BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
'Dead deer show' not very productive
by Bob Kornegay

I spent a couple days last weekend manning a booth at one of those big outdoor expos, the kind my buddy George calls a "Dead Deer Show." I'd been invited free of charge, along with some other outdoor writers, to sit and schmooze with the paid attendees and sign books. It was the "free of charge" clause that sold me.

I wish I could report that I was totally besieged by an adoring public, eventually returning home with bulging pockets and basking in the afterglow of all the adulation bestowed upon me by a star-struck readership. But, alas, that was not the case. Fact is, after a $56 motel bill and $45 for a round-trip tank of gasoline, I sold three books. By dining creatively and sparingly, I barely managed to keep my total losses somewhere around the $100 range.

So much for bulging pockets and "free of charge," unless I'm allowed to count receipt stubs, candy wrappers, ball point pens, and one free sample of doe-in-heat lure as gross income.

As for an adoring public and readership adulation, do the math. Three (count 'em) books? 'Nuff said, don't you think? And just when I'd about convinced myself once again that I am God's gift to sporting literature, a veritable William Faulkner of outdoor writing. Gee whiz.

For a solid week now I've tried to look at this thing logically in an attempt to get a grip on what happened. I mean, astute businessmen like myself don't sit around sulking, after all. They analyze a negative situation and seek to rectify it.

Maybe I'm just in the wrong business. I mean, some of the expo's nonliterary vendors seemed to be doing quite well. Camouflage automobile floor mats, for instance, were selling like hotcakes. I was myself quite tempted to purchase a pink-trimmed ladies set for Miz Vicki's Toyota Camry. I believe they would have worked quite nicely with the NASCAR number and the tinkling-imp decal she already sports on her rear windshield.

The guy selling smoked turkey legs was turning a healthy profit, too. I soon lost count of the folks who passed my booth looking like good-old-boy versions of Henry VIII. One fellow strolled by with a tired toddler on his shoulder. Both father and son gnawed ravenously at their respective gobbler femurs as they took in the sights. There was no room for the boy in the stroller the man was pushing. It was filled to bursting with camouflage floor mats. I figure Mom was sitting, angry and pooch-lipped, in the parking lot, as I didn't see any pink-trimmed mats anywhere in the stack.

Deer and turkey calls also sold well. And nobody, but nobody, wanted to wait until he returned home to try them out. By noon, every exhibition building resounded with voluminous grunts and yelps, most of which sounded like nothing remotely resembling a buck or hen. These were soon joined by the "harmonizing" squalls of suddenly awakened, terrified infants, who could only be quieted by a pacifying hunk of turkey leg.

Perhaps my next book should sport a camouflage cover and feature grunt-andgobble sound effects. Maybe even a scratch-and-sniff smoked turkey page.

Hall of Fame Georgia outdoor writer Dean Wohlgemuth, who made a brief appearance at the show (I think for the sole purpose of harassing yours truly), said my lack of success as a vendor had absolutely nothing to do with poor merchandise choices.

"Remember that guy who stopped by, recognized you, and said he'd seen your stuff in the newspaper?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," I responded.

"Well, it should be obvious. Everybody there, except those three ladies that bought your book, were also familiar with your writing."

Thanks, Dean. That's every bit as uplifting as the doe urine I spilled in my pocket on the way home.

Oh, well, all is not lost. At least I got a column out of the deal.