War Paint

I never got into the whole fraternity thing during my college years. I didn't understand it really. Coughing up large sums of money each year just to pay a bunch a guys ro sit around a drink beer with me in a big run down house was something that was completely foreign to me. I felt there was a better way to spend my parents hard earned cash. But when I really think about it, I believe what frightened me the most about frats were the initiations. Now granted, my perception of fraternal induction ceremonies came mostly from early 80’s cinematic comedies such as Animal House, Back to School and Revenge of the Nerds, probably not the most accurate representation. According to Hollywood, these proceedings usually involved dark, torch lit secret chambers, surrounded by ominous hooded figures, and involved wooded paddles, some sort of farm animal and life threatening consumptions of alcohol. No thank you, I think I’ll stick to making friends the old fashioned way.

So when I was eleven years old, on the cusp of killing my first deer and entering into the Fraternal Order of Hunters, I was well aware of the it’s ancient and gruesome initiation ritual- that of drinking the blood of your first kill. At least that was the rumor that was running rampant among us young aspiring hunters in the sixth grade. It was a rumor that was fueled by John Milius’s Red Dawn, the classic film about a group of Pepsi-Generation Colorado tenagers led by a pre-Dirty Dancing Patrick Swayze who fought a guerrilla war against a Soviet Invasion of the United States. To thousands of red-blooded American pre-adolescent boys like myself, Red Dawn held the title of GREATEST MOVIE ON THE FACE OF PLANET EARTH, until it was dethroned a year later by Rambo: First Blood Part 2. But for that one year, when it held the title, I must have watched Red Dawn over thousand times.

My sixth grade buddies and myself used to break out in loud war cries of “WOLVERINES!” on the playground during four square matches and dodge ball games on a regular basis. We could recite every line of dialogue from the film from memory and each of us truly believed that we could succesfully repel an actual communist invasion were one to happen in Henderson County.

But of all the scenes in the film, the true stand out had to be the infamous “blood drinking” scene. In the scene, C. Thomas Howell, who would go on to later cinematic fame in IRON EAGLE, kills a buck high in the Colorado mountains. He’s informed by Swayze and younger brother Charlie Sheen, that since the deer is his first kill he has to drink it’s blood. If he refuses, he’ll be cursed and will never again make another kill. “Every hunter has to do it,” they tell him. With his knife, Swayze slices the deers jugular and fills a metal cup with the animals hot, steaming blood. Relucltantly, C. Thomas, grasps the cup and glugs down it’s warm, viscus contents in long repeative gulps. The excess blood trickled down his chin and neck like a two year old consuming a bottle of milk. It was one of those scenes in movies that was so grotesque and revolving you want to look and away but can’t.

And this is what I believed lay in store for me as Dad And I drove home that Chrismas Eve with my first deer.

We pulled up to the garage about an hour after dark. As Dad unloaded the deer from the back of the truck I ran inside the house as fast as I could go, to call my grandfather to tell him the good news.
“I’ll there shortly,” he said.

I then grabbed Mom by the wrist and drug her out to the garage where Dad already had my little buck suspended upside down from the gambling sticks and was busy removing the deers internal organs. He had placed a large aluminum wash pan under the deer which was collecting a steady flow of bright red blood and contained a twisted wet mound of guts and intestines. Steam rose off of the wet, slippy pile into the cold air of the garage.

I shuddered in the knowledge that soon I’d be forced to swallow the liquid inside that bucket.

Mom gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations son, he’s a nice one,” she said enthusiastically. She then shot Dad a quick glance that translated to: I can’t believe you tow went hunting tonight. Now. Get. That. Deer. Out of my garage on the double, because I have party guests that will be arriving any minute.

Dad obviously knew the translation to this glance and simply answered “Yes, Honey.”

“I guess my little boy is now officially a man.” Mom said emotionally.

“Well, not quite yet,” Dad replied. “He’s still got to be initiated.

Oh Crap, I thought this is it. Here comes my big glass of deer blood.

“Believe we’ll wait till Paw gets here before we start the ceremony.”

Whew, I thought. I brief respit. Unfortunately Paw only lived a half mile away down South Mills River Road and was before long his old two-tone brown and beige Chevy pickup was pulling into our driveway.

Paw slowly climbed out of the truck cab due to his arthritic knees; too many years a hoeing gardens and stalking whitetails through the mountains. He mosey into to the garage adorned in old faded khaki work pants, flannel shirt and worn out Alyis Chambliss hat. He stopped a few feet from the deer and studied it for several seconds in silence.

“Well, that’s a nice little buck,” Paw said patting me on the shoulder. “He’ll be good eating. Nice and tender.”

Other than my Dad, my grandfather was the most important man in my life. He was larger than life to me, like John Wayne and Clint Eastwood rolled into one. Having his approval on my first buck meant more to me than anything in this world.

“Doesn't look like he’s been painted up yet,” Paw said to my Dad.

“We were just getting to that.” Dad shot back.

Oh know, this is it. Here it comes.

“So is this where I have to drink the blood?” I asked nervously.

“Drink the blood,” Dad asked almost laughing. “ What are you talking about?”

“Well in Red Dawn, C. Thomas Howell had to drink the deer’s blood when he shot it. Is that What I have to do? I’m not sure I can do it, Dad. I might throw up.”

“Good Lord Son! Nobody’s drinking any blood.” Dad said. “I’d be the one hanging here instead of this deer if your mother found out I was having you drink deer blood. No, no, we just have to paint you up a little.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I wasn't sure what “painted up a little meant” but it sure sounded much more pleasant than chugging warm, half congealed deer blood.

Dad then dipped three fingers into the aluminum bucket and silently wiped them across both of my cheeks. I stood like a marine at attention during this momentous occasion.

Dad backed a way and stood next to Paw.

“There you are,” he said.”You are now a true hunter.”

I caught my reflection the tinted windows of our 1984 z-28 Camaro. That was parked next to our gruesome operation. I resembled a Comanche warrior on the war path.