Serving Whitman County since 1877
Serving Whitman County since 1877
As part of my “Keep Fit!” exercise regimen, I start every day off with a brisk, active walk to the doughnut shop. Well, OK, most mornings I drive.
Right near the doughnut shop is a bridge where three fishermen sit in folding chairs and smell as if they’re rotting in the sun. Their lines dangle over the railing to the water below, much to the amusement of the local fish, who swim past the bait with loud guffaws. I smile and wave at the fishermen, but I’ve learned not to offer any doughnuts because they always take them.
Of the three of them, the oldest, Mel, is the one who most resembles a corpse, but Gerard and Tully aren’t doing so well, either — these guys really look like case studies by the Center for Disease Control. They are all in their late 60s and have retired from work and bathing. I asked them one time if they were fly fishing because they are frequently covered with, well, flies. They thought that one was pretty funny. I don’t think the flies are biting the men, I think the flies are worshipping them.
They frequently have conversations like this:
Mel: Huh.
Gerard (10 minutes later): You say somethin’?
Mel: Huh?
Tully: All you guys do is talk.
Then one day something happens that changes the dynamic of the three men on the bridge forever — though I suppose it is a misuse of the word to apply the term “dynamic” to a situation that is so completely static.
There are three women in their early 60s who often go to the doughnut shop for coffee. I think of them as the “office ladies” because they are always dressed very professionally. When the office ladies walk across the bridge, Mel, Gerard and Tully always act even more catatonic than usual. Their eyes often tear up because they are staring so hard they forget to blink.
On the day in question, I am fully into my “Keep Fit!” routine, awarding myself a second Doughnut for Diligence, since I had walked with extra briskness a few mornings previous. So I am sitting right there when the office ladies approach the three fishermen.
“What are you fishing for?” one of the ladies asks politely.
The three men stare at her in terror. I suppose the question could be interpreted as, “Why are you fishing, since you never catch anything?” but I think she means, “What species of fish have you deluded yourselves into thinking you might someday catch?”
Gerard clears his throat — it sounds like someone dragging a dead body up a driveway. “Uh, yellow croaker,” he croaks.
Tully seems to be trying to add another fish, but he flounders. He looks like a candidate for defibrillation.
“My father loved to fish,” one of the women observes finally. She gives the men a smile, and then, without warning, reaches out to briefly touch Mel’s shoulder, heedless of the risk of infection.
The three office ladies smartly depart, their high heels clacking briskly on the pavement, while the fisherman stare after them, their mouths so wide open that the flies could get in, if the insects were brave enough. Certainly none of the men have considered that they would ever again be touched by a woman.
I’m very curious to see what happens the next morning, so I make sure I arrive at the doughnut shop early and order enough cinnamon rolls so that it won’t appear suspicious that I’m just sitting there within earshot. Mel, Gerard and Tully look completely different — they’ve bathed. It turns out that Tully has hair and has combed it, while Mel and Gerard have put on fresh baseball caps.
The office ladies show up on the bridge on cue, and the men take deep breaths — they’ve practiced what they’re going to do.
“Morning, ladies,” Gerard says.
Over the next few weeks, the fishermen take an interest in doughnuts, even though I’m not buying. They meet the office ladies for coffee every morning and carry on conversations and smile through newly brushed teeth. One day, I even see the woman whose father loved to fish coming out of a movie with Mel.
They’re holding hands.
To write Bruce Cameron, visit his website at
COPYRIGHT 2010
CREATORS.COM
Reader Comments(0)