that day.
He pulled back with ease, and his sights were set out to ninety yards. Before he could think of what he needed to do, everything around him began to disappear. A heavy, cool mist surrounded him and the whole scene moved in slow motion. He looked out, straight ahead. Standing in a clearing, just about a football field away, stood a gorgeous buck, grazing in the meadow.
Trenton could feel the tension of the readied arrow waiting very impatiently to serve its purpose. The buck was completely unaware that Trenton had been steadying his aim. Squinting his left eye halfway shut to keep the early sun from blinding him, Trenton peered at the animal with certainty, and let snap the string.
As the buck fell over, instantaneously lifeless, there was a deafening roar of hundreds of voices, and Shevlin Park and the ringshot competition snapped immediately back into focus. Trenton was startled at what had just happened to him. He felt as if he had been transported directly into the memory of last year's hunting trip with Mark and Clay.
The arrow that he had drawn to fire was nowhere to be seen and, slowly, it dawned on him why. Mark came running up behind him and tackled Trenton to the ground. The cheering crowd continued its screaming for several more minutes. A familiar voice again filled the air down the field.
“MCCLELLAND HAS DONE IT!” shouted Charles Fulman over the PA. “MCCLELLAND'S SHOT HAS LANDED IN THE RING!” The crowd once again erupted and Trenton lay stunned on the ground, unable to come to terms with what he was hearing. Unsure of what else to do, Trenton burst into laughter and could not contain himself.
“I did it?” He asked between laughs. A few moments later he shouted, “I DID IT!”
“Ain't over yet, kid. Don't go countin' no chickens.” Clay was right. Standing at the hash mark, awaiting the white flag, stood the final archer still to shoot. Everette Hayes took aim.
Anxiously, Trenton watched as Everette fired his arrow. For the second time in the evening, there was the distinct ringing sound of a metal arrowhead colliding with the metal ring. The audience lost it. Trenton felt his stomach plummet downward. This is going to call for a re-shoot, or worse, he thought to himself. He dared not say this thought out loud for a fear of making it come true.
For several moments there was a tense silence that made everyone in the small crowd around the shooters shift uncomfortably. Finally, Charles Fulman's voice came back to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” This was an absurd formality, for the only sound had been the echo of his voice off the tree line into the forest. “We have a clear victory in the ringshot. Though both archers McClelland and Hayes successfully landed their arrows within the ring, one shot was within fractions of a milimeter from the center point while the other was nearly a quarter of an inch shy.”
Trenton felt his pounding heart sink, and he became dizzy to the point of exhaustion. The feeling that his chest cavity was being relieved of its contents was so overwhelming, he thought for certain he would vomit. Clay seemed to notice Trenton's anxiety and laid a comforting arm over his shoulder, providing both physical and psychological stability.
“The winner of the first ever Northwest ProAm AFA Ringshot Competition is TRENTON MCCLELLAND!” The sound of the audience blared so loudly that Trenton pressed his hands up against his ears to dampen the pain from the exploding decibles. Sonya gave him a big hug as Clay and Mark slapped him heartily on the back.
It took Trenton nearly ten minutes to make it to the stairs leading up to the stage. Nearly half the audience had formed a congratulatory greeting circle that walked slowly around him, guiding him and saying words he couldn't hear. Between the shock of winning and the noise that four hundred voices make when all trying to talk at once, all he was focused on was climbing the stairs.
The crowd began to swarm the stage. Flashes from cameras were going off like a miniature lightning storm down below where Trenton stood. He only then realized that there were two news vans in the parking lot behind him. KTVZ and KOHD had cameras in the audience filming the nights events. Trenton turned away from the crowd to come face to face with Charles Fulman.
The two shook hands and Charles said something that was lost in the frenzied voices floating up from the crowd. Trenton watched as Charles faced the crowd and was able to bring a hush down upon everyone simply by raising his hands. He addressed the crowd for the last time of the day.
“Ladies and gentlemen, how about one more round of applause for Trenton McClelland.” Trenton was starting to get sick of the noise, but it only continued briefly. “I am very proud to present you with this check for a grand total of twenty-six thousand, two hundred thirty-five dollars for your perfect shot in the AFA's very first Ringshot Tournament.” Before Charles handed Trenton the big novelty check, he leaned in and said, “Don't forget what I told you earlier, Brenda Gotts will have the real check for you before you leave.”
Another electrical storm burst through the crowd as Charles Fulman signed and handed over the check to Trenton. He could not believe that he had just won. The truth of it still had yet to sink in. Trenton had never won this much money at a tournament before. Stunned, he waved out to the crowd for a few moments before making his way off the stage.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he was rejoined with Sonya, Clay, and Mark. Before he'd had anytime to talk with them, however, he was accosted by a voracious crowd comprised of a few reporters and many well-wishers. Both local television news networks and a few of the area newspapers asked him question after question for nearly half an hour before he was able to break free.
Trenton carted the large cardboard check over the trailer, Clay had taken it upon himself to store away the bow and quiver. Trenton could see that a woman was standing next to the table, apparently waiting for their inevitable return. As they got closer, the light fell upon the heavy-set figure of Brenda Gotts.
She was wearing a very large grin, and as Trenton approached her to shake hands, he noticed she had bright red lipstick smeared across her yellowing front teeth. She wore a blue dress that was easily four sizes too small for her wide frame, and it shimmerd like oil stained concrete after a rain. The effect was nauseating, but Trenton knew why she was there.
“Good evening, Mr. McClelland, and congratulations,” she said. “I have your actual check here, less taxes of course. On behalf of the AFA, I would like to award it to you along with one more item.” She turned around and leaned over the table to grab something that was hidden from view. A moment later, she had turned around with one of Trenton's arrows. “Your winning shaft, Trenton.”
He took the arrow from her and stared at it with wonder. The night still had not seemed real to him. It was like watching someone else's life taking place. He looked down at the check and saw that Uncle Sam was, in fact, the greedy bastard Trenton always thought him to be. Of the twenty-six thousand two hundred thirty-five dollars that he had won, there on the check was nineteen thousand eight hundred sixty-three of them.
Still, his complaints lay unspoken, because he was certain, any minute, someone would come up and say that they had made a mistake. But no one came, and soon, Brenda Gotts had disappeared off into the crowd that was leaving Shevlin Park for the night. The main event was tomorrow, and people wanted to get some sleep before having to show at ten in the morning.
Clay and Sonya were sitting in two of the three chairs that were set up outside the trailer. Mark had just stowed the last table and grabbed the work stool from inside. Trenton took the last remaining seat and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He pulled one of the seven remaining cigarettes and lit it.
“Open it up and pick one,” Sonya said to Trenton, motioning towards the red cooler. Trenton slid open the lid and inside were six of Silver Moon Brewery's 22 oz bottles. Trenton surveyed the three different options. There were two of each; Hound's Tooth Amber, Badlands Bitter, and Snake Bite Porter. Trenton settled on a Hound's Tooth Amber.
Using his lighter for leverage, he popped off the bottle cap and took a pull off of the perfectly rounded beer, which wasn't too heavy, nor was it too bitter. It had a rush of sweetness that arrived at just the last moment and was still icy cold, though the ice in the cooler was nearly all melted. Trenton grabbed for the porter for his second bottle and was content with the fact it would be his last illegally consumed alcoholic beverage.
Sunday, September 13th was Trenton McClelland's twenty-first birthday.
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