Nov. 1st

Tom hated tug boats. They were a common enough sight in the early mornings on the Winooski river. Tom was an amateur fisherman and had himself convinced that the tugs ran the fish off. So when, on a cold morning in late October, he saw a tug bringing an old barge up the river he cursed and hollered out to the other boats in the water.

“Heads up, boys!”

The other fishermen started to bring their lines in and those few in the middle of the river headed toward the banks. They sat silently in their boats watching the ships approach and listening to the traffic crossing the bridge above their heads.

Tom had been introduced to that fishing spot nearly a year and a half earlier. Shopping for a fishing pole seemed the thing to do when he was fired. His house was paid off and his wife, Anne, did quite well for herself so money wasn't a concern. After thirty-two years as a machinist he had been replaced. He took it well, though, and decided to try retirement. The first step, obviously, was picking up a hobby. Tom had always wanted to try his hand at fishing. So one afternoon as he was buying a pole and baits and far too many accessories he admitted to the old crone behind the counter that he had never actually been fishing before. She nodded and asked, “You know that bridge on the I-90 crossing the Winooski?”

“Sure.”

After a pause she raised her eyebrows as if to say, “and are you stupid?” When he didn't respond she snorted back in her throat and said “That's where you go.”

With that less-than-promising recommendation he set off to his mother's house. She asked why he was spending so much money, what he was going to do for work and when he was going to give her some grand-kids. He told her he was going fishing, he wasn't looking for a job and instead of explaining that Anne was too old, as she had been for years, he asked for his father's old fishing boat. He stayed for dinner and listening to old stories, making up trivial things that never happened so he would have something to talk about. The food was good and being with his mother always relaxed him. She was the only family he had left. Tom often wondered what would happen to all of the old stories when she died. Would Anne care to listen to boring events that only meant something if you knew the people involved? And even then, what happened when he and Anne went? Tom knew why his mother wanted grand-kids. She'd never wish for immortality, but when death takes the tangible form of creaking joints and brittle bones you realize how horrible it could be to be forgotten.

Late that same evening Tom took the boat out and fussed with the pole and baits. Confident he had done everything right he cast the line. Two hours in and Tom was contemplating the fine distinction between peaceful and boring. He tried to relax, but every few minutes a car would pass. The old woman's suggestion wasn't panning out and Tom wanted to go home.

“I'll give it one more hour,” he said aloud, “Then I'm going back for dynamite...damn fish.” He chuckled to himself and leaned back, resting against his tackle box and dry clothes.

“Heads up, man!” Tom woke with a start as something chunked against the side of his boat. He looked in the water and saw a beer bottle floating innocently beside him.