Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing (14 page)

“Pat, guess what!” he said. “We managed to charter a little salmon fishing boat for this afternoon and wondered if you wanted to go along.”

“Naw,” I said. “I have no interest in catching little salmon.”

“You don't understand. The boat's little, the salmon are big!”

“In that case, I'd go, but I don't have any tackle with me.”

“The tackle is all taken care of. Good sturdy salmon rigs.”

An hour later we met at the boat, which wasn't as small as I'd been led to believe. Four people could fish out of it comfortably without fear of tangling lines, except when a fish was hooked, of course, and then all other lines would have to be reeled in—no big problem, or so it seemed at the moment. Ned, the burly, bearded boat captain, was setting out the salmon rigs, big sturdy rods, massive reels, line strong enough to land Brahman bulls. My heart leaped up. Clearly, Ned was a captain accustomed to bringing in big fish.

“You fellows about ready?” Ned called out.

“Got one more guy coming,” Flick replied. “He'll be here any minute.”

“I thought it was just the three of us,” I said.

“Nope,” Flick said. “Figured it would be better if we split the cost of the charter four ways instead of three. Besides, Wiggens is a nice guy. Met him last night during the cocktail hour. Oh, there he is now, I bet.”

A classy red sports car sped into the marina and slid to a stop, its motor rumbling expensively. A thirty-something fellow got out, slender, handsome, thick wavy blond hair, top-of-the-line fishing togs, clearly the kind of successful and confident individual who inspires instant hatred.

“Wow, would you look at that car!” Benny said. “What a lucky guy. Car, looks, clothes, money. Cripes, why can't I be like him!”

“'Cause you're short, fat, bald, and poor,” Flick said. “Otherwise, no reason.”

“Some people have it all,” I said. “Their worst day is probably one of the best for most of us.”

“No kidding,” Flick said. “Some guys are just naturally lucky, no doubt about it. He'll probably haul in some monstrous salmon, and the rest of us won't get so much as a nibble.”

Flick introduced us and we shook hands all around.

“Just call me Wiggy,” Wiggens said. “Or Wig for short.”

Clearly, it was not enough that Wig was one of the luckiest people on earth; he also had to be a regular guy. One of the things I've noticed about rich people, most of them tend to be nice. It's very irritating. You would think that out of common decency they would at least allow us the satisfaction of not liking them. But no, they have to be nice.

The time would soon come, however, when Flick, Benny, and I would regard Wig with undiluted hate.

“What you got in the fine leather cases there, Wig?” Benny asked.

“Oh, just my rod and reel and some tackle,” Wig said. “I like to use my own stuff.” He opened one of the fine leather cases and began setting up his rod.

“Hey, that's real nice,” Flick said, frowning. “But don't you think it's kind of light for salmon?”

“I like to use light tackle,” Wig said. “It seems more sporting. No offense to you guys.”

“Yeah, sporting,” Benny said. “I like sporting.”

Half an hour later we were a couple of miles offshore, the sea like undulating blue silk flecked with diamonds—ugly,
but fishermen can't always expect nice dull gray choppy water.

“Let's give her a try,” Ned said. “Picked up a couple of real nice chinook right along through here yesterday.”

Wig had his line out before Flick, Benny, and I had even started to bait up. Flick stepped over and nudged me. “You see that weird fly Wig tied on? Man, I was going to say something to him, but I thought he might get embarrassed. When he don't catch anything in an hour or so, I think maybe I'll just suggest that he—”

“Fish on!” Ned shouted. “Wig's got a good un. Look at that baby take out line. Wheweeeee! Lucky thing you other fellers hadn't put in yet. We'd had us a fine tangle of line with this light tackle Wig's usin'.”

It took a good half hour for Wig to work the salmon up close to the boat, but it was exciting to watch. We all cheered him on.

“Way to go, Wig!”

“All right, man!”

“Nice job! You almost got him now, Wig!”

Ned got the net and stood poised to scoop up the fish. “Oh, nice! This baby will go over twenty-five pounds or I miss my guess …!”

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …!

The salmon took out a mile and a half of line.

Flick, Benny, and I walked to the far side of the boat's tiny cabin and sat down on the deck. Flick bit off a chaw of tobacco and Benny lit up his pipe. I thought about delivering them a lecture on the threats to their health of these nasty habits but, glancing at their faces, decided that the lecture might be an even greater threat to my health. We sat in sullen silence for another forty-five minutes or so. Then we heard Ned say, “Easy! Easy, Wig! Don't horse it. Easy. Just a bit more and I can get the net under …!

We leaped to our feet, ready to cheer.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …!

We sank back down on the deck. A chill wind was coming out of the north, and a nice chop had built up on the gray water.

“Either of you guys bring an extra jacket?” Benny asked, hugging himself.

“Didn't even bring one,” Flick said.

“Me neither,” I said. “Thought it was going to be warm.”

“Never even notice the cold when I'm catchin' fish,” Flick said. “I could be coated with ice and never even notice it, when I'm catchin' fish.”

“Fishin's funny that way,” Benny said. “I got this bad back, pains me something awful, but if I'm catchin' fish, it don't bother me no more than a mosquito bite. It's killin' me now, though.”

“How about giving me a few puffs on your pipe there, Benny?” I said.

“Can't. Way things are goin' I might not have enough tobacco to last out till Wig gets his dang fish in the boat.”

“Let's at least go sit in the cabin,” I said.

“Can't,” Flick said. “Ned's got it crammed with stuff.”

Then we heard Ned again. “C'mon, don't pamper that fish! Horse him in here, dang it! Just thumb that spool and give a big jerk! I'm freezing to death …!”

We started to get up.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …!

We sank back down.

Flick fired a round of tobacco juice over the side of the boat. “You know what I think? I think we oughta rush over there and cut Wig's line, that's what I think.”

Benny groaned and rubbed his back. “Too late for that. We've gone past the point of just cutting his line. I think
we should break that flimsy little rod of his and throw it overboard!”

“Yeah, that's a. good idea,” Flick said. “And then we could throw Wig in after it!”

“That would be murder,” I said.

“So?” Flick said. “What's your point?”

“We might get caught,” I said. “A coast guard boat is pulling up astern.”

A voice boomed out from a speaker on the coast guard boat. “Are you fellows in trouble?”

“No! “Ned yelled back.

“Then what are you doing out in the dark in this storm?”

“Trying to bring in a fish on light tackle!” Ned screamed back.

“Oh,” the voice boomed. “Well, we better stand by until you get the fish in, because the waves are starting to build up.”

The waves were coming at us from the side and the boat was rising and dropping and dropping, and rising …

“Wig's light tackle is threatenin' our lives,” Flick said, as a wave hit the side of the boat and sent icy spray over us. “I say we rush him right now and cut his line.”

Then we heard Ned yell. “Got it netted! Fish on board!”

We struggled to our feet. “Boy, am I going to give Wig a piece of my mind about his light tackle,” Flick growled.

“Me too,” Benny snarled. “When I get done chewing on him he ain't ever gonna want to fish again!”

“Got a few unkind words for him myself,” I said, as we groped our way around the cabin. “I can't believe he actually brought that fish in on light tackle. The kind of luck some guys have!”

Ned had a light shining on the fish, a big silvery chinook. Wig stood there staring solemnly down at his
salmon. His face was pale from exhaustion, his eyes almost teary as he looked up at us.

“I got something to say to you. Wig!” Flick said. “And that is, by—”

But Wig didn't seem to be listening.

“
Finally!
” he blurted out, interrupting Flick in midoath. “Finally something worked out right for me this year! Finally!”

Flick, Benny, and I stared silently at Wig, then at the fish, then at one another, then at Ned. Ned stared back at us. He gave a small shake of his head. Maybe Wig wasn't such a lucky guy after all, if catching a fish was the first thing to work out right for him that year. And it was already September!

After a few seconds, Wig said, “I'm sorry, I interrupted you, Flick. What were you about to say?”

“Me? Oh, I was just gonna say, ‘By gosh, that's a mighty fine fish, Wig.'”

“Yeah, it's a beaut,” Benny put in. “Hard to imagine you could catch a big fish like that on such l-l-l-light tackle.”

“Best salmon I've seen all year,” I said. “Congratulations, Wig!”

“Thanks, guys,” Wig said. Then he went back to looking solemnly at his salmon.

The coast guard boat followed us in, our boat bucking and crashing over the waves and throwing us about.

“You know somethin' strange?” Flick said, smiling. “I don't feel cold at all anymore.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“My back still hurts like crazy,” Benny said.

“You wimp!” Flick said. “We was tryin' to have a poignant moment here!”

Third grade, Delmore Blight Grade School. Once again our teacher, Miss Deets, had come up with one of her horrible ideas, this one undoubtedly intended to embarrass me as much as possible. Miss Deets was rich. I couldn't ever remember her wearing the same dress two days in a row. Why, I figured she must have as many as four or five nice dresses, maybe even more, and she owned at least two pairs of high-heeled shoes, one black and the other white. She wore jewelry, too, lots of it, and she had these little holes punched right through her ears, which she covered up with earrings. Personally, I thought the holes in her ears were rather gruesome, but I never mentioned it to her, because I thought they might be some kind of birth defect. I certainly wouldn't want to call attention to a person's birth defect.

Not only was Miss Deets rich, she was beautiful as well. And she always smelled really nice, not all that common among folks in our part of the country. So her smell was something that distinguished her all by itself. I probably could have loved Miss Deets, and even did for a while. But then she started coming up with all these ideas designed to embarrass me. And this latest one, why, it was one of the worst yet.

“Class, I have just had the most wonderful idea,” Miss Deets announced. “I want each of you to bring in your father and have him tell all about the kind of work he does. I'm sure your fathers' employers will give them a few hours off from work to participate in this project. It will be exceedingly educational for all of you and give you some excellent insights into all the exciting and productive careers available to you.”

A murmur ran through the class, casting some doubt on the excellence of this idea. I didn't join in the murmur. I was frantic. I didn't know what I could do. Finally, I raised my hand.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Deets, but I can't bring my dad in.”

“Well, you haven't even tried yet, have you? I'm sure that whatever your father is doing he can get a little time off to visit the class.”

“He can't.”

“And just why are you so sure about that, Patrick?”

“He's dead. Died two and a half years ago.”

“Oh, I see. I'm sorry to hear that.”

I thought I was off the hook, and Dad, too. I figured he'd rather be dead than have to come in and talk to Miss Deets's third-grade class.

“But I have a contingency for those of you whose fathers are, uh, unavailable,” Miss Deets went on. For a moment,
my spirits leaped up, until I discovered that a contingency wasn't a gift of some kind. “No, those of you whose fathers are unavailable must bring in another adult, an uncle, perhaps, or a close friend of the family, to tell about whatever it is they do for a living. And I will accept no excuses!”

Well, I was in it now. I had only two choices. There was my Uncle Flynn, of course, who could come in and tell about his gambling, and that would have been very interesting to the class as a possible career choice, but recently Uncle Flynn had had to leave town abruptly, so abruptly he hadn't even stopped to pack. That left only the old woodsman Rancid Crabtree, my mentor in all things related to the outdoors and life in general.

Right after school that day I raced over to Rancid's shack. Mostly what Rancid did was hunt and fish, but he also trapped on occasion, and I thought he could tell my fellow third-graders about trapping. Rancid was out sitting on his chopping block, apparently thinking about splitting some wood. He never did any kind of work without thinking about it long and hard first, just in case it turned out to be a foolish notion. He seemed glad to see me.

“Patrick, good to see you, boy.” He shot a spurt of tobacco juice at a scruffy chicken wandering past, missed, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What brings you up this way?”

“I got a terrible favor to ask, Rance.”

“Ah hope it don't involve money.”

“Nope. It's really awful.”

“Wahl, spit it out.”