Steve's been pest-, I mean, asking me to go fishing with him for years. Lately, he'd been especially adamant about it, insisting it was important to him that I share the experience of his favorite sport.
How could I refuse a request like that?
I figured Saturday was as good a time as any to get it overw... uh, see if I liked it. So, we made the plans.
Now understand: this meant getting up at three in the morning, in the dark and cold to go to a place that was even darker and colder. Nevertheless, I had agreed to this, and I was prepared on time with a nice hot cup of coffee for each of us. I went to the car and waited for him.
All of a sudden, the garage door opened and there he was. I took one look at him and thought I had died and gone straight to the underworld. My handsome, dashing, GQ hunk was standing in front of me wearing a hat that can only be described as...
There is no description.
It was filthy. It had a floppy brim all around it and all these things stuck to it. Steve was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt and green boots that were like pants that came up to his armpits - waders, I think he called them - and they had braces or suspenders to hold them up. (I was not at all sure that I was ever going to be able to make love to him again. But I digress.)
Anyway, I asked him if he had to wear all that paraphernalia. He looked at me askance and snorted some lame explanation about needing it. Stuff about luck, tradition, and superstition. He went on about how I would understand once I learned to love fishing the way he did. Buncha nonsense. He said he bought a pair of boots and a hat for me too, but I threatened to kill him in his sleep if he ever said that to me again, and he let it go.
I was full of apprehension, but I got into the truck anyway. He took the good-ol'-boy pick-up truck. (Just to make it more flippin' wonderful.) The drive to the lake took an hour and a half. While we were on our way there, he gave me this talk. The fishing talk. (--Most people get it when they turn thirteen, but I'm a late bloomer.)
He told me all about his new special fishing pole. He paid a lot of money for it. I did ask several times how much, but he never answered me; he just kept saying, "A lot, and it's very special." Oh, he beamed when he informed me that he was going to let me use it because it was so wonderful. Surely I would love fishing with this special pole. He was so proud of himself. It was weird. I found this whole thing disconcerting somehow, but I went along.
We arrived and went through the whole perfect spot ritual. Then he gave me a casting lesson, and it was time for me to actually (God save us) fish. I had to cast the line. And I wanted to do it right, but I was clueless. I took a few minutes to get it all feeling just right, and then I did a few small practice casts. I was getting ready...to cast.
Steve said I was channeling Norton from The Honeymooners. He said it was very hard to take.
Well, I guess that's true, but I wasn't doing it on purpose; I was trying to do it right so he would be proud of me. All of a sudden he yelled at me! Really loud.
"THROW IT!"
He scared me. I mean, he made me jump. Next thing I knew, I bit my lip and threw it. And I tell you, boy-howdy! Eight years at University were not lost on me. No sir. The minute that fishing pole left my hand, I knew right away that was wrong.
Now, here's the thing. Steve had turned away, because he had become disgusted with me, and he didn't know I threw his special fishing pole into the... I was just standing there, struck dumb with fear. He turned back to face me and wanted to know where his fishing pole was. All I could do was hold up my arm and point limply. I could not speak.
Right about that time was when it all went south.
He took one look at his new special fishing pole (the one that cost so much that he couldn't say the price) floating down the river and, darned if he didn't yell at me again!
"You threw it?! My new fishing pole is floating down the f-ing river?"
Well I was not about to take that. I figured it was time I let him know just how I felt about this whole fishing expedition. I shouted right back at him, "Then you better go get it there, BOOT MAN!" I was thinking I'd run for my life when he went into the water. Then I figured I'd better stay - in case he drowned or something - so I could call for help.
Of course, he did manage to retrieve it, only his boots filled up with water. He could not get out. I asked him if he wanted me to cut holes in them to let the water out, but he told me to stay away from him with the knife.
After he managed to sort that all out, I figured we could go home. He said "no" to that idea. He said we had come there to fish and fish was what we were going to do. (By golly!) For some reason, I wasn't allowed to touch the new fishing pole after that. He gave me the old one.
I felt pretty bad about the whole thing, and I told him so. He said he would forgive me. Maybe. Someday.
Then he worked with me on casting a little bit more.
After a while, I realized that there was just no way I was going to get the hang of it. I told him I wanted to do it my way. That was when I got the second fishing talk - about how there is a right way and a wrong way to do things and, while I could do whatever I wanted (on account of this was supposed to be relaxing), I really should not count on actually catching anything. I thanked him for the talk and said I still wanted to do it my way.
Steve shook his head and gave me his blessing. Then he walked down the bank to a better spot (where he couldn't see me fishing my way).
I tell you, I did everything wrong. Everything. And I caught more diggity-dang fish than I ever needed or wanted. Every time I cast that line I caught a fish. After a while I was trying not to catch them. I was shooing them away, saying stuff like, "No, fish! Go away, fish! Swim for your life! Go away fish!"
I must have been quite a sight!
I caught eighteen fish.
Steve caught three.
My smallest fish was bigger than his biggest fish.
As you can well imagine our Stevie was not a happy camper, er, I mean fisher. He was very angry with me. He packed up the camp and said we were going home.
So we were on our way home and there I was chattering on and on. I was happy. I mean, shoot! I caught eighteen fish! He asked me to be quiet. Well, I was so busy being happy, I did not realize how piss-, uh, I mean, how important it was to him that I quiet down. I just kept going on about how much fun I had. How there was nothing to it... To be truthful, I suspected I was tormenting him, but I kind of felt he deserved it a wee bit and, well, it was fun. Only I didn't realize just how very angry he was.
After a while, he pulled the truck over and stepped down. He didn't say a word. Just walked around the truck, opened my door, and told me to get out. I shook my head, because to tell you the truth, at that point in time, I was afraid of him. I mean, I was having thoughts like: He could kill me out here, bury my body, and no one will ever know what happened to me. He reached in, took my elbow, and made me, I mean, helped me get out. He put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me toward him. Then he leaned down to look directly into my eyes and he spoke very softly - kind of like a teacher instructing a slow student. He said that he really needed me to shut up. He said it was very important that he not hear my voice until he said I could speak. He asked me if I understood. I nodded, afraid to blink, and he let me get back into the truck.
After a while, I reached for the radio to turn it on, and the way he glared at me made me reconsider. A few miles later, he missed our turn-off, and I did think of saying something, but I thought better of it on account of not wanting Michael to grow up without a mother!
By the time we got home, it was dark. Steve's parents and Michael were sleeping. We came in quietly, went to our room, took separate showers, and went to sleep. I had not been given permission to speak yet.
When I woke up in the morning, he was already gone.
His mother was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in. She looked up at me and shook her head. I was not sure if I was allowed to speak or not, so I helped myself to a coffee and took it to my room. In a while, wee Michael came in and he let me speak.
After a short while, Steve's dad came to my room to let me know he and Steve's mom were leaving. He asked me if I was all right. I said I was, and they both apologized for how Steve was behaving. I thought his mother was mad with me, but she was feeling bad about Steve being so all fired up.
In his defense, I told them what happened. She winked when she allowed as to how I should have thrown the fish back, leading me to believe she just might be speaking from experience. Well, I felt like the stupidest person on earth because, I swear, that simply never occurred to me.
Anyway, it's all right now. The divorce hearing is next week. (I'M KIDDING!)
Hope you enjoyed my little fish story.
Carol - still in love with a very soggy, I mean, sorry fisherman!
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