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Parallel To Water
And cut, said Abel, rising from the floor where he had been sitting Yoga-style pretending to peruse the Constitution of the United States. I think that will do nicely, don't you Ward. Ward removed the Reagan Halloween mask, provided by Abel from the same sock drawer that held the sickle and seemed to consider at great length before simply saying, sure, I think so. Abel, not so practiced at contortion, limped over to a small table set off in a nook across from the kitchen, and from a dish in the shape of a milky white pair of cupped hands removed a half burned stick of something. This he put in his mouth and with a blue plastic lighter sitting next to the glass hands set the tip of it on fire. He inhaled deeply. My lawyer called last night to tell me he got my court date postponed. Ward was staring out the front windows at a construction dumpster across the street and wondering about the treasures it might contain. A day not in court is a day worth celebrating, he said. Exhaled puffs of smoke punctuated Abel's response, you speak the truth Mr. Ambler. Furthermore, I think you are the holder of many great secrets and a fellow seeker of hidden mysteries. Ward wondered if Abel was reading his mind, knew that he desired to know the contents of that dumpster. Abel exclaimed, oh, oh, and laid down on the floor, covering himself with the broken up pieces of sheetrock. Ward, push the red button, I want to get a shot of this. The camera ran for five minutes, during which Abel was inert, except for occasional outbursts of experimental dialogue between himself and the state. I have broken down your wall yet still I lay buried beneath your rubble. That's right. Why dost thou doest me this? Because its easy. I mean you no harm. What you mean is of little interest to me. I seek only justice. Good luck with that, Mr. Gardner.
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Jimmy let his passengers off at the dock around noon and after hosing everything down and storing his gear below deck went out to the Offshoot Marina parking lot and hooked up his Chevy Silverado to the small trailer carrying his 14 foot Smoker Craft jon boat, which he then backed down the ramp and into the water at the mouth of the Carman's River. After parking the trailer he headed north, running the 40 hp Evinrude at just above idle. Osprey circled overhead. One wrestled with a small tree limb in its beak, apparently off to maintain one of the giant, crudely constructed nests which lined the river. Some of these sat atop ancient dead trees and others on human constructed platforms erected to assist in repopulation after Osprey, drunk on DDT, were decimated in the sixties. There was this moment, after their intent yet casual search for fish below, after being parallel to water, then 45 degrees, then wings folded tight to a body pointed straight down, getting ready to fall like a cinder block from a skyscraper, where they don't fall but defy gravity and are a still shot in an otherwise moving picture, a moment that may have only existed in Jimmy's mind, for Jimmy knew that things which cannot be, cannot be, but it was that moment, where a bird without wings just hung in the sky for the merest fraction of a second, that shook his etch a sketch clean, erased all squiggly lined bullshit that was his mother losing her mind, and dumb assed frat boys, and even that dick bump just now, fishing from his kayak, who ignored him, just shook his head dismissively when all he had asked was are you seeing any bait.
Fugue
From out of the fugue state into which she had drifted, or had pretended to after making that innocent baby cry, Shirley Jones turned to face her daughter-in-law, who was driving her to Dr. Fillmore's office for a routine checkup. Did you just now call me batshit? Did I? That's what I'm asking, because I'm not sure what you think I've done to deserve your disrespect but perhaps if I had a better idea we might work it out together. We've had our differences I know but you are my only son's wife and I think it counter-productive to a harmony I'm sure we both desire if one of us is calling the other names. Janice glanced over at Mrs. Jones and briefly studied her eyes, just to gauge which Mrs. Jones she was speaking to. It could be the sane one. There was not exactly that telling glint of evil in her eye, but she had been fooled before, set up to believe she was conversing with the kind hearted mother-in-law only to be sucker punched with Shirley's uniquely sinister vitriol. I might have called you batshit just now Shirley. I don't know. I was beside myself after what you said to that baby. A baby? Where is there a baby? Oh, I know it's no one's fault but I so wish you and Jimmy had given me a grand-child to enjoy in these my last years. Last years my foot, Shirley. You are going to live forever. Do you really think so? I don't feel so spry anymore. None of us feel spry Mother Jones. There was no more talk of the baby. A few minutes later they arrived at the office of Dr. Fillmore, located in a small strip center between Pesaro's Pizza and the SaveMore Discount store, just off the Parkway before Sunrise Highway.
A Onesy With Pink Lace
As a passenger Shirley Jones felt insecure. Her son and that bitch wife of his had taken her independence away when they stole her car keys and told her she was no longer allowed to drive. She, that Janice person, a real cunt in Shirley's honest opinion, was always telling her what was best. Shirley honey, put your seat belt on she says when they got in the car. I don't need to. Yes you do, dear. I'm not your dear, I'm not wearing a seat belt. I've been around long enough now, before seat belts were even invented, dear (she said snidely), and I am allowed, as a senior citizen not to wear one. Oh please Shirley, Janice pleaded, the car will make an awful racket if you don't fasten the belt. No more awful a racket that what comes out of your mouth every time you open it. Janice, stung by that, relented. The ding ding ding of the seatbelt alarm followed by a more rapid succession of dings, followed then by an automated voice stating the obvious, seatbelt not fastened, seatbelt not fastened, was the only thing that had made Shirley smile in a long time. Eventually the alarms ceased, as did Shirley's smile, for in the silence she was left alone with her thoughts. And those, she realized during her very brief moments of clarity, were becoming increasingly dark.
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In the apartment of Abel Gardner, Warden asked if he could wear a mask while tearing down the wall. Abel thought that was a great idea. It would help further the symbolism. Ward was mostly interested in not being recognizable to authorities. Abel set up a camera on a tripod and told Ward to just go at it, we'll edit out the dull parts. After about ten minutes when it became obvious that the dull parts might constitute a majority Abel asked Ward if there was any way he might use a hammer and sickle as the tools of his deconstruction. Ward said he had a hammer but had not thought to bring a sickle. Abel rooted around in a sock drawer and pulled out a rusty curved blade with a splintery wooden handle. He gave it to Ward who in the very receiving of it got a splinter in his hand. We can just use it for effect, at the end, Abel said, looking at Ward Ambler removing the sizable wooden sliver from his palm.
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Janice was stopped on the Parkway at the Clearview light. At the crosswalk, a petite young mother in a floral print sun dress, with her baby in a carriage, was also waiting for the light to change. Shirley Jones, blank faced and apparently harmless, stared out at the baby carriage. Turning, the young mother softened at the sight of the frail woman and pivoted the carriage ninety degrees, ostensibly to show the woman her baby, dressed in a pink onesy with white lace and wearing on its head a matching pink sun hat. Mrs. Jones could see the light controlling the Clearview traffic turning yellow and frantically rolled down her window as the mother smiled. Just as the light stopping the Parkway turned green Shirley pointed a shriveled finger at the baby and shrieked, look at the cob-gobbler Janice, look at the goddamned cob-gobbler, would you? Have you ever seen such a thing?
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Jimmy was in his boat, the I.M.Fluked, with his charter, a trio of Pi Kappa Alpha boys whose names he had already forgotten but could be described easily by size as Skinny, Shorty, and Fatty. Shorty was up on the starboard gunwale goofing around. Hey guys, look, I'm fluked up. His brothers giggled. Jimmy turned starboard and goosed the engine a bit, causing Shorty to stumble back into the boat and grab on to his skinny pal. You're gay. No I'm not. Then let go of me. When they began to fish, drifting a bay channel near Moriches, the boys quieted down and Jimmy took the opportunity to call Janice. Is this a good time? There was a pause on the other end during which Jimmy could hear a bizarre combination of staticky high pitched breathing, and voices that seemed almost human, but every other syllable was an electronic distort and Jimmy stood hypnotized by this for he didn't know how long before finally trying again, Babe, are you there? Yes Jimmy. Are you OK? Another long pause, with more distorted background voices (an army of intergalactic aliens smoldering under a layer of napalm), and then clear as if she were standing in front of him Janice said, OK? Sure Jimmy, if driving your batshit mother around and being verbally abused all day and just now having her call a newborn baby a cocksucker is OK then yes, I would say I'm OK. And you Jimmy, how is your day going? I have three frat boys. Oh you poor thing, do you want to talk about it? Janice, I'm sorry, is there anything I can do? There was more electronic feedback, the suffering aliens, and then he was sure the call had dropped, but after he had shut off his phone and was putting it in his pocket one clear word came through the tiny speaker, and it sounded like something from the garden section at Home Depot--Parenticide. Jimmy frowned, removed the phone from his pocket and, after having Google help him with the spelling and meaning, put it back into his pocket. He had done this last part with two fingers, as if he thought the phone might now be carrying some infectious disease.
Cannibals Of The Deep
All the other persons with rods between their legs were set up wading knee deep in the bay by the bridge, because that's where the Blues were running (giant toothy aggressive rod bending drag screaming yellow eyed Bluefish, who when hungry will attack from the rear any living or dead thing, including their own young, or any shiny or dull piece of metal or wood dragged under or across the top of the water), and reportedly were unusually large this year, for so early in the season. Warden was pulling nothing from the crashing waves before him because his line was not in the water nor was his rod between his legs. Emasculated by circumstance, he was alone one hundred yards from the surf, squatting slowly before lying back on a dune with a groan barely audible above the sonorous sea. Earlier while casting into deep water with a confidence born of no practical experience he had been startled by the staccato screech of a Killdeer flying unseen in the fog above him, startled enough to cause just the right, or wrong movement in his torso, which injected a fresh dose of pain into that sweet spot in his lower back. It was on the right side today. Two days ago it had been on the left. Five days previous it had been on both sides and with some intensity on the left side of his neck. The Percocets would not touch it so he left them in his lure bag next to the Uncle Josh pork rind trailers. Ward Ambler closed his eyes and felt a contemplative mood coming on. This was a thing he did not welcome. So he opened his eyes, counted the waves, and closed them again, as reset. And felt nothing except that which could be described by even the most skeptical, as good. But apparently there was a time limit on feeling good and thoughts began to creep in. Should he join the throngs by the bridge? Would it kill him to be a part of the human race? He was still a little shook up and embarrassed from getting hooked in the face last year when a small three pound schoolie bass had leapt at him from the beach after being yanked from the ocean, while attached to an SP Minnow lure and its two treble hooks. The fish dangled and tugged most excruciatingly from Ward Ambler's left check while he first panicked under the throes of a thing which heretofore he literally could not have imagined, and then slowly he dealt with it one step at a time, first cutting the line (which does nothing in this situation but is easy and feels like progress.) He then removed the thrashing fish from the lure, in the process digging another prong of the front treble into his face. He had been strangely relieved at that point and considered heading home with the lure attached to his cheek but found it uncomfortable hanging like that with its internal steel balls rattling, and had in the end clipped the hooks with his magnum wire cutters so that only the parts of the hook that were actually piercing his flesh were left. He had been the talk of the community for a while over that one. Jimmy Jones had explored the various humorous appellations his limited imagination could muster: Fish Face, Hook Head, Captain Hook, Barbafella (which Ward begrudgingly admitted was almost funny), but over time the hook wounds healed, the swelling in his face subsided, and as for Jimmy, he became consumed by family tragedies, not the least being the progressive mental deterioration of his mother, who was now known to utter the most imaginative and hateful obscenities to any man, woman, or child, irrespective of time or place. Ward took no consolation in Jimmy's misfortune but just moved seamlessly from feeling bad for himself to feeling bad for someone else. The two felt the same. The fishing was the escape and that his time spent at it could border on obsessive, and implied an inordinate need for obfuscating the simple bland facts of his life was a thing he did not overly ponder. As much as Ward wanted to be into fish he still felt an unreasonable fear of being gaffed by another one and wasn't sure he could handle the ignominy of it happening in front of the whole crew down by the bridge. He knew there were fish in these waters in front of him. He sometimes imagined last years facial piercing had imbued him with a special sixth sense, yet nothing in his life supported the idea that he had any special powers or insights into finding and catching fish. Lying there he came to accept that he was going to have to miss this run. He had a couple of hours to kill before attending to a small job in the city. The owners of the bighouse were having a weekend party, somehow in honor of something to do with RuPaul, the details were fuzzy to him, but it was suggested he might enjoy being away for a few days and Ward Ambler agreed that he might. And in any case as a squatter in their tool shed he tried to be sensitive to their hints, if not their rights. The job was for an anarchist named Abel Gardner, with whom he had become acquainted, when just a few weeks previous, pulled off on the shoulder of the Long Island Expressway to change a flat tire during rush hour in a thunderstorm, the rain suddenly stopped and when Ward looked up there was a silver haired man dressed all in black holding a giant red umbrella over him. While Ward changed the tire Abel regaled him with his recent adventures battling a Grand Jury, of which he had been a member, but apparently not an agreeable one to the other jurors, nor especially to the judge, because on the ninth day of his thirty day requirement Abel had been removed from the courtroom and taken to some other address on Centre Street, where he was informed that he was being held in contempt of court. All for simply asking questions before allowing indictments to be drawn up against some clearly retarded people. Ward had nodded at that while tightening his lug nuts. I'm not being figurative here calling the people retarded you understand, the people, well some of them anyway, some of them were by the descriptions given of their crimes, which is all we really had to go on, well it was patently obvious they were retarded. By the way my name is Abel, Abel said extending his hand and not hesitating before grasping and shaking the greasy palm offered by Ward. Ward, Ward said. Ward, I hope I'm not offending you by calling people retarded. Not really, no. That's great, well anyhow I did not feel I could just blindly be part of that machinery that was processing the meat, you understand. Especially retarded meat, so I was asking questions attempting to ascertain truth, and for that I may go to jail. It's not right. Ward stood up to put his tools away while agreeing it didn't sound right. Abel then asked him what he did and Ward admitted that he mostly fished, not successfully though, and was also known to do small home repair jobs. Outstanding, just outstanding, was Abel's response and they exchanged information which led to this job. Abel had a half wall in his apartment on W 23rd Street, had been wanting to get rid of it for ages, and now with this court thing hanging over him he had a brilliant idea. Which was to procure graffiti specialists from the street, have them paint up his wall into some semblance of the one formerly in Berlin, and then have someone, and now that someone was Ward, tear it down while being filmed. The film would end when exposed behind the torn down wall was Abel Gardner reading a yellowed copy of the Constitution. This film he hoped to show at his hearing. Ward was skeptical but offered no opinion, so far was any of this from his experience. He was neither a film critic nor a legal expert. Or an actor for that matter. Just be yourself and do what you know how to do, Abel advised. Ward stared blankly at the wall. The graffiti had been done, seemed a little off (Hitler sucks cock)? but what did he know.
What The Hell Is Palliative?
Ward sat at the counter drinking coffee. The door to the diner had a bell on it and Ward had become pretty good at guessing who it was entering without turning around, which he could barely do anyhow without spinning completely around on his seat, his neck was that stiff, his lower back that shot. The latest ringing was more of a clang and the sound was superfluous to his guessing as the loud chuckleheads had announced themselves with guffaws from the parking lot. Jimmy and Janice Jones. The stiffness in his neck was caused by stress Dr. Fillmore would say. What do I have to be stressed about, all I do is fish. Caught anything lately? No. Could be that. That's a good one, I feel a breakthrough coming on. Could I get some more of those pills. Those pills are only treating the symptoms, not the cause. So I can have some more? You know, there was an article in the New York Times this morning about the moving away from opioids, which are only palliative, towards more natural therapies, better breathing, diet, posture correction, and isometric exercise regimes. If I take a deep breath now and sit up straight can I have the pills? Just think about it Dr. Fillmore would say as he wrote out a new script for Percocet. Ward Ambler was already cringing and tensing up from what he knew was about to happen. A hard slap on the back announced Jimmy Jones. Good God Wardy, lighten up, you seem so tense. So I've been told. Listen, Warden, Jimmy Jr's. school is having a paper drive this month and we were wondering if you could give up some of the insulation in that palace of yours. I don't use paper for insulation. Oh, that's right, you use party balloons. Mylar. What's that? I use Mylar. Well isn't that what I just said? I guess it is Jimmy. Okay chief, I'm sure you've had your fill of me, let me go join my lovely wife. Not at all Jimmy, I treasure our chats. But as much as it pains me to share you with Janice, I think you are right, you should go to her as she is the more deserving. You're a nut Ambler, but you're my nut, am I right? Never known you to be wrong. Jimmy walked over to join his wife. Ward leaned forward and said to the young waitress, Claire, is he an asshole or is it just me. It's not just you, but you should relax when he comes in, he is not going to change and you have to accept that. Ward retrieved the 140 count bottle of 10 mg Percocet and shaking them said, I do try to relax. Claire looked at him as a mother at a child. Ward, those are only palliative. Are you kidding me? I am not Ward, I am not kidding you at all.
Seagulls Are People Too
It was Tuesday May 13, in the year of our Lord 2014, a year that will be known, despite any actual meteorological evidence, as the coldest, longest winter ever recorded. There had been some talk of altogether removing Spring and Fall from the calendar reckonings of man and renaming the seasons to more adequately reflect things as they were. Met with some resistance by the serious minded but gaining traction was the suggestion of senior citizen, Ward Ambler, who had remarked off handedly one morning at Gemma's Diner on Montauk Highway that we call the seasons Colder Than a Well Diggers Ass, and, Hot Enough For Ya? A once amateur meteorologist and handyman, now committed with single minded passion to fishing, even as the fish themselves were committing to warmer waters nearer the Gulf Stream, and were rarely seen close enough to the sandy shores to be caught by a man with a long rod casting chunks of wood and metal and plastic into the Atlantic Ocean. A warm front moved through the area the last two days and temperatures of 70 degrees were felt for the first time of the year in Winona, NY, a beach community on the south shore of Long Island, where Ward had retired after a client some years ago had made the mistake of giving him a key to their weekend home so that he could attach new screen to the back porch. He had repaired the screen and fished the falling tides. The owners had been pleased with his work and asked him to repair the wooden back yard shed, damaged when a neighbor's satellite dish was blown by hurricane force winds onto the shed's roof. He had finished that job late in the year and as the owners rarely came out in the winter he thought it would be a good idea to extend his fishing season. So he laid down a sleeping bag on the shed floor. For insulation he had attached sheets of silver mylar emergency blankets to the walls, floor and ceiling, and as it got colder he emptied out the clay flower pots arranged artfully around the house, and with votive candles "borrowed" from what he now referred to as the bighouse, fashioned heaters with a lit votive under one clay pot over which went a larger clay pot. This is toasty, he said to himself the first night, wearing only a pair of underwear, and socks, of which he had two pairs, each. On this Tuesday now some years later he felt a little dizzy as he lay propped up on the shed floor reading Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem. That the mylar walls created a sort of funhouse mirror effect and the tequila procured from the bighouse under his own procurement of disuse law was so smooth as to invite overuse could have possibly been contributing factors. Putting the book down he chuckled. The previous Tuesday he had been out front, a term used to describe the beach when that beach is only a sliver of land in front of a bay. The mile walk to the inlet has been easy walking over newly rained on sand. He casted, sometimes with precision, counting the frequency of the waves and timing it so his lure landed just on the back of one cresting and sometimes just casting blindly, lulled by the sounds, and seclusion. He hadn't seen another fisherman for weeks, musing briefly if people just gave up, maybe you could just give up, and then decided to move to another spot, back towards where he began. Rounding the first point he saw a sight both exhilarating and horrifying. Fisherman, a whole line of them, out on the bar now exposed at low tide. They were all casting in sync and with purpose. There must be a bite on. Ward Ambler could not reach that bar, clad as he was only in rain pants over rubber boots. You would need full waders to cross over to that bar, as the trench of water before it was deeper than the 15 inch limit of his boots. He felt like a noob. He paused, not knowing which direction to go. He didn't want to trudge past the seasoned fishermen with their seasoned gear, catching fish, only pausing for a single moment to turn in unison and scoff at the dejected, trudging noob behind them. It was foggy. It had been all day. Overcast skies can be good for day fishing. He had been right to come out today, but just like so many other days there was always one thing missing from his gear. Still, its better than a sharp stick in the eye, being out here, he used to say before a couple of actual incidents with sharp sticks in his eye made him find the analogy, while still absolutely apt, not all that funny. He had been inching closer to the fishermen when like a switch turned on he realized those were not fishermen lined up on the bar facing the raging ocean, but only seagulls. Back in his shed he finished the last of the tequila and staring hard at his wavering mylar reflection drifted off to sleep.
A Cheerful African American Equestrian
I met on the street yesterday morning a gay black cowboy named Steven. It was Thursday. I was attending to my vehicle for the hour and a half required. The street sweeper had already passed. I was musing on the lives of others, looking behind me at all the empty spaces which would undoubtedly be filled within the hour, and wondering what those future parkers were now doing, what adventures were they engaged in, feeling a little diminished by the fact that I was doing little else than playing Oh Hell on my cellphone.
It was wet and foggy out but not raining. The school crossing guard had recently retired for the day. The people-watching was sub par. The regular dog walkers were about, the woman who cradles her aging overweight Pug for all of its walk excepting that necessary time it must be on the ground to do dog business, and the guy with the German Shepard, the teenage black lab guy, the muzzled mutt guy and the man with the Pug whose hind legs are supported by wheels.
People from my building walked by but ignored me. Karen Ireland, lost not in the actual fog but in that of her morning ruminations, being pulled slightly by her inter-specie loving lesbian rat terrier, passed diagonally through the crosswalk in front of me and while I gave a perfunctory wave I did not see enough to be gained by tapping on the horn. People in their morning fog do not want to be honked at. There can be as a result of it ensuing madness like that befalling the awakened sleepwalker. I don't want to be the one responsible for that. Oh yeah? Karen Ireland? She was a lovely lovely woman until that thumb twiddling dipshit honked at her. Now look at her. Has to wear a bib. And the worst of it is that poor dog of hers, was always so proud and lively, but now, well, she's taken up with one of those long haired Himalayans and just lays about all day with it in one of those cardboard scratching "sofas," a shame really, all of it.
And then the Restauranteur, Bernadette's sister, my sister-in-law for all intents and purposes, she just walks right by me, close enough if I was a pile of excrement encased in flies the flies would have, alarmed by her proximity, momentarily taken flight from the excrement that was me before settling back down again deliciously.
But that's okay. I was not out there to make friends or acquaint myself with others. I was out there doing my duty. Attending to my vehicle parked at the corner of psyche and psyche so that twice a week the sweeper trucks can pass, helping to make this city the glistening jewel that it is.
After a bit, after the initial reattaching of my negative battery cable so the short in my electrical system doesn't drain the battery between tours of duty, and the people watching and the pondering and the shame of coming to grips with my status as an outcaste among my own people, I noticed a car pull up and park behind me. I then went back to playing Oh Hell, either winning or coming in third in the six player version set for hard. I could almost always beat that chump Farqhuar but you do not want to take that Doris lightly. I am aware of a shape exiting the vehicle parked behind me and a progressing of that shape towards me sitting in the Jeep with the windows rolled up. I am pretty much aware now that a person is standing outside waiting for my acknowledgement. I like chance encounters to a certain degree, assuming the encounter is to my advantage in some way. Instead of rolling the window down I gently opened the door and remaining seated encountered this tall middle-aged black man, who as it happens is named Steven, wearing a brown fringed leather cowboy vest, matching fringed chaps over blue jeans held up with a black too-long belt ornamented with a large, oval, engraved sterling silver buckle. I could not see his shoes but I am going to assume they were well worn but shining cowboy boots.
Now be assured this anachronistic outfit did not seem at all out of place or time on this man. But rather so confidently was it worn that I felt transported to whatever or wherever is that time where two men, one a middle-aged long hair in black jeans and faded grey t-shirt covered with a somewhat yuppy-looking LL Bean hooded rain jacket talks to a Buffalo soldier on the streets of New York. About what did we talk? Oh parking mostly. He then retired back to his vehicle to read a book. At 10:29 I stepped out of the Jeep, opened the hood and unattached the negative side of my battery cable and then let the hood slam shut. I sauntered past my vehicle, hoping to wish the cowboy a good day but he was hunched over sideways, his back to the sidewalk, a thick paper-backed book held open somewhere about middle with his left thumb, and with his right hand he was marking passages with a yellow highlighter. There were a fair amount of interesting looking objects littered about the front seat of his car but I could not make out what any of them were. I did not even think about knocking on his window.
Gristle
You know how you get a bit of fat gooey gristle stuck in your teeth? And you use your tongue like a flaccid toothpick trying to extract it? Imagining that your barbarism is noticeable to no one when in fact you are the greatest of annoyances to those around you? That's what Bernadette said I was being, just annoying. I was coming back from the beach this morning, 9 foot rod in hand, heh heh, and I paused at the first house to talk 911 conspiracy theory with the occupant or rather listen to him talk, me perched on my girl's bike, and he leaning hunched over on too-short crutches, when there came up the road two women who seeing us stopped to talk. I had seen them on the beach days before, walking, for that's what people do on the beach here as it seems to escape them that they could just as easily be fishing. But usually its just me fishing or sometimes me and Bernadette, when she's not swimming, and everyday people see me out there, lanky, unkempt, casting forever casting, but aging and with nary a healthy piece of cartilage in my joints to aid me in my quest for that adrenal rush of a line ripping monster fish. I keep a bag of frozen peas in the freezer for my cartilage. The one woman introduced herself and I said my name without first repeating hers so that I would remember and true to that I don't, not even a clue. I was greatful for a break in the conspiracy talk as the three of them referred to things I knew nothing about. The other woman, who did less talking, had that fixed smile with crinkly eyes that could possibly imply a former career as a high end sports clothing model, intelligent and insightful seeming, or, and here's the thing, maybe not. So she became the gristle stuck in my teeth because I could not get that catalog model's smile out of my head and when I got home I did horribly bad imitations of it for Bernadette. And while she appreciated, briefly, my enthusiasm she soon grew tired and told me that I was being what I already knew I was being which is annoying. Sometimes when people are annoyed themselves they like to share it is all. It is a kind of self exorcism, gentler if perhaps no less grotesque than the projectile vomiting, 360 head spinning kind.
The Fishing Report
The inexorable cycle of life thought Caretaker. The nurturing, the murdering. He was up early on Tuesday having fallen asleep the previous day with still some light in the sky and an aluminum pipe in his mouth. Alzheimer's be damned. Honey is that you? Yes mom. Have you always been here? Got here yesterday mom. The grass would be wet with dew, this he knew without even leaving his bed, because he was a genius this Caretaker with regards to dampness and seasonal dew-points. He would use up the last of the fertilizer and hit those spots near the bighouse that were less than lush. And since he was up and moving around with barely a sun up to burn him he would also poison the weeds in the driveways and between the brick pavers at both houses.
While he did these things gnats hovered around his face and these gnats he was careful not to inhale, but this did not prevent one from flying onto the wetness of his eyeball and sticking there irritably. Honey is that you? Yes mom. Well its good you could come for a visit. Yeah mom, glad I could come.
Caretaker was now avoiding the hateful manual weed pulling between the 200 or so flat jagged rock pavers surrounding the pool. On his knees on a cushion, sitting yoga style, legs stretched in front, one knee up one folded underneath, a dip in the pool, it did not matter, it was hateful and slow. He used a butter knife as his digging tool. But he wasn't doing that now, he was instead thinking about the fishing he had done over the weekend and the unprecedented feeling of almost being sated by success. Over 5 different area ponds traveling around with Mowerman and sometimes his twin brother, which made things nosier, Caretaker had caught at least twenty small bass, a half dozen more that had thankfully unhooked themselves at the bank to save him the trouble, four nice sized bass, and one really nice sized one at a pond they had sneaked to through bramble and over a dry stacked rock wall, that Mowerman had fished growing up, with his dad, and considered his birthright. And no one messed with us which was giving Mowerman the courage to consider trespassing onto some other area ponds. Except for Kriegers pond because he was, quaint as it may sound, known for shooting at trespassers. No, he WILL shoot your ass Mowerman's twin brother reminded us more than once.
But this reminiscing was only one of the many techniques Caretaker had for avoiding hateful work so he had to be careful not to spend too much time on it. Weeds awaited. There would be some reward for the accomplishment, however temporary.
Poop On My Window
Caretaker was at the kitchen table breaking down his 525 Mag when a Brown Thrasher bullied by a Bluejay crashed into the window causing caretaker to cry out, ahh get out of there. A brown viscous drool of poop dripped from the Thrashers poop shoot and down the screen to which it was attached. Caretaker reached over and hit the window with his palm and the bird flew off crashing into the window over the kitchen sink and then to the unknown.
Caretaker had gone fishing at the pond that morning because it was a lot closer than the 4 hour drive to the nearest beach on which he wished to be fishing. Nothing hit his popper and nothing hit the spinner bait and when a small bass hit his plastic worm he thought oh boy game on but the bass spit the worm out and nothing hit the rest of his time out there. He watched his five new inherited Asian Carp, swept over from Sullivan's pond after the last flood. He had been looking for some grass eaters and now here they were, floating foreignly along the surface of a small pond inhabited by bass and bluegill and catfish, some frogs, some small turtles and one monster snapping turtle which before he left tugged the plastic worm off his hook.
He left the pond and explored the property on a cloudy damp day pausing momentarily to look happily at the blooming white azaleas which had never looked quite so good since their planting 5 years ago. Parking the ATV in his garage he saw his unpacked surf fishing gear still lying forlornly on the garage floor where he had left them after last weeks trip to the Outer Banks. So he picked up the Penn reel lying on one of his tackle bags and went to the kitchen table and took it apart and cleaned off the sand and salt which was making his drag sound crusty and greased the screws and put them back in while eating frozen pizza and when the timer went off he removed the chicken from the portable gas grill outside and put the whole chicken in a glass pan to cool on the kitchen counter because he wasn't that hungry having just eaten pizza and now he was staring out the window.
