Largemouth Bass



  Largemouth Bass

  Copyright 2014 Bull Garlington

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  In the bow, Inderjit “Jit” Mohammed, lauded NASA probability engineer (raised by duck hunters on the Rhamaputrya) is drinking hot black tea from a Coleman thermos.

  He’s been working on a temporal stopgap device to save astronauts from certain disaster by throwing them six or seven seconds backward in time. It has never been tested. NASA remains reluctant to engage the device, since the side effects of badly written probability code would be hard to notice and difficult to report. Jit imagines himself writing in the results: general success with minimal paradigm shift. My wings look fine.

  Earlier that day, Jit was anxious, holding the device in his hand, thinking about the day ahead of him, the pissing contest with his egomaniacal partner. A fishing tournament! Jit chuckles, thinking that if the device did work, he could use it to win. Just then, his partner strolled into the lab wearing a flak jacket and a CAT tool hat. Jit shoved the device into his windbreaker pocket.

  Now, speeding out onto the lake, Jit thinks nicking the device places him in a dubious professional position.

  In the stern, his redneck associate, Richard “Gator” Bynum, heavily respected old-school astronaut and flight engineer, drinks hot coffee from his thermos, wrist crooked over the steering wheel. He doesn’t think much about Jit. “Damned Hindoo geek,” is how he describes his mathematically endowed partner. Gator spends most of his time taking CEOs on high-speed tours of the East Coast, an air force combat jet always at the ready. He’ll do barrel rolls over the Everglades, throw it into a white knuckle dive and calmly ask the vomiting executive for a couple of billion. Jit does all the work. Gator gets his picture in Time.

  When the astronaut started boasting about fishing, Jit couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted he could out-fish the man with one hand tied behind his back.

  Jit will never forget the humiliation, everyone in the lab watching. Jit was bristling with bravado and conquer (he was a champion carp hauler on the Rhama P.) and practically threw down a glove as he said, through clenched teeth: choose your net, stump jumper.

  They all had a good laugh. Gator had to loan him a rod.

  Remembering it all now, Jit reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker, cradles the device then lets a grinchy smile run across his face.

  Gator kills the engine and they coast through Mango-grass and silt weed into a low slough full of Cypress knees and tangled bush. In the cooler, wrapped in a bandanna inside a sandwich bag is five hundred dollars. Biggest bass wins. No holds barred. Strict 11 a.m. cutoff.

  Gator drops a purple worm lure under an overhanging elephant-ear and works it back to the boat. His casts are studies of perfection; an easy, underhand technique he learned from his grandfather. The old man would set up a couple of coffee cans around their yard. Every time Gator cast a ringer, his grandpa let him drive the boat for one minute. Pretty soon his grandpa moved to Styrofoam cups and soon after that he just gave Gator the damn boat. Gator could land a lure on the end of your nose and tip your hat.

  Jit flings his worm (lime green with bubble-traps and too many weights) over a half-sunken log. He fights and jerks it back until the line snaps, leaving the lure dangling over a glistening tree limb.

  At just that moment, Gator says “Oh, yeah,” under his breath. Reflected in his Ray-bans, Jit sees a bass break top-water. It’s more like a painting than reality: the fish is perfectly blocked, probably a female, huge, wide mouth distended, the lure stuck in her lip, tail slapping water as early morning light glints off her scales.

  She must weigh sixteen pounds.

  Jit watches Gator net the prize.

  “Hell, Jit. Might as well take us home and buy me breakfast!”

  Jit smiles and squeezes the device.

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  In the bow, Jit drinks fresh black tea. He glances back at Gator who is sipping coffee and staring into the morning sky.

  Gator kills the engine and they coast through Mango grass and silt weed into a low slough full of cypress knees and tangled bush.

  Gator drops a purple worm under and overhanging elephant ear and works it back to the boat.

  Jit hesitates then casts awkwardly near Gator’s lure.

  Gator stares at the Egrets glaring into the shallows.

  Jit mimics Gator’s every move. He carefully retrieves his lure, alternating its speed, its depth, and its stroke so that it behaves like injured, easy prey. Gator’s lure is almost breaking the surface by the boat when a ten-pound Stripe hits the jig, exploding out of the water. Gator jerks back and down, sets the hook, and lands the fish in the boat. He chuckles.

  “Hell, Jit, might as well take me back and buy me

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  Jit lets the heat from his tea warm his face. He stares down into the sky mirrored in the black liquid. Gator grips the wheel of the boat with one hand and holds his untouched coffee with the other. He’s staring at the tree line, trying to figure something out. They pass a couple of old timers setting out jigs.

  Gator drops a purple worm into a lily pad wallow and works it slowly, absently, back to the boat.

  Jit doesn’t hesitate. He whips his jig close to an overhanging elephant ear.

  They cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve.

  Suddenly, Jit’s rod snaps toward the water. Gator yells, “Set it, man. Set it!” Jit yanks the rod backward, feeling the hook bite into soft flesh. Gator is as excited as if it were his own catch. He coaches Jit, expertly working the fish closer when it suddenly breaks top-water thirty feet away: a yard long, sickly white, with marbled, flattened eyes and a tangle of matted black hair near it’s tail.

  As it whips itself back and forth in the air, maudlin imitation of a trophy bass, it moans.

  Gator fumbles around for his snake pistol. He glances at Jit, with his hand deep in his kit bag, saying,

  “Fuck me, Jit. Might as well just take us home and

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  In the bow, Jit pours black tea into the deep crimson water of the lake. He looks up at Gator who stares down into the red water as they speed toward the tree line. Gator takes a long slow sip of coffee and salutes a couple of old timers setting jigs. As they speed away, Gator just barely catches the silhouette of one of the old timers shoot the other silhouette in the head, the body falling soundlessly into the water. Gator kills the engine.

  “What the hell is going on here, Jit? I think we better

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  In the bow, Jit carefully sips his tea. He notes the blue sky, the slightly skunky odor of the lake. He notes that Gator is drinking his joe peaceably, oblivious. They pass two old timers setting jigs and Jit starts to think this one might be ok when the old timers jer
k to their feet. A thin silver wire arcs out of the water twenty yards in front of the speeding boat. Jit shoves his hand into his pocket. Just as the wire slaps across the fiberglass deck toward his neck, shaving the gel coat into tiny curly rolls, glistening like white-hot iron, his thumb finds purchase on the

  An egret looks over the early morning surface of a lake. It falls off the limb of an old cypress, flaps its lazy wings once. As it glides silently over the water, a bass boat cuts a deep blue streak through the pink reflection of sunrise.

  Jit realizes he’s staring into his thermos. With difficulty, he turns his tired old head back to Gator. An emaciated old man is steering the boat.

  The man’s dry lips stretch tightly over yellowed teeth and his eyes look like they haven’t closed in a long time. Jit tries to say his name