u/IshotManolo

The young boy fished alone most days along the banks of the Brazos River, and it had been fifty-nine days since he had caught a fish. The boy’s uncle, who had been out of work, had joined him on several afternoons and they had fished together like they had in the past. After a month with no work, his uncle’s family said that he was perezoso, that he was lazy for fishing while other men worked. With help from a family friend, his uncle was able to secure work at a factory in a nearby town. He would carpool with another worker from their town and returned exhausted and hungry on Sundays. It made him sad to be away from the boy again and he often thought of his small silhouette sitting alone on the banks.

The boy was seven years old, and he was small for his age. His fair skin was tanned by long hours spent in the sun and his hair fell in an uneven wave of copper across his forehead. He had a small oval face with cheeks that would often exhibit a smudge, the color of drying clay, where dirty fingers had brushed away an irritation. His clothes were too big and hung loosely on his body, making him appear even smaller. His arms and legs were covered in scratches from the briars along the banks, and light bruises nestled amongst them like Robin’s eggs. The boy’s eyes were the color of the river and reflected its subtle shifting hues.

After telling the boy about his job, they both looked out over the river and sat together in silence. “Tio,” the boy said finally, “maybe you can come back and fish with me when you are not working.”

“Not for a while,” his uncle said with a tired laugh. “I think I will need all of the rest I can get until my old body gets used to this work.” “Besides, my family says that I need to grow up; that I should not waste so much time fishing.”

The boy looked down at his feet then cast a sidelong glance at his uncle. “Maybe then when you save some money, you will not have to work so much, and we could fish again like we used to?” His uncle turned and caught the flash in the boy’s eyes before he looked away, and he felt sorry for him. He had taught the boy everything he knew about fishing. He had shown him his favorite spots tucked away against the banks. He had taught him about the many types of fish in the river and the best techniques and times for catching them. He had shown him how to bait hooks and tie lines, and the boy had watched all in quiet reverence.

His uncle stood up, put both hands on his hips, and turned to look out over the river. “They are right though, of course,” he continued with feigned sincerity. “When you are older, but not too old…yet still quite handsome, and smart...like your uncle, you will come to find that there are many things in life that are more important than fishing,” he trailed. After a brief silence, he turned again to meet his nephew’s stare, and quickly added, “Don’t worry sobrino! You are still young; there will be many times for us to fish again.”

The boy stared back at the dirt and thought for a moment before looking up and returning his uncle’s grin, “You are not too old, tio…or too handsome either.”

“So then, I am still smart at least?” his uncle laughed.

“You are the smartest uncle I have,” the boy said, looking down again.

His uncle stepped over to him, and kneeled. He placed a hand on the boy’s left shoulder and drew him closer. “Tomas,” he said in a somber tone, “I am your only uncle.”

The boy looked up to meet him. Their eyes met and they broke into easy laughter. The boy’s uncle reached for a skinny wrist and spun him around as he pulled him into his chest for an embrace. “I should throw you in the river for talking to your uncle like that!” he laughed, shaking the boy’s shoulders playfully. He gave the top of the boy’s head a quick kiss before releasing him. He stood up and brushed the dirt from his pants. “Come on nephew, let’s go get some ice cream. It’s getting too humid for me here.” he announced. “I think there is a storm moving in.”

They gathered up their loose gear that they had laid on the bank and packed it into the old steel tackle box that the boy’s uncle had given him. Despite the tackle box’s appearance, with its dented top and rust-speckled exterior, it was one of his most prized possessions. To the boy it was a treasure chest. Everything had its own place, and he had meticulously committed each item and its function to memory. His uncle led the way as they walked up the narrow, wooded trail to where his truck was parked along the road. He carried the heavy tackle-box in his right hand and a small plastic cooler in the other. The boy carried their rods, one in each hand by his sides. As his uncle slowed his pace when he neared the top of the path, he felt the pressure from both rod tips push gently into his calves before giving way. He heard a soft, “Sorry” rise from behind him. He loaded the cooler and the tackle into his truck bed before turning to smile at the boy holding the poles.

They were greeted by the staccato brass clang from the shopkeeper’s bell as the boy’s uncle pushed open the door. “Ahh, it feels good in here!” he exclaimed. “That air conditioning is nice, huh?” The rich, sweet aroma from the baked cones hung heavily in the air and pulled them closer to the counter. It was not very crowded in the tiny shop, and they were the only ones in line. There was an older couple sitting alone, and a table of children, around the boy’s age, who were sitting in a corner. “What kind of ice cream are you getting today?” his uncle asked.

“What kind are you getting?” the boy returned. He slowly walked the length of the glass display, carefully examining each of the options.

“Hello!” a young woman greeted them from behind the counter as she pulled on an apron. “Do you know what you would like?” she asked politely.

“I would like a mint chocolate chip cone, please.” “I think he is still deciding,” nodding at his nephew who was making another pass at the display. “Tell the lady what you would like Tomas.”

The boy walked over and looked nervously at his uncle before turning to the lady. “Mint chocolate chip.”

“Please?” nudged his uncle.

“Please,” he added.

“Grab some napkins and pick a spot. I’ll bring over our cones.” He watched the boy make his way across the sticky black and white tiles to a table near the window.

When he turned around the lady was handing him their cones. “Is that your son?” she asked.

“No, no. He is my nephew.”

“Oh, well he is very sweet anyway,” the lady replied.

“Yes, he is. Thank you for the ice cream.” “Here is your cone,” he said as he joined the boy. “Only two napkins, goofball?”

“I did not want to waste any,” the boy replied.

“How is it?” his uncle asked.

The boy nodded with a small mint dot on the tip of his nose. “Good.” They enjoyed their ice cream together in the quiet shop and his uncle watched the sun sink lower in the afternoon sky. “No mames*,*” the boy blurted. His uncle turned to watch the remainder of the boy’s ice cream slide off the back of his cone before landing with a wet plop on the table. The boy’s startled face looked up at his uncle. “I’m sorry,” he said.

His uncle caught the boy looking towards the table in the corner to check if any of the other children had seen his error before he sprang up for more napkins. “It’s ok buddy.” They watched the ice cream soak through the napkins. His uncle added his own solitary napkin to the soggy pile.

Amber ribbons stretched lazily across the boy’s bed, chasing away the remaining shadows from the room. The boy stirred and rolled onto his back. He brought his tiny fists up to his eyes and rubbed away the sleep. In the night he had dreamed of the river again. His heart quickened as he realized that it was already well past seven. His feet padded onto the cool floor. His favorite shirt, faded and lime green, lay in a crumpled pile atop his dresser. He tiptoed down the short hallway and into the kitchen, pausing at the refrigerator to listen to the faint snoring drifting down the hall. He grabbed the paper bag, which contained his lunch, and two bottles of water. He went out the back door and pulled it slowly closed behind him until he felt the soft “click.” He took a deep breath as the humidity pressed against him. The whine of the cicadas rose to a crescendo before fading into the heat. To the west, greasy fingerprints smeared the red-orange sky. The boy retrieved his rod, tackle box, and the cooler from the cluttered garage beside the house. He secured the cooler and tackle box to the handlebars and the pole extended in front of him like a lance. He looked over his shoulder before he pushed off. For the short bicycle ride to the river, he was Tomas de la Mancha, and he was brave.

The boy relaxed his legs and let the bicycle coast gently down the side of the road. It slowed gradually before coming to rest in the fine gravel at the road’s edge. The opening in the trees that concealed the path was difficult to see. Much of the town still slept and the boy had only seen one car pass him on his way. He spotted a fallen log a few feet from the path and laid his bicycle next to it. The boy’s skin was damp, and his shirt clung to the middle of his back. He wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt and was thankful for the shade. After a few sips of water, he gathered his things and started off. The boy and his uncle had seen other fishermen or hikers on occasion, but those encounters were rare. He followed the trail as it meandered its way downhill, eventually finding the river. A blue jay let out a sudden, shrill cry that cut through the stillness and startled the boy. He looked up and caught a flash of the blue feathers disappearing into the canopy.

You could smell and hear the Brazos before you could see it. Damp earth and vegetation, with a hint of sulfur, filled the boy’s nostrils. A soft whisper grew into a static hum as the boy continued along. It was not loud, but persistent. He spotted a glimpse of the river through the trees and quickened his pace. He leaned his pole against a large sycamore and looked out over the Brazos. He stood for a moment to admire the café au lait current and observe its speed. White birches stood in twos and threes and striped the red bank across the river. Brushing off a fat black fly from his arm, the boy looked below him. The bank angled steeply before flattening to a small shelf above the water. A lone dogwood stooped low and gazed at its reflection, unable to pull itself away. He slid down on his bottom with his pole and cooler in tow and scrambled up again to retrieve his tackle box.

After looping the cooler handle over an exposed root, the boy took out his bag and nibbled some crackers. He found a large flat stone to sit on and pulled the tacklebox to a rest between his feet. It opened with a snap, and after careful inspection, he selected a lure that his uncle had given him. A silver minnow, two treble-hooks dangling from its segmented body, stared back at the boy with googly eyes. “It’s ok buddy,” the boy let out. His voice surprised him and it sounded strange. He let go of the lure and it swung away like a pendulum.

An hour passed, and the boy’s stomach began to grumble. He looked back at the cooler sitting in the shade. He finished his two peanut butter sandwiches and brushed the crumbs to the dirt. As he continued to fish, he watched the dark clouds begin their march down the river. A slight breeze ruffled the boy’s hair, and he frowned at the approaching clouds. The boy brought the pole back and whipped it forward in one fluid motion. He released his finger too early and the silver minnow sailed down the shoreline before crashing into the low branches that hung over the water. The boy felt the mistake as soon as his finger had released. He winced and drew a sharp breath. After several attempts, he finally gave up and cut the line. The boy watched as it fluttered away. He raked a hand through his sweaty hair and sat down.

He tied a new swivel onto his line and attached a catfish-rig that was weighted down to keep the bait just off the bottom. The boy reached into the cooler and pulled out a small square Styrofoam box. He crinkled his nose as he pushed the thick circle hook through the rubbery chicken heart. A thick cork bobber was added several inches above the weights, and he reeled the slack out of the line.

Stepping to the edge, he made a half turn and heaved the pole across his body. The line zipped through the air, its heavy weight pulling it along before crashing into the water. The boy backed his way to the stone and sat. He propped the pole against his knees and he waited. He gazed at the float as it angled with the current. The faint vibrations through the line and the incessant drone of the current lulled the boy into a trance. The boy looked up to see the tops of the trees across the river dance and sway. Glancing back to the river, he saw that the bobber had begun to drift. The boy sighed and began to crank in the line. He paused to push the rod into his waist for leverage when it nearly jumped out of his hands. He was pulled two steps forward before bracing himself. He pulled back hard on the pole with both hands. He felt the worn tread of his shoes begin to slide over the loose dirt as the fish ran with the current. The reel emitted sharp clicks as more line was forced out. The boy pulled back with all his weight and ended up on his back.

He dug his heels into the dirt and sand and pulled until his face turned red. The end of the pole bowed sharply, and he followed the taut line as the fish made its way towards a slight bend in the shoreline. The catfish knew it would wear itself out in open water and made a beeline toward the bank to find a place to hide. He stood up and desperately started to reel, his knuckles turning white. He gave another pull and brought the rod back to his shoulder. The fish felt the resistance and changed directions, swimming back towards his adversary. The pole straightened out and he was able to regain line. The fish aborted its charge, spun around, and took off the way it came. The boy felt his grip on the pole loosen and his forearms begin to tremble. He shoved the crank through one of his belt loops and rotated it, tethering himself to the pole. He too, in a way, was hooked.

The boy watched as the fish exploded from the surface of the water. When the fish jumped, the wind caught the slack in the line, and it was lifted gently over a forked limb. The boy heard thunder grumble in the distance over his own labored breath. For a moment the boy felt nothing at the end of the pole, and he thought that the fish may have freed itself. He inched to the edge of the shelf and traced the line with his eyes. He caught the iridescent shimmer of the line as it made its way over the limb and back into the water. He peeked behind at his tackle box as the fish made another violent surge towards the opposite shore. The boy barely had time to look ahead as he was jerked violently at the waist. He didn’t make a sound as he entered the river. Dark water closed over copper hair. The fall hoisted the fish several inches out of the water, where it remained suspended. Tiny bubbles rose to the surface, and the fish thrashed the air.

The young boy fished alone most days along the banks of the Brazos River, and it had been fifty-nine days since he had caught a fish.

A House in the Country

Sabers and Utopias

Saturday Score

“2666”

Menagerie

Channel Cat

The River(?) [short lit fic, 2900wd]