Afternoon With An Old Man
At some point the memories
become very important.
 by Joe Reynolds
 The old man had been ill for some time. He
was recovering nicely but it seemed to him as though he
would never get on the water again. That's what
hurt the most. His family and friends worried about
him, and he knew it. He knew too that he was
contrary at times, but for the most part he was
content. Memories brought contentment.
Sometimes he would sit and think for hours,
going over the events of his life, and more often than
not, his thoughts would be drawn to days spent on the
water, to the fish he had caught and, most of all, to the
friendships that had come with those good times.
Several years had passed since the old man's
hands held a fly rod, but he still enjoyed rummaging
through the memories of past trips, and it seemed to him
there was an endless supply of good times and good
fishing to relive.
On this day he was thinking about his friend
Bill Brighoff and not even the sound of his
granddaughter's vacuum cleaner or the wails of his
sixteen month old great-grandson were enough to break the
magical spell of those thoughts.
And fish he did. Right up to
the day he died of a heart attack
Brighoff had been a real character. From
Bill's Sportsman's Chance Marina on the Little Choptank
River they had fished together for years, going after
stripers and blues in the days when fly fishermen were an
unusual sight on Chesapeake Bay. Sportsman's Chance
was a dilapidated sort of place. Brighoff had run
off most of the customers with his contrary ways.
The old man always figured Brighoff had done it on
purpose so he would have more time for fishing. And
fish he did. Right up to the day he died of a heart
attack.
The old man remembered how he had reacted to the
news of Brighoff's death. Sure, there was sadness
and a sense of loss, but mostly a feeling of anger.
Damn that Brighoff, he had thought, he's no right to up
and die on me. We had too many good days ahead of
us. The old man had never returned to Sportsman's
Chance again. Not even to see Brighoff's widow, and
the old man wasn't happy with himself for that. But
he knew it could never be the same and in those days the
old man's thoughts were always on the future, never the
past.
Suddenly a smile cracked the wrinkles on the old
man's face. He was remembering the first time he
had spent the night at Sportsman's Chance.
"Listen," Brighoff had said, "instead of
setting up that tent, why don't you just sleep in my old
trailer out there by the water. Nothin' fancy but
it's comfortable." Nothing fancy......brother was
that an understatement.
It was an old, beatup, gray skinned travel
trailer that very likely had been built well before World
War II. The interior looked as though a major
portion of the war had been fought there and the mattress
was a cinch to be rejected by both the Goodwill and
Salvation Army. Not five minutes after settling in,
he recalled, the field mice came scurrying out of the
walls and proceeded to run all over the covers.
Scared the dickens out of him at first and then he spent
the remainder of the night cursing the mice along with
Brighoff. But next day they enjoyed some great
fishing. It was fall and in those days stripers
were plentiful, with scattered schools tearing up bait
over most of the Little Choptank.
Their conversation would revolve
around
tackle, guns, knives, fish, women, mosquitoes
and other such matters of importance.
There was no need to hurry. Most times it
was nine or so before the fish were on top. After
breakfast they'd sit by the window of Brighoff's office
and scan the horizon with binoculars, looking for signs
of gulls working over the feeding fish. Their
conversation would revolve around tackle, guns, knives,
fish, women, mosquitoes and other such matters of
importance. But it really wasn't
conversation. More like constant arguing.
About anything. Probably why they got along so
well, the old man thought. Maybe not having
Brighoff as a protagonist was why he missed him so
much. They had been alike in more ways than one.
On that day they took a few fish in the
afternoon but just before sunset the stripers had really
gone on a feeding binge, he remembered. The wind
died and that miserable chop had flattened until the
surface was mirror smooth. They were inside James
Island with the final rays of an orange sun slanting
through the tall pines, reflecting from the water and
creating a lattice work of black over orange.
Suddenly the stripers were tearing into bait
along the entire shore. Two- to three-pounders, a
seemingly endless supply. They cast white streamers
and the fish took without hesitation on every cast.
Another reason the old man would never forget that day
was because most of the stripers had jumped. Not
fancy, head shaking leaps like a bluefish, but jumps
nevertheless. His friends had laughed when he told
them of the jumping stripers and he didn't tell the story
again after that. But he knew it had happened.
...the old man's eyelids slowly closed
and he returned to Sportsman's Chance.
The vacuum cleaner went off and the silence
caused the old man's eyes to open hesitantly, as if
unwilling to leave the Little Choptank. "Can I
get you anything grandpop?" his granddaughter
asked. The old man's head moved slowly, once or
twice, from side to side. His granddaughter shook
her head too, not so much in reply to the old man, but in
sorrow. She dearly loved him. As she turned
and headed for the bedroom to quiet the still crying
baby, the old man's eyelids slowly closed and he returned
to Sportsman's Chance.
Now it was early summer. Daylight on a
Saturday morning in June. The old man and another
fishing buddy, Chuck, had driven down from Baltimore in
the old man's maroon and white Volkswagen bus. He
had rigged it out with beds but they were a few inches
too short and he always awoke with cramps in his
legs. Everyone else said it was uncomfortable too,
but the old man always insisted he slept well, even if he
didn't. Then too, his wife had refused to drive
anywhere in it. The thing bounced so much she
always came down with a case of motion sickness.
That Saturday morning he and Chuck had come
prepared to spend the weekend and while they were inside
the office talking with Brighoff, his Chesapeake
retriever got into the van and ate all the lunch meat and
bread. Chuck talked about that day for years, the
old man remembered, and a smile again crossed his
face. The old man always enjoyed hearing Chuck tell
the story, even after he had heard it more times than he
could count.
"Yeah," Chuck would begin, "first
Brighoff's dog eats all our food then Brighoff sells us
some sandwiches. But the best part happens at the
end of the day. The two of us go out fishing in
this old leaky rowboat with an air cooled six horse on
the back and it averages forty-seven pulls before it'll
start. Engine's rusted, gas tank's rusted, paint's
peelin' off the boat like crazy and I spend more time
bailin' than fishin'."
About this part of the story Chuck becomes
animated, the old man recalls. Chuck's eyes take on
a glimmer, the short hairs of his crew-cut stand
perfectly straight and his hands begin moving in all
directions. "But listen to this," Chuck
continues. "This is the real corker. We
get back to the dock by some miracle and Brighoff starts
figurin' up the bill. You ain't gonna believe
this. Brighoff says, 'Well, let's see. The
boat rents for ten bucks and you probably used two bucks
worth of gas. The sandwiches are two dollars and
the drinks another three. That's seventeen dollars
total. I don't charge my friend here, so I guess
you owe me eight-fifty, Chuck.' He says I owe eight
fifty! Can you imagine that. I mean this guy
was a real character."
Here's a guy livin' in the middle of
nowhere,
nowhere mind ya, and all he worries about is riots.
Here, the old man recalled, the story would
begin to vary from time to time, but mostly Chuck would
talk about Brighoff's office.
"Character! Character doesn't even begin to
describe this guy. That office of his was a real
winner. Half the time you could barely get in the
door for all the junk and dirt. What kills me is
that Brighoff always wiped off his shoes before going in
the office. It looked to me like he should have
wiped 'em off on the way out!
"Another thing. Here's a guy livin'
in the middle of nowhere, nowhere mind ya, and all he
worries about is riots. Has a loaded shotgun in
that office, under the counter, and I think in every room
of his house. Says nobody's gonna come down his
place and start any trouble."
Damn, but they were great days the old man
thinks. But mostly when the old man thinks of
Brighoff, he remembers the fishing. In later years
it seemed the Little Choptank was right around the
corner, but in the beginning it had seemed remote and
wild; a special place to be enjoyed by an adventuresome
few. Now it was too easy.
As much as Brighoff and the old man argued, they
didn't talk much while they were fishing. Theirs
was a special brand of friendship that didn't require
constant conversation. Hours would pass when they
were on the water with hardly a word being uttered.
And yet, somehow, the old man remembered, they had both
drawn enjoyment from the silence; knowing each other's
thoughts and feelings but never consciously thinking
about it at the time. Neither did they speak of
these things but the old man knew that Brighoff had felt
the same. The old man didn't feel that way about
too many people. Maybe that's why he had felt anger
when he heard the news of Brighoff's death.
Silence again brought the old man out of his
dreams when the baby stopped crying. His
granddaughter returned. "Grandpop I'm sorry I
can't spend more time with you today. I know it
must get lonely in here by yourself." The old man's
head nodded as if in agreement. What's the use in
trying to explain, he thought, she just wouldn't
understand anyway.
 
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