Pop. 1280

by Jim Thompson

There weren’t many people on the street that late at night, almost nine o’clock, but practically everybody that was up asked me if I was going fishing. I said, why, no, I wasn’t, and where did they ever get an idea like that? “Well, how come you’re carryin’ a fish pole and line, then?” this one fella said. “How come you’re doin’ that if you ain’t

goin’ fishin’.” “Oh, I got that to scratch my butt with,” I said. “Just in case I’m up a tree somewheres, an’ I can’t reach myself from the ground.” “But, looky here now—” He hesitated, frowning. “That don’t make no sense.” “How come it don’t?” I said. “Why, practically everyone I know does the same thing. You mean to say you never took a fishing pole with you to scratch your butt with, in case you was up a tree an’ couldn’t reach yourself from the ground? Why, god-dang it, ain’t you behind the times!” He said, well, sure, he always did the same thing himself. Fact is, he was the first fella to think of the idea. “All I meant was that you shouldn’t have no hook an’ line on it. I mean, that part don’t make sense.” “Why, shore it does,” I said. “That’s to pull up the back-flap of your drawers after you’re through scratchin’. God-dang,” I said, “it looks to me like you’re really behind the times, fella. You don’t watch out, the world will plumb pass you by before you know it!” He scuffed his feet, looking ashamed of himself. I went on down the street toward the river.

haha