Reworking Migizi With a Fishing Pole

Clay got the matching set of coffee cups ready and left both pot and me to simmer. Eyeballing my watch, I first weighed in on the coffee.

“Now listen, you gotta let it perk for exactly 7 minutes. Remove from the heat and let it settle for 5 more. That brew has 2 minutes left to percolate. I’m timing it.”

“No way, cook’s rules. I go by smell and my potion is always better.”

“You mean poison. I used it to clean soot from the pans last time.”

We laughed and it was great to be bantering again.

“Clay, about the Jesus thing…and no, I’m not arguing your faith here. Did he say why he thought this fishing trip was the way to go?”

“Nah, didn’t hafta. If ya read the bible you’d know.”

“I have read it I told you.”

“Well?” asked Clay, “answer your own question then.”

“Clay, get the coffee off the heat!”

“Not quite,” he says, whiffing the air.

“Okay Clay, Jesus did some serious fishin’ with his buds, his brothers. And they talked, talked serious and deep stuff. I bet they yucked it up, farted, cussed. If they didn’t they weren’t fishermen.”

Clay finally poured bubbling hot coffee and sat back down.

“Hold up there Ain’t It. My Jesus wasn’t no cusser.”

“So you’re okay with the yucking and farting though?”

“Hmm, yah, I reckon. And I’m proud of ya. That’s exactly why he wanted us fishin’.”

Clay clapped for me and I returned the favor by lifting a butt cheek and blowing him a fisherman’s kiss.

“Okay, okay, Clay. So we’ll get up before dawn and go to the water. What we got for tackle? For Brook Trout you know I favor spinners. I hope you remembered my brand and model.” 

“Yup, got ya a dozen. You lose ‘em like crazy in this river with all the drowned logs the fish hide under. Yah, gotta sacrifice to the fishin’ god.”

Clay, slapping his thighs and cracking up at himself, aimed his butt at me and let a big one rip.

“Put that in your journal,” he says.

“Trust me, I will buddy, and plenty more,” I retorted.

So revved up about catching Brookies, I got lost in the moment and let my guard down with Clay but hadn’t realized it.

The sun’s position cued me that we still had a few hours till dark. Purging my stomach earlier had left me super hungry.

“Clay, I’m so empty that if I held my lips just right and relaxed my sphincter, the downdraft through my guts would make me reverse whistle. How ‘bout I make us some dinner.”

“Ah, that’s the spirit Ain’t It. Oh, and here’s your card and phone. You better get that mini-puter on a charge. Hey, you do that while I go and fertilize the ground a ways off.”

The small fire, mostly ashes and a few tiny embers, would need to be rebuilt. I hurried to the car and plugged in the phone while Clay went for bowel relief. I guess all our talk of bodily functions inspired him.

Back at camp, I got the fire going and prepared beans and burgers. I heard crunching behind me in the woods and assumed it was Clay.

If only.

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