Read Online The Grasshopper Trap by Patrick F. McManus - Free Book Online

point out that it is difficult to precipitate this reaction with a rubber snake unless the subject has first been conditioned by sudden and unexpected exposure to real snakes, such as might turn up in the subject’s study desk.) Richard’s screaming of vile epithets at me would bring Thorton, the senior who supervised our dorm hall, on the run. Thorton enjoyed an experiment in levitation as much as I did.
    I ceased my levitation work on Richard right after my bedtime bowl of popcorn began to taste funny. “Eat some more,” Richard would say. “How do you feel? Like a little more salt on it?” It then occurred to me that pharmaceutical majors are entirely unsuitable as subjects in scientific experiments, or so I deduced from the fact that my hair had begun to turn green.
    My hunting partner Retch Sweeney, a tough, burly fellow, goes absolutely berserk at the mere mention of snakes, something that used to happen quite routinely when hunting was slow and I needed some amusement. As we walked through tall grass, I would suddenly turn, point at Retch’s feet, and yell, “Snake!” He would instantly turn into a darting blur—a reaction that prompted me to nickname him “the Blur Darter.”
    Over the years, I refined this technique to the point where I needed only to point at the ground by Retch’s feet and he would respond appropriately, bounding up into the air and darting about in a blur. Then one day while hunting chukars on the Snake River, of all places, I pointed suddenly
at Retch’s feet. He didn’t bound into the air and dart about. “Snake!” I cried. He grinned at me.
    â€œHa!” he said.
    It seemed scarcely less than miraculous. Perhaps through my diligent work with him, I had cured Retch of his abnormal fear of snakes, an amazing achievement for a person still in his twenties and whose only credential was a “D” in Psych 101. I tried to conceal my disappointment.
    â€œYou ain’t never gonna scare me with snakes again,” Retch said.
    â€œWell, the least you can do is thank me,” I said. “It wasn’t easy for me to cure you. Furthermore, I did so at the cost of losing one of my favorite forms of entertainment.”
    â€œWasn’t you what done it,” Retch said. “I took this workshop with a psychologist on how to get over fear of snakes. First we just looked at pictures of snakes. Then we looked at a stuffed snake. Finally we looked at live snakes. At the end of the workshop, I actually held a live snake! The doc showed us it was all in our minds.”
    â€œGosh, that’s really wonderful,” I said. “Snake!”
    Retch didn’t blink an eye. “See? I’m cured.”
    We continued our hunt for that mythical bird, the chukar, but saw nary a one all day. Our faithful hunting dog had disappeared hours earlier and was now probably out on the highway, trying to hitch a ride back to town. The sun pounded us, insects gnawed us, stickers stuck us, but we pressed on. Working our way up a rocky canyon, we discovered it came to a dead end. A dilapidated corral sagged into the earth beneath a rock cliff. We leaned against the corral boards and studied the precipice.
    â€œLooks like we got to turn back without any chukars,” Retch said.

    â€œYeah,” I said. “Wait! See that ledge over there? It’s only about ten feet high at the low end. If you can boost me up onto that ledge, I can work my way up along the mountain and maybe I’ll run some chukars down to you.”
    â€œSounds good to me,” Retch said. “Let’s give it a try.”
    We walked over to the ledge, Retch crouched down, and I climbed onto his shoulders, leaning against the rock wall for balance. He handed me my shotgun.
    â€œReady?” he asked.
    â€œReady.”
    As Retch, grunting and complaining, slowly straightened up, my head rose above the brink of the ledge. I gasped. There, mere