The Old Fisherman by Joe Ducato

Every night the pictures on his lampshade came to life.  Rodeo cowboys on galloping stallions threw ropes at the moon.

The boy’s sister once called him “Nutsy-Crackers” because of the strange things he was always seeing.  Later she shortened it to just Crackers.

In the middle of the night, he lifted the window (quiet as a thief) climbed out and lowered himself to the ground, praying that the weight of all the coins in his pocket wouldn’t rip through the material.  The rest of the house slept.

He walked down to the dock, lowered himself into the row boat, untied it from the post and began rowing out towards the north end where the bayou met Blossom Lake, where the point with the little copse of trees was.   A rope swing hung from a limb of one of the trees.  He could hear the Japanese lanterns on the porch of the abandoned camp rustle in the breeze.

The kid was dead tired.  He wasn’t even sure he saw what he saw up ahead near the point but then he focused in on it.  It was another row boat snugged up against the giant rock that everyone jumped from on hot days.  He couldn’t tell if a person was in the boat.  All he could see was a shadow that resembled a bent “K” or maybe a praying mantis in solemn prayer.  When he got closer, he saw that, indeed, it was another boat.  When he got within inches of it, he let go of the oars and bumped the back of the other boat.  It hadn’t been a bent “K” or solemn mantis at all.  It was just an old man out fishing.  The old man was bent over and looked like he might fall into the water.

“Psst,” the boy whispered, “It’s me, Crackers.”

The old man’s eyes remained fixed to his line.

“I know you,” the boy’s voice cracked.  

The long, wiry old man turned his head.  His shaggy white beard swayed like the hand of a crossing guard.

“Crackers?” the old man asked, dumbfounded.

“Jeremy John,” the boy answered, “From the house down there.  It’s the only one.  I know you know it.”

 “Know what?” the old fisherman asked, raising his line.

“I’ll get to the point,” Crackers said slapping the coins in his pocket.

 “I’ve got every half-dollar The Hawk ever gave me.  Three years’ worth.”

“The Hawk?”

“Edgar Carlson,” the boy said, “…my grandfather.  You know who he is.  He’s back there dying, been dying for days.  I’ll give you all the coins in my pocket if you spare his life.  I can get more too.  Deal?”

“The Hawk?” the old man asked again.

“Proper name is Edgar,” the boy reiterated.

The old man reeled in the line then set his fishing pole down on the bottom of his boat.

“You’ve got it wrong son….”

“First of all,” Crackers shot back, “I’m not your son!  Look, everyone knows you.  You’re the old fisherman and you bring death wherever you go.  I’ve heard about you for years.  Everyone has.  My grandfather’s been dying for a week and you’ve been out here for a week.  I’ve seen you every night.  You took the grocer and that poor dog too!”

“Dogs die,” the old man said, “Everything dies. I didn’t take no one.”

Suddenly the old man looked down, then raised his head and exclaimed:

“Oh no!  Not again!” then to the boy, “I can’t even keep myself afloat!”   

The old man reached for a brown paper bag, shoved his hand into it and retrieved a fistful of gum sticks.  He frantically unwrapped one, shoved it into his mouth, chewed furiously, spit the wad into his palm, bent over and began working the gum into the spot in the boat that was leaking.  He huffed and puffed as he worked the chewing gum into the breach.

“Damn sardine can is coming apart at the seams.  I’m up to 6 packs a day,” the old man growled, “I’m going broke.”

He shoved his hand back into the bag for more gum sticks then threw some into the kid’s boat.

“Get chewing,” the old man demanded, “I can’t swim!!”

Crackers didn’t budge.

 “Will you spare my grandfather?!”

“I told you,” the old man said, “I can’t save no one, not even myself.  The hell with it.  I’ll go down with the ship.  That’s the way it’s going to be anyway.”

Crackers then relented, swept up the gum sticks, unwrapped a few, shoved them into his mouth, chewed frantically then spit out an enormous wad and threw it into the old man’s boat.  The kid then became a gum chewing machine.  He chewed so many sticks so fast and threw them back so rapidly, the old man couldn’t catch them all.  One of the wads landed in the old man’s beard.  Many more landed in the water and looked like falling rain.

“Sorry,” Crackers chirped.

The old fisherman laughed – laughed in a way that tilted his head like a wolf howling at the moon.  The boy was afraid the old man would wake his family.  He put his finger to his mouth and shushed him but the old man laughed anyway, then Crackers laughed.  The old man’s and the young boy’s heads tilted in the same way.

Then the old fisherman lowered his gaze and swept the bottom of his boat for more wads. One by one he applied them to the leak, pressing them hard into the side.  The boy tossed another wad that missed the old fisherman’s boat completely and plunked into the bayou with the others.  Some of the errant gum sticks floated on top of the water, a couple just below the surface.

“Some trout will be blowing bubbles later,” the old man laughed.

“Yeah, like it’s a shortstop or something,” Crackers joked.

The old fisherman nodded as he pressed even more gum into the spot, “…but not like Ernie Banks.  Nobody played short the way that Mr. Ernie Banks did.  He had the grace of a ballerina, a canon for an arm and he ran like a gazelle.  Have you heard of him?”

“I think so,” Crackers said, “I think I heard my grandfather talk about him.  He played for the Cubs.” 

The old fisherman straightened.

“Yes, yes!  He was the best of the best.  How many afternoons I sat at Wrigley wondering how a human being could possibly do what Ernie was doing on that ball field?   Mr. Ernie Bingo Banks!’          

The old fisherman sighed.

“I believe he’s passed on.  I think I heard that.”

He reached down and touched the fishing rod then smiled at the repair job.

“I live to fight another day. If you want to see something, when the moon’s just right come out here and look straight into the water.  If you look into it long enough and if you’re lucky, you might see sun fish glow.  They store the sun during the day then light up at night.  That’s why they’re called sunfish.”

“Is that true?”

“Don’t know,” the old man answered, “But sounds pretty good, don’t it?”

“You can’t save my grandfather can you?” the boy asked. 

The old fisherman thought for a second.

“No,” was all he said.

Crackers began to cry but stopped himself.

“Ain’t a sin to cry,” the old man offered, “Ain’t never a sin to cry.”

Crackers looked across the bow into the old man’s eyes.

“You got courage,” the old fisherman said, “Even if you can’t hit the side of a barn with that chicken arm of yours.”

He pulled at the gumball in his beard then tore it out along with a few beard hairs and tossed into the boy’s boat before giving a nod of an imaginary cap.

“Obliged,” he said then rowed away, disappearing into the morning fog.  A couple of mourning doves came down and sat on the rope swing and looked curiously at the world.

It was hot, in the middle of the afternoon, when Edgar Carlson left the world.  Crackers stayed by his family the entire day.  He even let his mother hug him.  They all cried when the men came for the body.

That night Crackers stood by his window.  Rodeo cowboys on the lampshade were on the move, their stallions stronger than ever.   Outside, crickets sang old gospel tunes in a way that could crumble a mountain.  

After midnight, Crackers snuck out and rowed his boat back out to the point.  The Japanese lanterns on the abandoned camp had all been stilled.  The boy was alone but for one owl cooing somewhere.  He didn’t know where the owl was cooing from.  It sounded like it came from everywhere.

Crackers looked into the water hoping to see glowing fish but there were none.  Then he looked up to see that someone had thrown a rope around the moon.

Joe Ducato

Image by John from Pixabay – old blue boat holding fishing gear tucked in among the weeds.