But then I landed my dream job in Maine. I love having four seasons and working alone in the woods. And yeah, I still take off my shirt. I didn’t think anyone noticed or cared.
Turns out they do.
Stevie’s suggestion that I put on a shirt reverberates in my head. But she’s not here, and I feel like I’m being sautéed in the heat of the late-morning sun. I can’t think straight, it’s so hot.
Screw it.
I drop my small toolbox on the ground and tug my shirt over my head, slinging it over my shoulder like I usually do. I’ll wear a shirt when I’m in town or working close to the highway, but not today. My mood instantly improves by a hundred percent as I grab my tools and head down the trail, almost skipping over the roots of the big hemlock and oak trees.
Something cracks in the woods behind me, and my skin prickles with the sense that I’m not alone. I pause, assess my surroundings, then clear my throat. I need to make noise. I don’t want to walk into a bear. It’s best to give those guys a heads-up. They appreciate that, and I’d prefer not to have my face clawed off.
I turn slowly, scanning the trees.
A few dozen feet away, long brown tail feathers fan out from behind some shrubs. So, not a black bear. It’s a turkey.
This is so much worse.
It’s a male turkey, and it’s not just any tom. I’d know this one anywhere.
This particular bird is the biggest jerk in all eight thousand acres of Biddeford Forest Preserve. He’s huge—four feet tall, with a beak like a combat knife. He’s easy to identify because his snood—the fleshy red thing that dangles over his beak—is especially long and, frankly, super gross. I’ve fantasized about tackling him and pulling some underpants over that thing.
He’s also extremely territorial and infamous for chasing hikers. I’ve fielded dozens of complaints about this guy. Most recently, he chased an eleven-year-old girl. He pecked a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich right out of her hand. When her dad scared him away, the jerk turkey trampled her. He left a trailof muddy, six-inch turkey tracks across the back of her church youth camp T-shirt. It was like a crime scene.
It goes without saying that this turkey is my nemesis. If I ever get my hands on him, he is literal dead meat. In season or out of season, he will end up in my oven. He made a little girl cry, so he’s the only exception to the hunting rules. Unfortunately, I don’t have a shotgun on me today.
And he’s mere feet away, with his menacing tail feathers and giant beak poking around in the bushes. I also notice that the blue, white, and red on his neck have brightened in color, reminding me that it’s mating season. Ugh. He’ll be particularly aggressive. I need to be careful.
Taking a hesitant step forward, I keep the turkey in the corner of my eye as I move silently down the trail. I’ve almost made it to the curve in the path that will take me out of his evil line of sight when the worst thing that could happen at this moment happens.
Stevie steps around the corner.
I shake my head, eyes wide, moving toward her.
“Adam?” Her smile widens. “Have you seen my—”
She freezes when she finally catches my expression. Her gaze darts over my shoulder, and she mutters a word that would make me chuckle if there wasn’t a demon turkey nearby.
She hisses without moving her mouth, “I hate that freaking turkey.”
Her words are barely out when the bird makes his move. He crashes through the bushes like a tiger, his beady eyes zeroed in on Stevie.
“Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run,” I spit out in a panic. It’s the worst thing she could do. Turkeys love to chase, and this one has made a sport of chasing humans.
But before the words leave my mouth, Stevie raises both arms, hitches her knee high à laThe Karate Kid, and screams,“Get out of here, Butterballsy! Go on, git!” She waves her arms, kicking herKarate Kidleg over and over while she hollers. Red hair flying around her, she charges the turkey, shouting threats the whole way. “That’s right, keep it moving, pal!”
Honestly, between this and what she did to me last night, I’m more than a little intimidated by Stevie right now.
And so is the turkey. He changes course, trotting back through the trees to hide deep in the woods, far away from Stevie and her Ralph Macchio moves.
We’re both panting as we watch the rustling bushes go still behind the bird.
“He’s gone,” Stevie says with a long exhale. She drops onto a granite boulder, clutching her hands to her head with a moan.
I crouch in front of her. “Are you okay?”
I only ask because of how she’s grabbing her temples. This woman can clearly take care of herself. I’ve never seen anyone deal with a tom turkey quite like that. I can’t wait to download this footage off of my trail camera. I'm fighting laughter at the mental image.
She whimpers. “I have a concussion,” she says lightly, like the effort of speech is too much.
