Jack of Most Trades met his hunting idol on Friday. Before we left for the city, Jack pondered out loud, “What am I going to get autographed?” He looked at me and joked, “You should get your boobs autographed.”
He decided no item we own (including my chest) was good enough for Jim Shockey’s signature.
We arrived at the trade show, wandered around three halls until we discovered the hunting section, and stood in line. As we inched closer to the front of the line, Jack’s face flushed. In his defence, it was hot in there, but perhaps not hot enough to sweat bullets and sport the color fushia on his forehead.
I thought I’d distract him, “Are you disappointed Eva (Jim Shockey’s daughter) isn’t here?”
“Maybe a little.”
I have accepted the fact that I will always be runner up next to Eva. If she is doing her thing on the hunting channel, I will never get a reply anyway, so it’s best if I remain silent. I am not bothered by it because I have Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling to keep me company.
A young lady came around with photos of Jim Shockey for the autograph. Because we love watching the various History Channel shows, we joked about the photograph being worth millions in about 50 years. I joked, Jack dreamed.
“Is your camera ready?”
“Yes it is. You getting excited?”
Jack finally reached the front of the line and skipped over to Jim like an excited school girl learning hopscotch for the first time. They shook hands, Mr. Shockey signed his name under an inspiring quote, “Shoot Straight”, and I snapped a few photos for Jack’s scrapbook.
Still excited, we headed over to another booth of interest. Jack has been desperately seeking the Gun Club near our house since we moved in. He always hears them shooting at the gun range and it has been driving him nuts. The gentlemen at the booth were very helpful and thoroughly explained the process of becoming an exclusive member of the club. One member even drew us a map to the range.
Before Jack could comprehend the seriousness of the situation, the man had swiped what he thought was a blank piece of paper from Jack’s hands and started drawing a map on it with pen. A permanent pen. I tried to keep a giggle in as I stole a glance at Jack’s now ‘fire engine red’ face. He too was holding something back: the need to rip that ballpoint pen out of the geographical offender’s hand. The blank piece of paper was actually the back of Jack’s brand new autographed Jim Shockey photo. The silver ink was likely still wet.
“It’s probably worth more now, don’t be sad. You want to get another one?”
Hiding his disappointment, Jack replied, “No, don’t worry about it. Let’s get out of here.”
Later, we were in the truck reminiscing about our day. Because I have a germ phobia I asked, “Did you wash your hands after shaking Jim Shockey’s hand?”
“I went to the washroom, so yeah.”
“So, you held your ‘you-know-what’ with that hand?”
Jack retorted sarcastically, “Oh my God, it’s like Jim Shockey touched my d.”
“Along with 2000 other men.”
Jack had had the all-inclusive Jim Shockey experience; his life was complete.