Catfish

Bobby dumped one of the bags of ice into the bottom of the cooler. The cubes bouncing off the metal sounded like the bells at the start of school. He smiled and pulled the six packs loose from one of the cases sitting in the truck bed. He nestled them down into the ice, poured in more, and grabbed beer from the second case. Then he covered the whole stack in ice and slammed the lid. He flipped the latch and shoved the heavy cooler into the corner of the truck bed so they could reach it from the sliding rear window of the cab.

“Let’s go guys, it’s getting dark!” he yelled to the group of boys sitting on the tailgates of the blue pick up parked in Roy’s driveway. They waved and hopped down, digging their fishing rods, hats, lanterns and bags of junk food out of the bed as they did so.

Roy was in the lead. His gray tee shirt, cut off above his belly, was already soaked with sweat. Bobby grimaced. Roy always sweated like a freaking pig,and didn’t smell  much better. Roy tossed his gear in the back of Bobby’s Ford. The other two boys followed suit. Brothers, Willy and Ben looked nothing alike. Willy was lanky and blond, tall like his momma. Ben was like his dad, a fireplug with black hair and arms that hung past his knees. Both had smokes dangling from the corners of their mouths, smoke curling up under the brim of their greasy ball caps advertising some faded tractor brand.

“They should be biting tonight,” Roy spoke up. “Been so dang hot, they should be hungry.”

Willy nodded agreement.

“I do love me summer. Too bad the girls couldn’t come with us.”

Bobby looked at Roy and shook his head. Poor Willy, they thought together. He always dreamed that some girl, any girl, would tag along with them. The closest that had ever come to happen was when Roy’s sister had needed a ride to town with them last year. Willy had tried to cop a feel and gotten a beer poured his head for his trouble.

“Whatever you say man. Get in. Who’s riding up front?”

Roy answered by opening the door and jumping into the shotgun seat. The brothers shrugged and climbed over the tailgate, wedging themselves into the front corners of the bed. Ben opened the cooler.

“Man, wait until we get off the main road. You know better than that,” Bobby told him as he got behind the wheel. Willy slammed the lid on Ben’s hand.

“Damn you Willy! Knock it off.”

The other three boys laughed. Bobby shoved in the clutch, pumped the gas pedal three times, and turned the key. The Ford V-8 roared to life, rumbling out of the straight pipes that exited in front of the rear wheels. He gassed it a couple of times, pulled the shift lever down on the column into first and popped the clutch. Gravel spun out from under the tires and Willy and Ben grabbed the bed rails to keep from rolling to the tailgate. Roy let out a whoop and they shot out the driveway on onto the blacktop, tires squealing.

Roy reached into the pouch in the front of the saddle blanket seat covers and pulled out a handful of 8 track tapes. He read the titles, and shoved them back until he got one he liked. He shoved it into the tape deck and TRAIN TRAIN by Blackfoot started in the middle of the song.

“When you going to get a cassette player,man?” he asked Bobby.

“I hate those things. 8 tracks will be around forever anyway. ‘Sides, cassettes are too expensive.”

“Whatever.” Roy cranked the volume know up, and played with the equalizer hanging under the metal dash. The bass from the speakers under the seat vibrated the whole cab.

An opening appeared ahead, and Bobby down shifted into second. He cranked the wheel left and the truck jumped sideways on the blacktop, pointing toward the gravel road that lead through the woods. He popped the clutch and hit the gas and the truck straightened out and flew into the woods. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw Ben crawling back up to the front of the truck.

“Turn that thing down!” Bobby yelled over the tape deck’s noise. Roy knocked the volume down enough that Bobby no longer worried about his ears bleeding.

“Grab us some beers,” he said. Ben already had one in his hand. He popped the pull tab off and flipped it over the rail.

“Hey! Save them man!” Bobby shouted, pointing at the chain of pull tabs hanging from his rear view mirror, sparkling between the feathered roach clips.

“Sorry!” came the response. Willy handed two cans through window. Cold water ran down Bobby’s arm as he took his. He pulled the tab and handed it to Roy, who bent it onto the chain.

The beer was cold and tasted good, fighting back the heat of the day. The sun was going down as the truck bounced its way to the pull off at the edge of the creek. Bobby killed the engine and drifted it off the road. He jammed on the parking brake and the Ford slid to a stop, dust enveloping the boys and obscuring the trees. When it cleared the brothers were already over the tailgate and pulling gear from the truck.

Between the four of them, they got all the gear to the edge of the slow moving water in one trip. Soring out their own kits, they each found a forked stick, which they shoved into the soft dirt. They unlimbered the rods and checked the hook and huge lead weights dangling from the three-way swivel. Then they looked to Willy, who held a plastic Tupperware dish in his hands. He’d filched it from his mother’s pantry. He’d also stolen the chicken liver that she had been collecting for Sunday supper from her ‘fridge. He’d done that last Saturday, put them in the container and buried it in the backyard, letting it stew all week.
He peeled back the lid and retched. Bobby took a step back and gagged. He pulled a Marlboro out and lit it to fight back the stench. He swore he could see fumes rising from the container.

“These will bring them ‘cats in!” Willy said. He fished one out and it spurted from his fingers. He picked it up and threaded it on the treble hook. He wound up and tossed it thirty feet from shore into a swirling eddy near the far bank, propped the rod up in the fork of the branch and flopped onto the dirt.

The others bravely followed suit, the bloody chicken livers staining their fingers. The rods propped up, cigarettes were lit and more beer opened.

“Did you see Suzy today?” Willy asked. Bobby rolled his eyes. “She had on that red halter top of hers. Girl’s boobs were dancing around like my dogs after a coon.” Ben punched Willy’s arm.

“Shut up Willy. Suzy’s a good girl.”

“You’re sweet on her is all, or you’d know she’s just a slut.”

Ben picked up a rock and threw it at his brother. Willy ducked and the rock hit Roy. Roy looked at them both.
“Knock if off assholes. I’m fishing here.”
They both mumbled sorry.

Bobby watched his rod tip. It was slightly bumping up and down. The line started to feed off the reel, slowly at first.

“Got a nibbler,” he said. The other boys reached for their rods, closed the bails on the reels and wound in their lines. Bobby carefully picked up his rod. The line was feeding off the reel faster now. He flipped the bail closed and pointed the rod tip toward the line which was now heading downstream. As it got tight, he reared back hard, whipping the rod up and setting the hook. The reel screamed and the drag engaged and line smoked off of it.

“Oh boy, it’s a good one!” he shouted. The others could see that for themselves. The line peeled off the reel as the catfish took off upstream. Fifty feet of line whipped off before Bobby slowed it down. He turned the cat back downstream,and wound furiously to get the line back that the cat had pulled loose.

Fifteen minutes of back and forth, and Bobby was finally winning. The dark shape of the fish was near the bank. Roy got close as Bobby lead it toward him. He reached down and grabbed, slipping his hand into the fishes gill. He pulled back and two feet of catfish flopped out of the water and onto land.

“Whoa daddy! He’s a nice on alright.”
The boys gathered near the fish. It’s mouth worked, open, shut, open, shut. Bobby, as worn as the fish, also gasped for breath.

“Get him back in the water Roy, ‘fore he croaks,” he said.

“Ah, he ain’t gonna die. Daddy had some little ones he caught up to the ponds last year in a bucket, and they was still living the next day!” Willy said.

Roy ignored him and pulled a set of pliers from his gear. He twisted the big hook out of the fish’s mouth, keeping clear of the spines. He stood up and shoved the cat back into the water, where is slowly sunk back into the depths like some small submarine.

“This calls for a drink,” he said. He stooped and pulled a bottle from the bag of his kit. Amber liquid shone in the light of the lanterns they’d lit to keep back the darkness.

“What you got there Roy? Looks like a bottle of your Pap’s home brew.”

Roy smiled, pulled the cork and sipped at the bottle. He shook his head and handed the bottle to Bobby, who took his own swill.

The boys baited back up and got back to the series work of fishing. The bottle made the rounds again and Roy sat it next to his rod.

The next hour saw a few small fish landed, but nothing of the size of Bobby’s first one. The pyramid of beer cans grew in front of each lad, threatening to fall over.

The crunch of tires on gravel could be heard, though no headlights were seen. They boys looked at each other and became still. Then in a flurry of feet and hands, the pile of cans were collected and stuffed into the cooler. The approaching engine shut off and they slammed the lid. They could hear two doors open and shut, and Bobby drug the cooler out of the light and under the thorns of a blackberry bush near the water. He sat back down as the sound of brush breaking reached their ears. A flashlight beam played down the trail leading from the parking pull of to the creek. They boys tried to concentrate on their rods.

A voice called out. “Hey ya boys. Any luck?” A tall man in a green uniform stepped into the light of the lanterns. Moths attracted by his flashlight floated in front of him. He was followed by a second man, who remained in the shadows.

“We got a few small ones,” Ben answered for the group. The others mumbled their ascent.

“I see. You all got your licenses on?”
Each boy pointed the license pinned to their hat. The man nodded.

“Alrighty then. Had a complaint of some boys up here fishing and drinking. You boys ain’t drinking, are you?”

They shook their heads. “No sir,” Roy spoke up. “Why, we’re underage. We sure wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Willy snickered and the Game Warden looked at him. Willy stopped smiling.

“Uh huh. I see. Just out here having a good ole time.”

Bobby said, “Yes sir. That’s it alright. We’re just out here enjoying the fine night.”

The Warden looked them over, his eyes lingering on each of them. He got to Roy and his eyes stopped.

“What’s that bottle by your tackle boy?” he asked.

Roy swallowed and looked at the bottle of bourbon.

“That’s scent. For the bait. Really.”

“Yeah. Hand it here.” He took a step forward.

Roy stood up and kicked the bottle over the bank. Everyone stopped as it splashed into the water. The Warden’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re a smart ass, ain’t you boy?”

Roy grinned. “No sir, just a klutz. Sure didn’t mean for that old bottle to wind up in the creek.”

The Warden smiled. Roy’s grin disappeared.

“That’s okay son. Really. Littering a waterway is against the law, too.” He reached out to grab Roy’s arm.

“Not so fast Warden.”

They all looked at Willy. Willy was holding a pistol, old and rusty, in his hand. He pointed it unsteadily at the Warden.
“Put that thing done boy,” the Warden said. Roy backed up slowly. From the shadows where the Warden’s forgotten companion waited, the sound of a shotgun action being worked came to them. The man’s voice came to them, ghost like.

“Do what he said son. Now.” The lantern light gleamed off the shotgun barrel protruding from the dark.

“MOVE!” Bobby yelled. He kicked over the lantern, breaking the fragile mantles and plunging them all into blackness.

The shotgun roared, a three foot flame leaping from the barrel. The pistol cracked an answer. A whimper and a cry were followed by the sound of feet on the trail.