Axe-Throwing with Seniors

by J. T. Townley

Most of us can barely lift the axes, much less fling them at the target. Not only do we miss the bullseye, most of our throws clatter to the floor. Any blades that sink into the wood, even well outside those concentric circles, send us into conniptions of artificial joy and feigned delight.

Whose bright idea was this? 

We jeer at each miss. We mock each other’s strength and stamina, eyesight and virility. It’s not hard since few of us have much left.

This place, Wood & Steel Axe-Throwing, is a mix of dartboard targets, bowling alley lanes, and batting cage chain-link. All that fencing is important: the barriers between the lanes keep us from scalping other patrons with errant shots. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing.

Philip and Sherry, both retired professors of Who Gives a Rat’s Ass, hit the bar soon as we’re through the door. They set the pace. Not even an hour in, most of us have already reached our three-drink minimum.

“Maximum,” says Suzanne.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said three-drink minimum. You can’t get blitzed and chuck those things around.”

“Whatever,” we mutter into our martinis. “If they didn’t want us drinking, they wouldn’t have built this place in a bar.”

*

Most of us don’t want to be here in the first place. But we joined the Bridgetown Seniors Social Club, an offshoot of our dysfunctional condominium HOA, and somebody decided we should make an outing to Wood & Steel. Who ever heard of a bunch of geriatrics getting sloshed and tossing around sharp-edged tools?  It’s bound to end in disaster.

That’s why they forced those waivers down our throats. Wouldn’t let us past the check-in desk without reading and signing them. Not even to hit the bar. The lady up front treated us like halfwits.

“Print, sign, date,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Speak up.”

“Can’t hear you.”

We were just getting her goat. Her husky smoker’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Puh-rint,” she said, now at high volume. Her breath stank of Marlboros and spearmint. “Sigh-ign. Day-ate.”

Almost blew out our hearing aids.

She clicked her fake nails on the desk. Ugly impatience fluttered across her brow like a moth. “No inky, no drinky. Got it?”

Wasn’t she a riot?

 *

Our logger meets us at the bar. They’re not real loggers: no chainsaws or double-bladed axes, no bellowing Tim-ber! before a huge Sitka spruce comes crashing down. But they look the part with jeans and work boots and red-and-black flannel shirts. Burly, barrel-chested men with bushy beards and callused hands.

“Welcome to Wood & Steel,” says our logger. “My name’s Logger Sam, and—”

“You don’t look like a Sam,” says Andi.

“More like some know-nothing girl,” Philip says. “Probably never held an axe in your life, much less thrown one.”

“News flash,” says Sherry. “You don’t have a beard.”

“We asked for Logger Dave,” Suzanne insists. “He comes highly recommended. Your esteemed colleague”—she points to the girl at the check-in desk—“didn’t say anything about a change to our reservation.”

Logger Sam grits her teeth, then fakes a welcoming smile and slides in behind the bar. “What can I get you?” she asks.

We’re not shy about ordering. Most of us are spozed to drink in moderation, if at all. Doctors’ orders. But we splash out today.  Other than throwing axes, what else is there to do in this dump? Sherry and Philip go for whiskey sours.  Steve orders a vodka martini, while Andi asks for a bloody mary. Vera hems and haws and wrings her hands before finally going with a virgin strawberry daiquiri. Logger Sam flips bottles, pours, shakes, and stirs like she’s performing in a circus. We all have beverages in hand when she turns to Suzanne.

“How about for you, ma’am?”

“No, nothing, thanks.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“Wet blanket.”

“Stick-in-the-mud.”

Vera sips her daiquiri, then says: “Does she teetotal better than me?”

“Okay, y’know what? I’ll have something, sure.” Suzanne drums on the bar top. “Gimme a—”

“Come on, woman.”

“Put a little lead in it.”

“Don’t make us drink alone.”

Suzanne fakes a laugh and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Coffee,” she tells Logger Sam. “Black.”

We all groan.

Once we have our libations, we wander over to Lane 3. We’re the only ones in the joint for the time being.  We take stools around a high table and clink glasses. Logger Sam sets a plate of soft mini-pretzels in front of us. Through hidden speakers, Garth Brooks twangs about his “Friends in Low Places.”

Logger Sam draws from her well of artificial enthusiasm to explain axe-handling safety considerations.  Some of us humor her, feigning interest or hurling insults.  Others tune her out entirely.

“Okay,” Steve interrupts, “but what do we do if somebody—Vera, for example—severs her arm at the elbow?”

Everybody but Vera laughs.

Logger Sam dutifully points out the red-and-white first-aid boxes attached to every wall. In the event of a severe injury, we’re to dial 911.  We nod, bored and belligerent.

And we’re not having it when she begins demonstrating throwing technique.

“Give it up.”

“We want Dave.”

“You don’t even have a beard.”

Our banter has the desired result, if that means running off our assigned logger. We shrug, grabbing a mini-pretzel from the plate.

   *

Steve sinks a couple-three axes into the wood, one of them halfway inside the outer ring of the target. We cheer, sloppy with booze.

“Didn’t think we could hit the broad side of a barn,” we say.

“Goes to show you.”

“What?”

“Said, goes to show—”

“No, no, what does it show you?”

Silence for a minute. Willie Nelson pours his heart out on “Whiskey River.” Then one of us says:

“Hell if I know!”

Now, all around us, the regular thwack of blades sinking into fir. Down at one end, a suburban family celebrates their boy’s birthday with cake and bickering. At the other, a bride-to-be and her many bridesmaids, all of them blonde-haired and orange-skinned, get loopy on bubbly wine. Next to us on one side, a group of suits, minus jackets and ties, sips Scotch, talks shop, and sinks one bullseye after the next. The lane on the other side is closed for maintenance.

Next thing we know, this putz in khakis, blue button-down, and fleece vest wanders over. Why’s he wearing a tennis visor? He’s got an IPA in one hand and a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Wassup?” he says.

We mutter amongst ourselves: “Hell’d he say?” “Who is that jackass?” “Just ignore him, he’ll go away.”

But he doesn’t go away. He just stands there, sipping his fancy beer, offhand playing pocket pool.

Vera launches an axe toward the target, but it falls short by at least three feet.

We chuckle into our libations.

“What about the three-drink maximum?” Suzanne asks.

Sherry swallows a gulp and says: “You mean minimum.”

We cackle and clink glasses and drink.

“Bout time to wrap it up, right?” says Visor Boy.

A couple of us crane our necks to get a better look. The kid can’t be more than thirty. Smug as the day is long. Just stands there like a moron, fiddling with his phone.

“Look,” he says, eyes on his screen, “I’m trying to be polite here. But enough’s enough, okay?  Let’s go.  Party’s over.”

“Hell’s that monkey babbling about?”

“Got me.”

“Is he selling something?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Just ignore him.”

“Already tried that.”

“Maybe he’s the waiter.”

We order another round. “Hope you wrote that down,” we say. “We won’t repeat ourselves.”

Meanwhile, Suzanne’s getting serious about the axes. She plants three in a row well inside the target’s outer circle.

While we’re celebrating and carrying on, Visor Boy conjures up a bunch of other halfwits in similar outfits—chinos, button-downs, fleece vests. Some sport baseball caps turned the wrong way around. They double-fist bottles of IPA. A couple set slices of greasy pizza on our table.

“What’s the deal, bro?” they ask Visor Boy.

“Why are these fogeys still here?”

“It’s our lane, right?”

UB40 harmonizes about “Red, Red Wine.” A few of us sing along, giddy and imbecilic. But Steve stands from his chair, puffs out his chest, and stabs one of the dimwits with a long finger.

“Who you calling fogey, sonny boy?”

The kid snickers. “Take a look in the mirror, gramps.”

Steve balls his fists. His jaw flexes, but he falls mute.

“Take it easy, old timer.”

“Don’t have a heart attack.”

“A, what’s it called, aneurysm.”

Suzanne, riding the high of her axe-throwing prowess, says: “Why don’t you boys go play in traffic?”

“That’s not friendly,” says Visor Boy. “We’re bending over backwards to show you T-rexes some respect.”

Andi slugs the last of her bloody Mary. “Go take a flying fog at a rolling donut,” she says.

Our jaws drop. Then we all knee-slap. Good advice!

The khaki crew doesn’t look pleased, shifting their weight and pretzling their arms across their chests.  They mutter nasty epithets—fucking codgers, for one—under their breath. After a brief powwow, the group wanders to the bar, while Visor Boy strides over to the front and has a heated exchange with the check-in girl. We can’t make out more than a few words, even with our hearing aids all the way up, but it’s not hard to guess.

 *

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, a guy with a bushy black beard comes over. He sports jeans and hiking boots and a red-and-black flannel with a matching red beanie.

“Hello, Bridgetown Social Club,” he says through his beard.

We give him boozy waves and half-hearted hellos.

“I’m Rodge, Crew Chief at Wood & Steel. Our goal is for everyone to stay safe while having a great time.”

George Jones throws himself into “Tennessee Whiskey.”

“We want our patrons to meet and mingle. We want everyone to get along.” Rodge runs a hand over his beard. “So if there has been any miscommunication, that’s on us. Now I’d like to invite—”

“You’re not running us off,” slurs Philip.

“Not a chance,” Sherry says.

“We’ve got this lane till five o’clock,” Suzanne explains. “Check your paperwork. Made the reservation myself.”

Rodge pets his beard some more. Visor Boy leans in and offers him a few words in private. Now Rodge chews his lip and grimaces.

“We have an unusual situation on our hands, folks.”

“Come here, buddy,” Steve says. “I’ll show you where you can stick it.”

We heehaw.

Suzanne plants an axe inches from the bullseye. She makes a show of wiping her hands clean, then grins in Rodge’s direction.

Vera’s up next. She studies her hands for a moment, then asks: “Are her skills better than mine?”

We laugh and toast and laugh some more. We never realized axe-throwing could be so much fun.

 *

When Logger Sam returns, her eyes are red and puffy. She doesn’t say word one—no axe-throwing pointers, no jokes, no offers to freshen our drinks—just mopes off to the side. Crew Chief Rodge ambushes her from behind. We listen for the sound of him tearing her a new one, but right then, AC/DC blasts into “Have a Drink on Me.”

In the meantime, the dimwits return, fresh beers in hand. They barge in like they own the place, shouldering us out of the way.

“Time’s up, geezers,” says one.

“Pack it in,” says another.

“This lane is now ours.”

“Like hell,” slurs Philip.

“Over my”—Sherry hiccups—“dead body.”

We all slouch at the table, boozy, and do nothing.

Then a dolt in a backwards baseball cap strides over and wrenches the axe from Suzanne’s hands.  Or tries to. She holds on tight, stronger than she looks.

“Give it to me, lady.”

“Hands off,” she says. “It’s my turn.”

Now another khaki boy eases over and grabs Suzanne’s arms from behind.  The first one twists the axe from her grasp, grinning.

“Back to the rest home for a nap, mee-maw.”

Suzanne glares at us. “Are you gonna sit on your drunk asses while these turds manhandle me?”

We say nothing.

“Take it easy, granny,” says Visor Boy.

“Don’t you granny me. This is still our lane. You boys will just have to wait your turn.”

The one with the axe steps to the line, aims, and throws. He sinks it into the target an inch above of the bullseye. “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

We unfold from the stools and stagger slowly toward the exit. Hank Williams warbles “There’s a Tear in My Beer.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” says Suzanne.

We stop and turn. Suzanne’s blue gaze bores through us. We make gestures, vague and noncommittal.

“This is our lane,” she declares. “Maybe you’re too drunk to hit a bull in the butt with an upright bass, but that’s beside the point. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Here, here!” we huzzah.

“Shut up, you old bag,” says a moron and gives her a shove.

She lands on her rump.

“Suzanne?” we say.

It takes her a minute, but she struggles to her feet and dusts herself off. Now we’re sure she’ll follow us to the door and into the summer evening.

Instead, wearing a muted smile, she marches over to the halfwit. “Your mother would die of shame,” she says, then lands a knee to his nuts. When he doubles over, moaning, she wrenches the axe from his hand and whacks him hard in the temple with the wooden handle. He collapses in a heap.

“Suzanne!” we shout.

Axes in both hands now, she approaches the nearest imbecile.

He takes a step back, one hand around his beer, the other out in front of him.  “Listen, granny, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late, dirtbag,” she says, stabbing her heel into his toe, then slapping him once, twice, three times with the axe handle. He crumples to the floor.

By now, Sherry’s halved the distance to Suzanne. She’s wobbly on her feet.  “Suzanne?” she says, swallowing a belch. “What’s gotten into you?”

Visor Boy exploits the distraction to grab Suzanne’s left arm. She smacks him in the face with the flat side of her other axe as if it’s what she was born to do.

We all hoot and holler.

“It’s your lane,” says Logger Sam. “These bozos were just leaving.”

“Where the eff have you been?” says Suzanne. “We’ve had to deal with these pricks ourselves. Isn’t that your job?”

The air stinks of burnt pizza crust and stale beer.  Jimmy Buffett croons “Tin Cup Chalice.” The suburban family skulks across Wood & Steel and escapes into the sunlight. Loggers have to corral the other groups and lead them to safety.

We stand there, wringing our hands, swaying a little. The imbeciles seem torn between fight and flight. Logger Sam keeps saying, “Let’s all take a deep breath, okay?”

Now Rodge whips out his phone. Before he can begin dialing 911, Suzanne flings an axe and knocks it across the room. The phone shatters. The axe sticks into the far wall.

“Holy smoke,” Andi says.

“Nice shot!” says Logger Sam.

Blood drains from Rodge’s face. “You could’ve killed me!”

Logger Sam tsk-tsks. “The customer is always right.”

“She just threw an axe at me.”

“With excellent technique.”

“She destroyed my phone.”

“And perfect aim.”

Rodge, pale and befuddled, gazes at Logger Sam. “Whose side are you on?” Then to Suzanne: “You’re banned, lady. For life!”

For some reason, we clap, whistle, and hoo-hoo-hoo.

The buffoons slam their beer bottles down, then mill toward the door.

“Oh, no,” says Suzanne. “Uh-uh.” She slings an axe across the room, planting the blade half in the door, half in the jamb.  Then she lets another one fly, and the blade slices the nob clean off.

We ooh and ahh.

Suzanne shakes her head. “You’re not going anywhere until we get an apology.”

“Forget it,” they say.

She sidles over and pulls two more axes out of their slots. “You sure about that?”

“Let’s not make physical threats, okay?” says Rodge.

In the melee, nobody thinks to cut the music, and “The Piña Colada Song” blares into the momentary silence.

With no warning, Suzanne hurls an axe at another dolt. The blade slices off the poof of hair pushing out from beneath his backwards baseball cap.

“You crazy old bitch!”

“Your little rat’s nest has been bugging me all afternoon.”

Then she slings another axe at a dunce fiddling with his phone. Knocks it to the floor. The axe sticks in the bar. He clutches his hand, screaming at the blood.

“Calm down,” says Suzanne. “I barely nicked you.”

“You almost cut my hand off!”

“Don’t be such a titty-baby. It’s just a flesh wound.”

She gathers another pair of axes. “Listen, all I’m asking for is a simple apology. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Nobody moves.

“But I will if I have to.”

Just then, Philip grunts and falls out of his chair. He hits the floor hard, clutching his left arm.

“Are you okay?” says Sherry.

He moans and writhes.

“Heart attack,” says Steve.

“No,” Rodge says, “it’s—”

Steve shakes his head. “Heart attack.”

Philip writhes and moans.

“Call 911,” Steve tells Logger Sam.

She nods and dashes to the front desk.

“Who’s got aspirin?” he asks.

We all raise our hands.

“Stuff a couple in his mouth,” says Steve. “Make sure he swallows.”

The imbeciles stand around looking useless. We do our best to comfort Philip, telling him to hang in there, he’ll be okay, help is on the way. It doesn’t count for much. So we suck the booze from melting ice cubes and listen to Merle Haggard singing “I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.”

Soon we hear the rise-and-fall of emergency sirens. Paramedics hammer at the door but can’t get in until Rodge muscles out the axe pinning it shut. As they scurry inside and attend to Philip, the morons slink toward the door.

Two uniformed cops block their egress and usher them back inside. One officer talks to Rodge, while the other keeps an eye on the door. The emergency responders cart Philip out on a gurney and load him into their ambulance. Sherry climbs in behind them.

No matter how much we protest, the police take Rodge’s side—and he’s with the imbeciles. Logger Sam’s vocal enthusiasm about Suzanne’s form and technique doesn’t help our cause. By now, they’ve got Suzanne sitting alone two lanes over, sans axes. They cut the music right in the middle of Gillian Welch’s “Whiskey Girl,” then isolate us one-by-one and take our statements. Say what you want about their incompetence, those bastards are methodical. They won’t even let us refill our drinks.

In the end, the police cuff Suzanne and take her away in the back of their cruiser. We want to cuss Rodge up and down, but we’re at a loss for words. We’d like to beat those imbeciles black and blue with our canes, but they lead their injured buddies across the parking lot and race away in clouds of high-octane exhaust.

We step out into the evening light and gaze at each other. We don’t know what to say. We hold our breath as a homeless man wanders past, screaming. When he’s gone, one of us says, “Too bad about Suzanne.” We nod. “Damn shame about Philip.” We nod some more. Big rigs roar on the overpass, and crows caw in the high branches of pear trees. We sigh and wipe our foreheads. “Told you this was a bad idea,” we say. “Terrible,” we say. “The worst,” we say. Once that’s settled, there’s nothing to do but totter home.

 

J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize four times. He directs the Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies program at Oregon State University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.