WHEN TO CATCH A STORY

Gamblers will tell you about their winnings; As if the lever they’re pulling serves one function and one function only: It opens a secret door to their money trough. "I’m going to the Motor City Casino after my shift," the conversation starts. I needn’t remind my one coworker about how she’d been held hostage on her last visit when someone called in a fake bomb threat.

As for me, I’d rather set foot on my Dad’s Starcraft boat, or at least cast a line from shore into the murky waters below. "I’m going fishing after work," my conversation starts. And like my fellow gamblers, you’re sure to hear stories about that big whale-of-a-fish that nearly got away. And if he did get away, well then, he just got bigger—"I was up by six hundred dollars before my luck had changed." How else do you soften your losses?

On a similar note, my wife’s been gearing up for her garden tour, and like most Master Gardeners, she’s tending to extra plants that’ll be free to a good home. Near our shed, in the direct sun, are four plastic dish pans filled with water plants. To our surprise, baby goldfish had inhabited the same area. "I remember," my Dad says, recalling his youth as he taps on the goldfish bowl, "having to clean the eaves on our farmhouse and finding minnows swimming around." He says this as if it were an every day natural occurrence. He needn’t explain how they got up there. I jot this down in my notebook for future use in a story.

WHAT REALLY STINKS

I’m puzzled as to why I can never place in the top three at the annual Bayport, Michigan, Good Ole’ Boys Cat Fish Tournament. My wife is quick to point out that it shouldn’t matter as long as I had fun. "Besides," she minimizes, "’Catfish’ is one word and ‘Olay’ is a skin moisturizer." I’ve been hearing this for years, or whenever I wear the latest tournament ball cap around the yard. It’s a consolation prize; everybody gets one for entering the competition. I paid for it—fifty bucks—so I might as well wear the damn thing. (Side note: Should I ask my wife if "ball cap" is a compound word?)

Anyway, I’ve tried all kinds of stink bait. I’ve packaged sun-ripened chicken liver in small strips of panty hose. I’ve smeared garlic & cheese paste on small plastic plugs with embedded hooks. I’ve injected night crawlers with store bought pheromones (makes them swell-up to twice their original size and gives them sex appeal). None of these methods has worked. This time I bought leeches at $2.99 per dozen because Billy P. (who places year after year) uses them. He didn’t fair as well this time, no prize money. Still, my hat goes off to him; he hauled in bigger fish and I’m sure he wasn’t as prepared as past years considering he’s running on batteries thanks to a recent heart-attack. Did he not use leeches? I’m not sure. What I do know is that baiting the hook isn’t easy when the leech is latched to your skin.

I’m home now. My neighbor leans against the fence. "How’d the fishing tournament go?" He’s originally from down south. He considers me a Yankee. He knows how I’ll answer; it’s the same damn response. I give him the weights of the top three fish. I’m sure he’s unimpressed. "What really stinks," I say, "is having to go back to work." He loves every minute of it. He’s retired. I wonder if he uses skin moisturizer after a hard day of gardening. Maybe I should ask him. But I won't.

GOD WANTS ME TO SIT

“Do you want your chair?”

That’s what I’d been asked as I pulled my fishing gear from the trunk of my car; It was a fold up chair tucked in a nylon-canvas bag. I had already pulled three fishing poles, the Taj-Mahal of tackle boxes, and a five-gallon bucket from the back seat. I had worked all day, was tired (more so mentally then physically) and hemmed-and-hawed about whether I should carry one more item a half-mile from the dead end street where I had parked to the fishing hole near the I-94 overpass. I certainly wouldn’t overburden my coworker with a luxury item that I alone would use. I knew I could lug it. Or not.

Here was my real dilemma: Do I fish standing up? Or do I fish sitting down? Do I use fishing lures, spinners, dancing baby eels? Or do I fish the bottom with a Carolina Rig and worms? And what about my telescopic fishing pole? — I’d use that with a bobber attached to the line. Definitely something I could watch from a sitting position. After a day of multi-tasking in a prison, you would think I’d choose one way to fish and stick with it. Hey, fishing’s supposed to be relaxing, however, in the back of my mind, if the fish were biting I would be standing, and if the fish weren’t biting, I’d be pacing back and forth wondering what to use, what to do next.

I knew the answer, it was based on my desire to increase my chances of catching fish—blue gills, perch, catfish, sheephead, dogfish, bass, pike, you name it—I’d put forth a monumental effort at reeling in a genuine, bonafide, whale-of-a-fish. I gave him the most logical answer I knew, “I’m going to skip the chair. I won’t be needing it.”

After two hours of catching absolutely nothing, my coworker hit a snag, and after tugging and pulling from every angle imaginable, he caught a #$&&@^* chair!!! We quit soon after that. I wasn’t about to sit down.