Largemouth Bass, Page 2
Bull Garlington
but can’t find any moisture in his throat. He tries to release his painful arthritic grip from his thermos. He looks up slowly: a hundred yards out, the water gives up to gravel and Gator’s running them right into it. He croaks an oath. His joints cracking, Jit manages to find the device. He pulls it from the tattered windbreaker’s pocket. He looks up at the sandbar rushing toward them. He thumbs the node but it’s stuck with rust. He pushes it harder and it goes in but doesn’t come back out. He bangs it on the aluminum edge of his seat. Nothing. He panics, pounds it again and again. The bow bogs down in suddenly shallow water and Jit can hear the rising whine of the prop as it lifts out of the water over their
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 feels funny. He has to pee and he’s cold. He brushes a strand of hair out of his face and turns to Gator. A beautiful, big-boned brunette with huge tits and a half concealed tattoo is gunning the engine. Jit unconsciously places his hand on his own chest then convulsively jerks it back.
“Krishna–tits!” he paws the unit and almost hits the button when, sick with curiosity, he leans over the edge of the boat. A pretty Punjabi girl looks up at him from the murky, flowing surface. She starts to giggle.
“What’d jew say, Jitty?” the big-boned girl throttles back a little so they can hear each other. “Jew say something?” The girl is pushing her hair back up under a CAT tool hat.
“Apparently I’ve got tits.”
“Well hail, Jitty, don’t they teach ya’ll that over theren Inja?”
Jit starts to laugh. She tabs 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 leans back against the rail and laughs long and hard. Gator throttles back into a low slough and stares at his dark skinned friend. Jit calms down and tells Gator, “It’s only stress. Sorry.”
They get down to outfitting their rods.
Gator drops a purple worm under an overhanging elephant ear and works it back to the boat. Jit flings his jig on the other side. Gator lifts an eyebrow.
“Jit, I don’t know what kind of weirdo Pakistani skunk-weed you packed in your lunch today but not sharing it is considered ruse here in the states. I think maybe you ought to—“
Abruptly a boat speeds up beside them. Before it can level in its wake, Jit sees that it carries himself and Gator. He turns back to the Gator in his own boat and notices a widening stain on Gator’s thigh. They both watch as their oblivious duplicates start fishing.
ANTIGATOR: Well, I’ll be Goddamned, Jit. I think you may become a fisherman yet.
ANTIJIT: Thanks to you, Gator.
ANTIGATOR: Aww, hell, man, it ain’t hard to teach a sand-nigger how to fish.
ANTIJIT: Excuse me?
ANTIGATOR: I said it ain’t hard to teach a sand-nigger how to fish.
ANTIJIT: You are calling me a sand nigger?
ANTIGATOR: Well duh.
ANTIJIT: You stupid American hick (Antijit pulls a knife out of his tackle box and throws it into Antigator’s neck. Antigator bleeds copiously.)
ANTIGATOR: Goddamned camelfucking—(Antigator pulls his snake-pistol and shoots Antijit in the forehead. Blood spurts from the tiny round
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.
From the bow, Jit motions for Gator to throttle back. It is dark and the stars shine into the surface of the lake so it seems as if you could dive off the boat into deep space. Jit empties his thermos into the water then carefully washes it, refills it to the brim. He checks its silhouette for a meniscus then screws the top carefully down. Gator stares at him. He looks up at the sky, at the far too many stars and then off toward the reach of the lake where aquamarine sand glistens under the starlight.
“Jit,” Gator says, quietly fishing a can of Copenhagen out of his vest pocket. “I’ve had the weirdest feeling all morning. . .”
“Yes, Gator?”
“Just how did your people fish?”
“Nets, Gator; we used nets.”
“Right,” Gator kills the motor and they drift. Neither man attempts to fish. Gator periodically spits into the starry water.
“Well I’ll be Goddamned.”
“What is it?”
“They’re testing the device.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well how do you explain this?”
“What?”
“All these stars!”
“There are too many?”
“Well hell yes there’s too—“ Gator’s eyes narrow. “You fucknacular bastard.”
Jit puts his hand into his pocket.
“You’ve got it right there in your pocket, don’t you?”
Jit rasps his fingetip across the button. He doesn’t know what to do.
“How many times have we jumped?”
Jit looks away. Gator rubs his forehead, worried about his granddaughter. He grabs his rod and whips it at Jit’s head, the fiberglass curling around the Pakistani skull. He beats Jit into a corner of the boat. “Give it to me! Give it to me!” he screams. Jit whimpers and tries to curl tighter. He wants to hit the button but he’s afraid Gator will break it with the paddle.
Gator stops. He’s sweating and breathing heavy. He’s nearly 60. He sits down hard. The boat rocks and for a moment there is tense peace as he catches his breath. Jit uncurls a little against the gunwale. He knows he’s blown it. He knows with defeating accuracy the exact probability that they will ever return to their own timeline. He knew it the moment he pushed the button the first time. He knew it before that. He retrieves the device from his pocket and holds it out to gator. Without thinking, Gator swings the rod like a baseball bat, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand, the device sailing out into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a stream of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator pounds the little man on the head with the handle of the fiberglass rod.
The unit flits back and forth like a leaf, descending to the azure bottom of the lake. A young largemouth bass, its form vicious and unchanged for eons, sucks the unit down its throat as it swims placidly against a gentle current.
A tingle down its back. A flash in the far shadows–starlight off a Shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log and through duckweed when the fish suddenly cuts left under a rotted stump just as the bass breaks right.
Missed.
The largemouth lurks under a cattail near the stump waiting for the shiner. It feels the lump that is clearly not food in its belly and shifts. There is a dull click and
–starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log and through duckweed when the fish cuts left under a rotted stump. The bass swerves back and the shiner zooms out from the other side of the stump into the belly of the bass. Its jaws slam shut. It feels the shiner struggling in its stomach. One strong flex, a dull click and
Gator swings the oar, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand, the device sailing out into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a fit of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator pounds the little man on his head with the fiberglass handle of the rod. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log, through duckweed, when the fish suddenly cuts left under a rotted stump. The bass breaks left and the shiner zooms out from the stump’s shadow right into the belly of the bass. Its jaws slam shut. Its belly swells and the device squeezes between two fish. There is a dull click and
Gator swings an oar. Jit lobs the device about waist high and the paddle smacks it out into the bla
ck water with a loud crack. Jit pounds Gator on the back, pouring Hindustani blessings. Gator merely tips his hat back and says a little prayer for starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log, through duckweed, when the fish suddenly cuts under a rotted stump. The big fish coasts past, his belly full. A baby bream flits toward the surface and the bass sucks it in—then spits it back out. The little fish zips off. The largemouth bass sinks to the sandy bottom and flicks his tail back and forth slowly, thoughtfully. He feels a tug in his belly and a Gator swings the oar, glancing off of Jit’s bruised hand, the device bouncing out of Jit’s grip, pinging off the gunwale into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a fit of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator has a heart attack and keels over into starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass lurks near the rotted stump. A shiner bursts from under the log right into the bass’ mouth. Gator swings the oar, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand while the bass spins its fins, feels dinner in its belly . . .a dull click . . .Gator swings the oar . . .
Starlight off a shiner’s scales . . .
Gator swings. . .
Starlight.
###
About the Author
Bull Garlington is an author and syndicated humor columnist whose work appears in various literary magazines, including Slab, Bathhouse, and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. He was the humor columnist for Chicago Parenting, New York Parenting, Michiana Parent, Tulsa Parent, Birmingham Parent, and Carolina Parent. He is co-author of 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 feels funny. He has to pee and he’s cold. He brushes a strand of hair out of his face and turns to Gator. A beautiful, big-boned brunette with huge tits and a half concealed tattoo is gunning the engine. Jit unconsciously places his hand on his own chest then convulsively jerks it back.
“Krishna–tits!” he paws the unit and almost hits the button when, sick with curiosity, he leans over the edge of the boat. A pretty Punjabi girl looks up at him from the murky, flowing surface. She starts to giggle.
“What’d jew say, Jitty?” the big-boned girl throttles back a little so they can hear each other. “Jew say something?” The girl is pushing her hair back up under a CAT tool hat.
“Apparently I’ve got tits.”
“Well hail, Jitty, don’t they teach ya’ll that over theren Inja?”
Jit starts to laugh. She tabs 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 leans back against the rail and laughs long and hard. Gator throttles back into a low slough and stares at his dark skinned friend. Jit calms down and tells Gator, “It’s only stress. Sorry.”
They get down to outfitting their rods.
Gator drops a purple worm under an overhanging elephant ear and works it back to the boat. Jit flings his jig on the other side. Gator lifts an eyebrow.
“Jit, I don’t know what kind of weirdo Pakistani skunk-weed you packed in your lunch today but not sharing it is considered ruse here in the states. I think maybe you ought to—“
Abruptly a boat speeds up beside them. Before it can level in its wake, Jit sees that it carries himself and Gator. He turns back to the Gator in his own boat and notices a widening stain on Gator’s thigh. They both watch as their oblivious duplicates start fishing.
ANTIGATOR: Well, I’ll be Goddamned, Jit. I think you may become a fisherman yet.
ANTIJIT: Thanks to you, Gator.
ANTIGATOR: Aww, hell, man, it ain’t hard to teach a sand-nigger how to fish.
ANTIJIT: Excuse me?
ANTIGATOR: I said it ain’t hard to teach a sand-nigger how to fish.
ANTIJIT: You are calling me a sand nigger?
ANTIGATOR: Well duh.
ANTIJIT: You stupid American hick (Antijit pulls a knife out of his tackle box and throws it into Antigator’s neck. Antigator bleeds copiously.)
ANTIGATOR: Goddamned camelfucking—(Antigator pulls his snake-pistol and shoots Antijit in the forehead. Blood spurts from the tiny round
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.
From the bow, Jit motions for Gator to throttle back. It is dark and the stars shine into the surface of the lake so it seems as if you could dive off the boat into deep space. Jit empties his thermos into the water then carefully washes it, refills it to the brim. He checks its silhouette for a meniscus then screws the top carefully down. Gator stares at him. He looks up at the sky, at the far too many stars and then off toward the reach of the lake where aquamarine sand glistens under the starlight.
“Jit,” Gator says, quietly fishing a can of Copenhagen out of his vest pocket. “I’ve had the weirdest feeling all morning. . .”
“Yes, Gator?”
“Just how did your people fish?”
“Nets, Gator; we used nets.”
“Right,” Gator kills the motor and they drift. Neither man attempts to fish. Gator periodically spits into the starry water.
“Well I’ll be Goddamned.”
“What is it?”
“They’re testing the device.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well how do you explain this?”
“What?”
“All these stars!”
“There are too many?”
“Well hell yes there’s too—“ Gator’s eyes narrow. “You fucknacular bastard.”
Jit puts his hand into his pocket.
“You’ve got it right there in your pocket, don’t you?”
Jit rasps his fingetip across the button. He doesn’t know what to do.
“How many times have we jumped?”
Jit looks away. Gator rubs his forehead, worried about his granddaughter. He grabs his rod and whips it at Jit’s head, the fiberglass curling around the Pakistani skull. He beats Jit into a corner of the boat. “Give it to me! Give it to me!” he screams. Jit whimpers and tries to curl tighter. He wants to hit the button but he’s afraid Gator will break it with the paddle.
Gator stops. He’s sweating and breathing heavy. He’s nearly 60. He sits down hard. The boat rocks and for a moment there is tense peace as he catches his breath. Jit uncurls a little against the gunwale. He knows he’s blown it. He knows with defeating accuracy the exact probability that they will ever return to their own timeline. He knew it the moment he pushed the button the first time. He knew it before that. He retrieves the device from his pocket and holds it out to gator. Without thinking, Gator swings the rod like a baseball bat, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand, the device sailing out into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a stream of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator pounds the little man on the head with the handle of the fiberglass rod.
The unit flits back and forth like a leaf, descending to the azure bottom of the lake. A young largemouth bass, its form vicious and unchanged for eons, sucks the unit down its throat as it swims placidly against a gentle current.
A tingle down its back. A flash in the far shadows–starlight off a Shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log and through duckweed when the fish suddenly cuts left under a rotted stump just as the bass breaks right.
Missed.
The largemouth lurks under a cattail near the stump waiting for the shiner. It feels the lump that is clearly not food in its belly and shifts. There is a dull click and
–starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log and through duckweed when the fish cuts left under a rotted stump. The bass swerves back and the shiner zooms out from the other side of the stump into the belly of the bass. Its jaws slam shut. It feels the shiner struggling in its stomach. One strong flex, a dull click and
Gator swings the oar, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand, the device sailing out into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a fit of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator pounds the little man on his head with the fiberglass handle of the rod. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log, through duckweed, when the fish suddenly cuts left under a rotted stump. The bass breaks left and the shiner zooms out from the stump’s shadow right into the belly of the bass. Its jaws slam shut. Its belly swells and the device squeezes between two fish. There is a dull click and
Gator swings an oar. Jit lobs the device about waist high and the paddle smacks it out into the bla
ck water with a loud crack. Jit pounds Gator on the back, pouring Hindustani blessings. Gator merely tips his hat back and says a little prayer for starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass chases the glittering fish under a log, through duckweed, when the fish suddenly cuts under a rotted stump. The big fish coasts past, his belly full. A baby bream flits toward the surface and the bass sucks it in—then spits it back out. The little fish zips off. The largemouth bass sinks to the sandy bottom and flicks his tail back and forth slowly, thoughtfully. He feels a tug in his belly and a Gator swings the oar, glancing off of Jit’s bruised hand, the device bouncing out of Jit’s grip, pinging off the gunwale into the black water without a sound. Jit explodes into a fit of Hindustani invectives, pounces on gator. Gator has a heart attack and keels over into starlight off a shiner’s scales. The bass lurks near the rotted stump. A shiner bursts from under the log right into the bass’ mouth. Gator swings the oar, cracking the bones in Jit’s hand while the bass spins its fins, feels dinner in its belly . . .a dull click . . .Gator swings the oar . . .
Starlight off a shiner’s scales . . .
Gator swings. . .
Starlight.
###
About the Author
Bull Garlington is an author and syndicated humor columnist whose work appears in various literary magazines, including Slab, Bathhouse, and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. He was the humor columnist for Chicago Parenting, New York Parenting, Michiana Parent, Tulsa Parent, Birmingham Parent, and Carolina Parent. He is co-author of the
