South of the Pumphouse (14 page)

“You should know, Earl,” laughed Donny.

“I don't remember them ever proving that O.J. did speed,” said Ed.

“Ed, there ain't no such thing as just one tweaker,”

Earl explained.

“Yeah, Ed, you're hearin' it straight from an expert. Right, Earl?”

Ed looked at his brother, sizing him up, taking notice of his gaunt appearance and the sunken eyes set back in their sockets. Earl looked back at Ed and realized what his brother was probably thinking. He shrugged his shoulders.

Chapter 25

T
HE
G
AFF

S
o there's this farm boy. Doesn't get into town much,” Donny began the story with a grin. “But once a year, after crops are in, he treats himself to a night on the town. So he's hangin' out with the boys down at the pool hall. They're drinkin' and carryin' on and shit. Pretty soon they all get around to talkin' about their latest sexual conquests and whatnot. Now, the farm boy is just kinda sittin' there not sayin' nothin'. Well, after a while, the other guys look at him and says, ‘You're bein' awful quiet. What's the matter with you, boy?' And he says, ‘Well, hell, I ain't never had none of that pussy y'all been talkin' about.'”

Earl chuckled as Donny continued, “They all laugh. They think that's the funniest thing. They say, ‘Come on, boy, we're gonna fix you up.'

“So they all pitch in and take him to the local whorehouse. They're standin' outside. They give him twenty dollars and say, ‘Take this twenty. Give it to the lady inside and tell her you want to get laid.' The farm boy says, ‘Okay,' and heads on in.

“Once he gets inside, he sees this woman and she says, ‘What can I do for you, cowboy?'

“He says, ‘Ma'am, I ain't never done this before, and my friends out there gave me this here twenty dollars. Said I could come in and get laid.'

“She says, ‘Well, all right then. You're a special case. I'll have to take care of you myself.' So she stuffs the twenty into her bra, takes him by the hand, and leads him upstairs. Then she says, ‘So what's it gonna be: French, sixty-nine, around-the-world?'

“He says, ‘Ma'am, I don't know one from t'other.'

She says, ‘Well, c'mon now. French, sixty-nine, around-the-world?'

“He says, ‘I don't know, ma'am.'

“She says, ‘Well, just pick one.'

“He says, ‘Okay, mmm? I'll try one of them sixty-nines.'

“She says, ‘All right then.'

“So they strip down and assume the position. They're going at it. Pretty soon she realizes she's got a little gas. She has to fart. She holds back as best she can, but one just kinda slips on out.
Ppphhrrrrtt.”

Earl chuckled again. Ed sat, hands crossed with his eyes closed, watching the light show behind his eyelids. He had been drawn in by Donny's storyline and was trying to visualize the scene.

“He doesn't say nothin',” continued Donny. “They keep on goin'. Pretty soon she feels another one comin' on.
Ppppphhhhrrrrrttt.

“He still doesn't say nothin'.” Donny gazes curiously at Earl and Ed. “So she leans back and says, ‘How you doin' down there, cowboy?'

“He says, ‘Ma'am, what yer doin' to me is mighty fine. Mighty fine.'” Donny paused for dramatic effect before delivering the punch line: “‘But I don't think I could take sixty-seven more of them sons-a-bitches!'”

Earl laughed hysterically. Ed chuckled at first and then, opening his eyes, finally burst into his own fit of laughter. Donny took a swig of his beer, lit up a cigarette, and puffed out a big cloud, a proud, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

“Pretty good, Donny. Pretty good,” admitted Earl as his loud guffawing tapered down to a giggle.

“Not bad, eh, Ed? You hear that one before?” Donny asked.

With tears in his eyes, Ed clutched his stomach, laughing. “I can't breathe!”

“Damn, Ed, don't shit yourself,” piped Donny.

“Oh my God! My stomach hurts,” blurted Ed, still laughing uncontrollably. Both Don and Earl watched Ed as he rolled around in his chair holding his gut. Both men were amused but a bit baffled.

“Jesus, Don, you sure got him,” observed Earl.

“Yeah, nutty bastard is losin' it,” said Donny warily. “Come on, Ed, now you're just makin' yourself look silly.”

“Sorry,” Ed replied, trying his best to regain his composure. He realized that he was caught in the middle of a hallucinogenic laughing fit.

“Jesus. Have another damn beer.”

Ed pulled himself together, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Oh, man. That was good.”

“Anybody up for some grub?” Earl chimed, pulling himself to his feet. He slapped Ed on the knee. “Sandwich?”

“No triangles for me,” responded Ed, followed by another short burst of laughter.

Earl headed toward the bow of the boat. “Okey-doke. Donny, anything for you there, bud?”

“Yeah, bud, grab me a couple of them sandwiches I brung. Grab some for yourself too. She made up a shitload of food.” Donny leaned over to Ed, who was laughing again, to confide, “Better than that store-bought shit.”

Ed laughed even harder.

“Damn, Ed,” Donny announced in disbelief, “I want whatever you're on.”

“Yeah?” Ed asked, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his big bag of mushrooms. He waved them in front of Donny, giggling.

“Why, you son of a bitch. I knew you was on somethin'.”

“Want some?”

“Shee-it. I don't know. I ain't done that shit since high school.”

“These are good ones,” taunted Ed, digging into the mushroom bag.

Meanwhile, Earl opened the cooler at the bow. Bending over, he removed Donny's big brown sack from the chest and then reached in, pulling out a large Ziploc bag. Earl slowly stood up straight, examining the bag's contents. He felt a cold tingle run from his outer ribcage to the back of his neck as he stared at several small sandwiches dangling inside. The sandwiches were shaped like cookie-cutter fish with sliced black-olive bits for eyes. Earl pulled a sandwich from the bag and examined it more closely. He heard a buzzing sound, like grasshoppers in summer heat, whirring in his head. A slight tinge of nausea swept over him, and everything in his vision took on a shade of dizzying red. He looked at the sandwich again and then back toward Donny, whose laughter was echoing in his ears. Earl began to vibrate physically. He crushed the sandwich in his hand, dropping it to the deck. He turned abruptly and grabbed the club-handled gaff from the side compartment that ran the length of the cockpit.

Still laughing, Donny held his hand forward and Ed filled his palm with mushrooms. A big grin on his face, Donny looked back at Earl, who had raised his right arm, gaff in hand, into the air. Earl swung downward, catching Donny with a hollow thump across his left temple. Startled, Ed fell back out of the way as Donny collapsed on his cheek to the gunwale of the boat. Earl swung again, striking the back of Donny's head, blood spurting from his mouth onto the white plastic gel coat just below the rail.

THOCK!

The hollow sound echoed through Ed's entire body as he watched his brother swing away in a furious but strangely methodical rage.

THOCK!

The hollow sound resonated again, and blood flew through the air, landing on Ed's arm. He glanced down at the deep color of the blood, watching it sink into his shirt sleeve, then dropped the bag of mushrooms and muttered, “Whoa.” He watched the scene unfold in hazy slow motion, trying to grasp what was happening.

THOCK!

The quick blow resounded like a tennis ball ricocheting off a watermelon, turning the white of Donny's left eye blood-red.

THOCK!

More and more blood flowed from Donny's mouth.

“Whoa, Earl,” Ed moaned.

Finally, Earl stopped, looked at Ed and at the club in his hand, and then wiped a clump of fleshy hair off with his foot. He gazed down at Donny, who was slumped over in his chair with his face still pressed against the gunwale of the boat, his hair matted with blood.

“Motherfucker!” shouted Earl, burying the pointed end of the gaff between Donny's shoulder blades and knocking his body to the floor.

Ed stared down at Donny and then back up at his brother, who seemed remarkably calm. The sudden burst of adrenalin clearing his head, Ed screamed in desperation, “Earl? What the fuck?”

Earl reached forward, grabbed the sandwich baggy, dropped it in Ed's lap, and muttered once again toward Donny, “Motherfucker.”

Ed fumbled the bag open, peered at the sandwiches, and then whispered: “Tiny tunas?” Suddenly realizing the implication of it all, he groaned, “Fuck. Fuuuuck, man.”

The brothers remained fixed in their respective positions: Earl standing with his hands at his sides, looking out across the horizon; Ed sitting motionless, still uncertain if this was reality or just another phase in his mushroom delusion.

“Ed, your pole!!” Earl exclaimed, interrupting the silence, pointing toward the fishing rod, which was bouncing erratically and nearly flying out the back of the boat. Ed reached awkwardly for the pole, but Earl grabbed it first, straining over the top of the seat as he pulled back and set hook. The pole doubled over and the line peeled off the reel with a
ZZZZZING!
Suddenly, a massive sturgeon leapt straight out of the water about thirty yards from the stern, smashing back down with such a force that the wake lurched the boat from side to side.

“Holy shit!” yelled Ed, as the line continued to strip from the reel with ferocity.

“He's gonna jump again!” hollered Earl. Sure enough, the fish breached, dropping back to the water with a deep slap.

“Jeez Louise!! You see the size of it. Don't give him no slack!”

“Fuck yeah! You beautiful big-ass son of a bitch!” Earl shouted exuberantly. “Get the video camera, bro.” Earl stood, pole doubled over and line peeling away. After a scurried search, Ed emerged with a big Sony VHS camera and started taping.

“Yeee-haaaw!!!” shouted Earl, pumping back hard on the pole and then reeling in as he lowered the tip.

“Work him, bro,” urged Ed from behind the camera.

All at once, the line went slack. “Aw, fuck!” blurted Earl, reeling faster and faster. “Aw, fuck!”

“What? You lose him?!”

“Naw, he's headin' straight for us,” said Earl, reeling rapidly to take up the slack. The line went taut again as the pole bent and pointed down, running along the side of the boat. “Shit, he's headed toward the bow. Unhook the anchor, bro!”

“What?” asked Ed, looking up from the video camera.

“See that float there?” Earl pointed toward the bow.

“Unhook the anchor line from that cleat.” He continued to direct as Ed leapt up into the bow, grabbing for the rope. “Now throw out the float.”

Ed grabbed a handful of rope and the float and then hurled it all out into the water. He then jumped back and grabbed the camera to continue documenting the battle. The fish had moved under the boat and was now off the starboard side, running full steam and taking more and more line as it leapt again out of the water with a monstrous eruption.

“That son of a bitch is huge!” exclaimed Ed, looking back through the camera.

“Shoot 'em good, bro. No one'll believe this!” said Earl with the same exuberance that Ed remembered fondly from their youth.

Ed watched his brother through the gray window of the old video camera, glancing up occasionally to see the action in living color. He marveled at the intensity of the fight. Earl was a true artist with a spinning rig. He knew to hold the rod tip high as the fish ran away from the boat, and was adept at dipping the pole deep to avoid tangling in the out-drive when it dove under the stern.

“Hey, Earl! Whatcha got going there, bud?”
Red's voice came suddenly over the radio. Even from a distance, he could tell that something was up because Earl had let the anchor loose, allowing the boat to drift freely. The anchor was never let loose unless it was an absolute necessity.

“Ed, grab that mike!” ordered Earl.

Ed reached for the radio and pulled the microphone up to Earl, who snatched it with his left hand.

“I got me a big, bad mama-jama here, Red!”

“Yeah? You need a hand?”

“I'll let ya know,” chirped Earl, throwing down the mike just as the mighty sturgeon broke the surface again. “EEEE-haw!!” he roared. “C'mon, baby, come to Pappy. Atta boy!”

Ed remembered the time years earlier when Ivan, a neighbor and school teacher who sometimes went fishing with the boys and their father, locked into a big diamondback off the Sisters Islands. Being mostly a trout fisherman and inexperienced with the world of sturgeon, Ivan had fumbled a bit at first but eventually landed the sixty-five-pounder after a forty-five-minute battle that left his right arm numb. Had someone like Ivan hooked into a beast like the one that Earl was now battling, the likelihood of a successful land would have been slim to none. Earl, on the other hand, had been preparing most of his adult life for just this opportunity. He did not attempt to horse the fish but guided it instead, like a plowman with an ox, toward their small vessel. He knew just the right amount of line to let it take and when and how much tension to apply with the drag.

Though his sight was handicapped by the viewfinder of Earl's somewhat out-of-date video camera, Ed could see a glow of excitement coming off his brother's face that he had not seen in many years. This was his dream fish.

They battled nearly forty minutes. Although he knew it was unlikely that the sturgeon had exhausted itself completely, Earl didn't want to take chance of the fish making a long run and him missing an opportunity for a still photo.

“Ed, grab that snare. We'll pull 'em up alongside and get some good pictures.”