So, back to my story, pushing carts. As I was getting some strays for some reason, my mind went back to my childhood and ice fishing. I don't know why, it just happened. So it just started coming to me in this great vivid image. And now for a special treat, a quick little short story (the first one I've written since last summer, kind of depressing if you think about it.) It is more of a narrative essay, but whatever.
Ice Fishing
The wind blew something fierce against the black canvas. The constant hum of the portable propane heater slows the time. As I sit on a white plastic five gallon bucket my mind is blank as I stare down the hole carved through three feet of ice. The contents of my bucket, with a green top with a hole cut in it, the glory of the day; a seven inch yellow perch. Still flopping around as it tries in vain to breath while the air, ironically, is suffocating it. Amongst his fellow species in the hellacious environment of the white death trap, the perch slows his flopping around and eventually stops. The silence returns and it's only companion is the heaters hum.
Outside, the wind stops howling for only a short period of time before it picks up again. The short amount of silence is eerie, like a calm before a storm. You know that something is coming, but the silence gives you a false sense of comfort. Needing a break, I reel in my line and stand up to recirculate the blood back to my legs. The shanty which I have claimed as my own for the day has a floor made of pine and the walls and ceiling are made of black canvas. Held together by nothing more than a metal pipe skeleton and nails, it is hardly comfortable, but it is a nice escape from the world outside. A world where mother nature has made any man willing to stand outside her bitch by blowing an air cold enough to make a penguin shiver.
The floor has two holes drilled into the bottom. One hole is to fish aggressively in. Using a wiggler meant to attract smaller fish like perch. The second hole that is drilled is used for the bigger fish. The bait on the end of the line is a minnow, used in the hopes that a walleye or whitefish comes by. The constant movement of the minnow on the hook attracts the perch as well, until they see the wiggler. The water is only twelve feet and with the enclosed environment, the bottom is visible. Then they gather around as a committee, appearing to discuss what to do with it. One swims forward, a smaller one; no, Goddammit, not you, let the bigger one go for it. He takes the bait and starts to swim. motherfucker. The line is reeled in and the fish, just about three inches and isn't worth the trouble. Now the process starts all over, waiting for the fish to gather around again in their committee. With the hope that the big fish takes the bait this time.
With no watch, it is hard to know what time has passed. Until a tapping comes from outside, must be lunch time. Both lines are reeled up and slowly the zipper holding back the invasive world is brought up. My eyes need to adjust to the light outside, light not allowed inside my black sanctuary. The back of the Dodge Dakota is lowered and we sit on the back eating our sandwiches, ham and cheese. Quickly, the rations are devoured and we return to our dark, warm worlds to act as gods amongst the fish. Killing the unfortunate ones curious enough to not only ask, 'What is that?' but to also swallow it. Death by food.
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