To Catch A Fish
By ZLizabeth
Disclaimer: Ditto to the first one and this time the quotes are by Charles Bradford and Thomas Fuller.
Author's Note: Many people are confused as to who the hell I'm talking about. The last chapter was unclear, and it should soon be obvious. I hope.
Chapter One
"My advice is to go often and visit many localities. Kill no more fish than you require for your own eating, and do that in the most scientific manner."
"Be content. The sea hath fish enough."
His windows were rolled down, even though it was raining. He glanced out the side every now and then. Girls had told him that he should get all the cracks in the glass fixed - it couldn't cost much. His old habit of smile and nod and silently dismissing came up there. He liked looking through the world without the veil of musty glass, and he liked the cracks that let him breath real air without having to crank down the windows.
He had grown lazy. He wouldn't get the seats fixed, or the dashboard buffed, or the peeling red repainted. He couldn't even put up the windows on a rainy morning after they were left open last night. He felt the cold drops of sky on his skin and rubbed a hand across his arm to get rid of the goose bumps. He adjusted to driving with one hand, draping his right arm across the back of his seat. He used to drive like this in his Porsche. But he liked the jeep better than the Porsche.
A siren wailed behind him. He obediently pulled over and stuck his head out of the window to see a cop in a heavy black raincoat advancing towards him. She sloshed through the puddles of highway and reached him, her hat dropping down over her eyes.
"You're passing the speed limit, sir."
"Sorry," he said casually, not looking at the female. Some habits stuck around. He always could make them work for what they wanted.
"Who should I make this ticket out to?"
"Me, I suppose?"
Above them, a train roared across old steel tracks, and children breathing patterns on the window in their sleep fogged over the image of a man and a woman on an empty highway. It drowned out the noise of morning for two minutes as it bumped across the road.
"Thank you for your cooperation," she acknowledged, pushing her hat back above her bangs. She had bangs. Who else had he known with bangs?
"Anytime."
He watched her go. Her car passed him quickly, and he lagged behind to watch the lights go out ahead of him. He looked at his mirror, and dropped his arm back to the steering wheel. He sped up, going faster than he had before, then slowed to the 60 MPH limit. The jeep couldn't go as fast as the Porsche had.
The rain had begun to pool in a small dent of leather. He threw a towel onto the puddle and concentrated on the road. He had driven this way so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed. The first time he had gone this way was when his grandfather could still fit him in his lap. His grandfather's hands had never frightened him as the hands of other old people had, spotted and veined. His hands fit under his grandfather's on the worn steering wheel, and his grandfather would tell the boy that his little grandson was the one driving, and he was only helping because he knew the way.
His grandfather had taught him how to drive. And how to live.
His grandfather had only tolerated - not encouraged - his excessive use of women.
"You're fickle," the old man would say, "a girl ain't half as satisfying as twenty two pounds of striped bass."
He would disagree with that, "anyway, it's the same strategies throughout," was his only counter. His grandfather would shake his head and go back into his book. He would mumble out little things that never managed to shake their way into his grandson's head.
"We cast differently. I only kill the fish I want to eat."
The old man wasn't alive now. He had hated Breezy Point, because the fish there were too smart for him. He wasn't some old game fisherman, he would say, and he'd be damned if the Einstein fishy family was going to tease him with tiny nips on the line.
His grandson now fished only Breezy Point. He liked challenge. He had grown used to losing, though he did not think of it as losing anymore. He liked to think that he was playing a game with the fish, and that if they won, he could be a good sport about it. One of the aspects of fishing he enjoyed was that it was one game you couldn't cheat at. That used to enrage him, and he would always stalk away from his grandfather after seven or so fishless casts. His grandfather would chuckle and keep fishing while he watched in jealousy from the car, the arc of the old arms swings to throw the rod out towards the horizon.
Somewhere along the line, he had learned.
***Once again, reviews are greatly appreciated
By ZLizabeth
Disclaimer: Ditto to the first one and this time the quotes are by Charles Bradford and Thomas Fuller.
Author's Note: Many people are confused as to who the hell I'm talking about. The last chapter was unclear, and it should soon be obvious. I hope.
Chapter One
"My advice is to go often and visit many localities. Kill no more fish than you require for your own eating, and do that in the most scientific manner."
"Be content. The sea hath fish enough."
His windows were rolled down, even though it was raining. He glanced out the side every now and then. Girls had told him that he should get all the cracks in the glass fixed - it couldn't cost much. His old habit of smile and nod and silently dismissing came up there. He liked looking through the world without the veil of musty glass, and he liked the cracks that let him breath real air without having to crank down the windows.
He had grown lazy. He wouldn't get the seats fixed, or the dashboard buffed, or the peeling red repainted. He couldn't even put up the windows on a rainy morning after they were left open last night. He felt the cold drops of sky on his skin and rubbed a hand across his arm to get rid of the goose bumps. He adjusted to driving with one hand, draping his right arm across the back of his seat. He used to drive like this in his Porsche. But he liked the jeep better than the Porsche.
A siren wailed behind him. He obediently pulled over and stuck his head out of the window to see a cop in a heavy black raincoat advancing towards him. She sloshed through the puddles of highway and reached him, her hat dropping down over her eyes.
"You're passing the speed limit, sir."
"Sorry," he said casually, not looking at the female. Some habits stuck around. He always could make them work for what they wanted.
"Who should I make this ticket out to?"
"Me, I suppose?"
Above them, a train roared across old steel tracks, and children breathing patterns on the window in their sleep fogged over the image of a man and a woman on an empty highway. It drowned out the noise of morning for two minutes as it bumped across the road.
"Thank you for your cooperation," she acknowledged, pushing her hat back above her bangs. She had bangs. Who else had he known with bangs?
"Anytime."
He watched her go. Her car passed him quickly, and he lagged behind to watch the lights go out ahead of him. He looked at his mirror, and dropped his arm back to the steering wheel. He sped up, going faster than he had before, then slowed to the 60 MPH limit. The jeep couldn't go as fast as the Porsche had.
The rain had begun to pool in a small dent of leather. He threw a towel onto the puddle and concentrated on the road. He had driven this way so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed. The first time he had gone this way was when his grandfather could still fit him in his lap. His grandfather's hands had never frightened him as the hands of other old people had, spotted and veined. His hands fit under his grandfather's on the worn steering wheel, and his grandfather would tell the boy that his little grandson was the one driving, and he was only helping because he knew the way.
His grandfather had taught him how to drive. And how to live.
His grandfather had only tolerated - not encouraged - his excessive use of women.
"You're fickle," the old man would say, "a girl ain't half as satisfying as twenty two pounds of striped bass."
He would disagree with that, "anyway, it's the same strategies throughout," was his only counter. His grandfather would shake his head and go back into his book. He would mumble out little things that never managed to shake their way into his grandson's head.
"We cast differently. I only kill the fish I want to eat."
The old man wasn't alive now. He had hated Breezy Point, because the fish there were too smart for him. He wasn't some old game fisherman, he would say, and he'd be damned if the Einstein fishy family was going to tease him with tiny nips on the line.
His grandson now fished only Breezy Point. He liked challenge. He had grown used to losing, though he did not think of it as losing anymore. He liked to think that he was playing a game with the fish, and that if they won, he could be a good sport about it. One of the aspects of fishing he enjoyed was that it was one game you couldn't cheat at. That used to enrage him, and he would always stalk away from his grandfather after seven or so fishless casts. His grandfather would chuckle and keep fishing while he watched in jealousy from the car, the arc of the old arms swings to throw the rod out towards the horizon.
Somewhere along the line, he had learned.
***Once again, reviews are greatly appreciated