Fishin'

“Ah hell, Elmer, that old car weren’t never much use anyway, but I sure wish Ida’ got ma’ dog out the back seat first.”

A grunt of agreement arose from the toothless faces of the overall clad men who had gathered at the river’s edge to watch the last of the air boil up from the drowned car.

“So wha’ happen’ Jake?” said a gravelly voice amid the faces of course gray stubble.

“Damn if I know!” Jake stuffed his callused hands into his pockets, fished around and finally produced a battered tin of Skoal. “I jes’ wanted catfish fer supper,” he pealed back the tin lid and pinched the last of the black sand into his lip, “nex’ thing I knowed, ma’ car splashes in nex’ ta me. Damn! I’m a miss that dog.” Resigned, he slung the empty tin into the river, and watched it float effortlessly on the last of the car’s greasy foam before finally filling with the muddy water and then giving into it entirely.

“’Mon Jake,” Elmer piped up, “I’ll get you home. You’n call the Sheriff tomorra', have ‘im fish it out.”

Elmer’s truck was an ancient contraption that had once been a heavenly shade of sky blue, but as with all natural and misused things had changed to the hazy shade of oxidation and rust. The cab held the strong odor of dust, oil, and stale tobacco, but it was hardly noticeable to Jakes senses as he climbed into the truck and carefully placed his feet on the two splintering two-by-fours that served as the truck’s floor panel.

“When you gonna get yourself a new truck?” Jake asked and spat between the floorboards onto the greasy transmission case.

“When you gonna get a new dog?” The men laughed their gravelly laughs while the engine whined to life with the high screech of fan belts decades past their prime.

* * *

Jake’s home was typical of the rural south. An old Jet Stream trailer reclined on a patch of land that was covered by the rusted remains of vehicles so old and so a part of the landscape that new visitors, upon viewing them, must assume that they were originally placed there by God on the third day of creation. His trailer, the centerpiece of his domain sat on jacks strategically placed so as to add stability, for the tires, which might have once carried this domicile to parts unknown, had long ago vanished under the punishment of sun and weather.

Thanking Elmer for the lift, Jake climbed the unsteady steps to his home and was immediately struck by the strong acidy sent of oranges being cut, pressed of their essence and then discarded by his wife.

“What you up to woman?” Jake asked while fishing in the refrigerator for his last bottle of Blue Ribbon Beer.”

“Sompin’ I seen on the TV,” she replied proudly, “Man-o-rine chicken.”

“Not chi-nee food,” he complained, “you know I hate that stuff.”

“Oh hush.” she said while pouring the orange juice over the chicken, and then sliding it into the oven. “Might do you some good, ya igner’nt hillbilly. Who’s truck did I hear?” and then with knitted brows, “ Where’s the car?”

Jake sipped at his beer and eased into his orange and gold striped armchair that was new when Elvis was king. “In da river wit’ da dog.” His voice was deadpan as he spat his tobacco into a dirty coffee cup he had found on the warn end table.

Laughing, his wife tossed an orange at him. “No,” she said, “really, is it in ‘a shop?”

“No!” he was angry now, “It in da damn river wit’ da damn dog!”

“You bastard!” she screamed back, while pelting him with the leftover oranges. “How could you do this? Stupidest thing ever... were you drunk?” She pitched the last of the fruit and searched the kitchenette for a suitable replacement.

“Woll git a new dog,” he said while wiping the stinging juice from his eyes with his shirt tail, “ain’t no thing.”

“Dog be damned,” she screamed. The gravity of their situation leveled on her chest and caused the tears to flow over her eyes and down her painted cheeks. “How ‘m I gonna get to work now?”

He shook his head and took another sip of his beer, as she wept and cooked, and the oranges were spread out over the floor.