Gator
pulled the handle out of the mud and pointed the rod tip down.
“Hey! That’s my rod!” Lindy Beth frowned and
tossed her book aside.
Gator grinned at her. “Bad luck to lose the first fish---”
he whipped the rod back and set the hook, “---of the day.”
The taut line ripped through the black water, and the reel squealed
as more line spooled out. Damn! He’d forgotten to set the
reel drag since he’d gone bream fishing last week. The much-larger
channel cats put up more of a fight and could really make the
reel sing if the drag wasn’t set tight enough. He cranked
the drag down using the pronged metal disc on the side of the
reel. The catfish broke the water surface with a splash. On its
second big run, the fish streaked down and to the right. Gator
tipped the rod toward the fish, but it was too late. The line
snapped.
“Son of a bitch!” He threw the rod down and stomped
over to the tackle box. Lindy Beth covered her mouth with a hand
while she laughed.
The tackle box was pretty bare. There were plenty of lead slip
sinkers, but only two treble hooks remained. Lindy Beth had forgotten
to buy hooks at the bait shop, natch. She had spent the money
he’d given her on a candy bar instead. Grabbing a hook and
sinker, Gator rigged the rod with another chicken liver, then
cast the bait into the same spot where the fish had bitten. Before
reinserting the pole handle into the mud, he loosened the drag
a tiny bit.
He looked at the smug grin on Lindy Beth’s face. That was
the whole problem with her: no respect. He glanced at his wristwatch.
Every minute brought them seconds closer to inevitable breakup.
And each time L.B. opened her fat mouth, it only helped him to
know he was doing the right thing.
“Gator, why you keep looking at your watch all the time?
You act like you’re late for an appointment or something.”
He laughed. “Yeah, me and the next fish got a date with
destiny.” He adjusted the reel drag on his own pole.
By the time he finished his first beer, Gator’s rod had
a bite. He eased the pole handle out of the mud hole and dropped
the rod tip down to create a little slack in the line. The fish
hammered the bait, and Gator jerked the rod back hard, hoping
to rip the lips right off the fish. He’d actually done that
once while bass fishing on the Atchafalaya River years ago.
This time the drag was set just right. Gator played the fish fair,
let the cat run deep into the pool, reeled in a bit, then let
it run again. No sense in trying to horse a channel cat out of
the water; they tire out pretty fast anyway. When the fish made
it to shore, it lay on its side, gasping.
He reached down and grabbed the catfish by the lower lip. Its
mouth closed over his thumb, and its tiny teeth grated his flesh,
causing him to relax his grip. “Bitch,” he said to
the fish, thumping it on the nose.
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