[Summer has settled into its rhythm, warm days and soft nights that seem like they will never end. Hint: they will. SB SM]
The next morning Artie goes to Cuzzin’s Bait & Tackle.
“I met a friend of yours,” he says. “She told me I could learn everything I need to know about fly fishing for striped bass from you.”
“You got that straight. Here’s what I can tell you about fly fishing. If you are a pretentious elitist who wants to feel that you are some kind of snooty sportsman, then you are a good candidate for fly fishing. And if you have more money than common sense, then you are a good candidate for fly fishing. And if you never want to deal with anything remotely associated with actually catching a fish, then you are a good candidate for fly fishing.” Cuzzin was so riled by his soliloquy that he had to get himself a beer. He slid a can to Artie, too.
“I guess I qualify. Except about that part about not catching fish. I do want to catch a fish. Do you sell the equipment?”
“Oh shit yeah. I’d be crazy not to. It’s definitely becoming more popular.”
“Can you tell me where to go and how to do it?”
“No, you need Sandy Beach for that.” Cuzzin walks over to a bookself and hands a book to Artie. It’s called Think Like a Fish: A Fly Fisherman’s Guide to Boston Harbor by Sandy Beach. On the cover is an underwater shot of a striped bass with a green and white fly protruding from the hinged corner of its mouth. Artie turns the book over and reads aloud: “Tips, Techniques, and Secrets from the legendary Sandy Beach.” Instead of an author’s photo there is a familiar black and white caricature of a plumpish, middle-aged man wearing a yachting cap and smoking a pipe.
“Who the fuck is Sandy Beach and what makes him a legend?” asks Artie.
Sandy Beach does the fishing forecasts and writes a fishing column for the Globe. He seems to know every inch of the Harbor. He’s also written some books on fishing. I sell them all here.
Beach is a legend to the fisherman around here, because he knows so damn much, but because he’s been doing this forever. He started back in the Fifties and was rumored to be a fishing buddy of Ted Williams. The Globe in those days thought it was cute to give their writers clever names, so you had the boating news from Salty Brine and political commentary from Rocky Bottom. None of them stuck, except Sandy Beach. But if the guy in the illustration is supposed to be Sandy Beach, he’d be ancient today, but no one has ever met or seen Sandy Beach. So there’s kind of this ongoing contest among the local fishermen to identify and expose Sandy Beach.
Wanna hear something funny? More than one person thinks that Sandy Beach is me. I know a lot about fishing, but I couldn’t write a sentence, let alone a book. But I let them think maybe it’s true. Hey, I can drink like a fish. Maybe that qualifies! Double Vroom.
There’s lotsa weird shit rumors about Beach. Some say he’s old. Some say he’s young. Some say he used to go fishing with Ted Williams on days when there were night games, but that would make him about 105.
Beach became big news a few years ago when he started to use his column to bitch about the water quality in Boston Harbor. I give the sumbitch a lot of credit, because a lot of people felt the same way, including me. Now that the water quality is improving, a lot of people credit Sandy Beach for stirring the pot.
A few years ago he really started singing the praises of fly fishing, especially for striped bass. Personally, I think fly fishing is for sissies and pretentious phonies. Why fish with imitation bait when you can fish with the honest-to-god real thing? I say it’s pretentious because the people who do it are all holier-than-thou when it comes to nature and the environment. They want things all natural, but when you tell them what could be more natural than fishing for a fish with something that a fish really eats, like a goddamn seaworm, they get all sniffly. Personally, I think it’s because they don’t have a leg to stand on. Half of ‘em that fly fish don’t give a shit about catching nothing anyway. They just want to look good standing out there in the flats. But I will say that fly fisherman spend money on their equipment, and I’m glad to sell it to them, so I shouldn’t complain.
So that’s what I know about Sandy Beach. He’s a fly fisherman, but I don’t hold it against him, because he knows his shit. And he’s good for business.
“Oh, Cuzzin, one more thing. Do you have a customer, a fly fisher-person, a woman in, I’d guess, her mid-forties. She’s about 5’5”, slender, fair complexion, nice smile … Name’s Cassie. Drives a Toyota pick-up … she seems to know you … ” Artie keeps looking for the clue that makes the penny drop, but Cuzzin keeps shaking his head.
“I’d remember a customer like that,” says Cuzzin.
Chapter 7
My Mother, My Lover, My Wife, and, now, My Sales Manager
Sandy Beach’s Forecast for July
The cliché is that when the lazy, hazy days of summer arrive, the bass beat a retreat to deep water. That’s not true, although their feeding habits do change. For the wading fisherman the early morning and late evening tides will be more productive. My theory on this is that it is not the feeding habits that change so much as the fish reacting to the heav-ier recreational use of the water. With motorboats pounding the surface and swimmers clamoring on the beaches, doesn’t it seem reasonable that a wild creature will take a lower profile?
If you do fish the mid-day tides, try to access a place that doesn’t have a lot of human intervention. This is a great time to fish some of the islands in Boston Harbor. This used to mean you needed access to a boat, but now the MDC operates ferry services to Georges, Bumpkin, Peddocks, and other harbor islands. Ferries leave from Hewitt’s Cove in Hingham and Long Wharf downtown. This opens an entire new world of fishing so long as you don’t mind being gawked at by the other travelers on the ferry. Bumpkin especially offers a variety of fishing conditions and is small enough that if one side isn’t productive you can always walk to the other.
A word to the wise. Double check on the return ferry schedule. Miss the last one and you might spend a very uncomfortable night!
The islands fish much the same as everywhere else. Look for structure, mussel beds, and places that will offer or make available food. Where there’s food, there’s fish. The herring have just about disap-peared, but the mackerel won’t be far behind.
The water temperature is still several degrees below normal for this time of year. Look for the activity to heat up along with the water temperature.
– Sandy Beach, from The Boston Globe
Artie’s to do list for July
- Call Elaine for update
- Buy fishing equipment
- Check out Sandy Beach
- Become world’s leading expert on striper fishing
- Finish fixing up cottage
The Size of Your Dick
Message from Elaine on Artie’s cell phone:
Artie, I’m glad you called. I actually have two pieces of good news for a change. First, “the drill” went off without a hitch. Meiko was a real lady about it. No hassle at all. Completely polite. I was surprised, very pleasantly so.
You’re going to have to sit down for this next news. So July 1 they release My Mother, My Lover….on video and DVD. It shoots up to number 1 for both sales and rentals. We’re trying to find out if it’s a fluke or even, god forbid, a reporting error, but it’s number fucking one!
Liam is visibly upset when Artie picks him up at the MBTA Station. He gets into Cuzzin’s truck, and the two men ride back towards Indian Mound in silence. They’re on the causeway when Liam finally speaks.
“I quit my job today. Actually … got fired.”
“How come?”
“There are these two guys on my shift, both rednecks and both been there much longer than me. They keep calling me ‘faggot.’ Every time one of them opens his fucking mouth it’s to make some comment about my supposed homosexuality.”
“How did you handle it?” Artie is trying to maintain a calm demeanor. This is the closest he and Liam have been in ten years, and he doesn’t want it to backfire.
“Mostly I ignore them, but it just doesn’t stop. Today we were filling crème donuts. You can imagine what a field day they have with that. There are two lines and we always have an informal competition. My line lost by, like, half a donut to the other line operated by this girl, Cacia. These two guys are all over me about how I was beaten by a girl, and all. So I finally held up my fingers like this.”
The car is now stopped in the driveway. Liam holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “She beat me by this much, just about the size of your dick!”
“What did they do?”
“Tried to hit me. Then all hell breaks loose. Donuts flying everywhere. Next thing I know we’re in the supervisor’s office. He wants to know what’s going on, and I tell him I’m fed up with these two guys ragging on me and calling me ‘faggot’ and turning everything into a homosexual reference. ‘Well,’ the supervisor says-he’s a fat Irish guy with a W.C. Fields nose- ’Maybe if you don’t want people calling you “faggot” you shouldn’t dress and act like a fag.’”
Father and son sat looking at each other in the cab of the truck. Liam is breathing deeply, still trapped in his own adrenaline. Artie waits for the breathing to slow imperceptibly, then holds a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart and says in a mock serious voice, “JUST ABOUT THE SIZE OF YOUR DICK!” Instantly the cab is filled with the sounds of two men laughing.
Here at Nucking Fuff we have standards. No, we don’t use the traditional tools of the carpenter. We don’t even own a level or tape measure. Why own something you don’t know how to use? But that doesn’t mean we don’t have standards. Need to move something a little bit, move it “a c- hair.” A little farther, “2 c-hairs.” Farther still, “just about the size of your dick.” And farther still, “just about the size of MY dick.” But don’t be confused by the tech talk. Just come to Nucking Fuff, where all jobs are completed in one day and where “pretty close is close-a-fucking-nough.”
They haven’t been in the cottage more than a minute when Shea knocks at the door, holding a measuring cup. “Artie, I’m out of butter, and I’m baking cookies. Can I borrow some from you? I only need about that much.” She holds her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. She can’t understand what is so funny.
Nucking Fuff Construction scrapes and spray paints porch furniture in the morning. When they are done, it looks as if they have spray painted the back lawn white. Artie tells Liam about Sandy Beach, and shows him the equipment that he’s bought from Cuzzin.
“I’ve done a lot of reading and a little practicing, but I haven’t actually gone down to the water yet,” says Artie.
“What are we waiting for?” asks Liam.
“What are we waiting for?” says Artie, taking the question seriously. “Permission, I guess.”
“Then I, as crown prince of the shabby cottage at Indian Mound, with the powers vested in me by the ancestors of the Gordon Clan, hereby grant the permission to go fishin’” says Liam.
I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not a lot, because I’ve only been doing this for five days or so. You want to treat the rod as if it’s an extension of your arm. Don’t use a lot of wrist action. You don’t need a lot of power. Let the rod do the work. If you can cast fifty feet you can cast far enough for most situations.
The important things, according to Sandy Beach, are to go to where there are fish. Present them with something that resembles what they are eating, and don’t spook ‘em. Sounds pretty easy. We know there should be fish here, because this is where I saw that woman land one the other night.
Striped bass like the changing of the tides for feeding. They like structure, that is, solid material on the bottom-rocks, pilings, moorings, wrecked cars, whatever. And they like places where they can trap baitfish, so inlets, estuaries, or narrow pockets can all be good. Here, you try.
Artie hands the rod to Liam. The tide is near dead low, and the Bay is as flat as a nickel.
“What’s this fly?” asks Liam, looking at the feathered extravagance at the end of the monofilament leader.
“It’s called a Whistler, and I don’t know what it’s supposed to be. Some kind of minnow. I only know that it cost $5 and Cuzzin tells me it’s one of his most popular flies.”
Liam flails about for several minutes, but with some coaching from Artie he finally begins to land the fly out reliably thirty feet away. On his third successful cast there is a swirl near his fly.
“Hey, I think I’ve got one!” says Liam. The line straightens and translates to a bend in the rod. Artie starts to yell instructions, but realizes he doesn’t know what to yell. There’s a moment of chaos, and the fly reel falls off the rod, into the water. Artie rushes over to help, but only makes the matter worse. Fishing line is everywhere. The rod jerks twice more, and then is still. The line goes slack.
“I’ve lost him.”
“Maybe not, pull in your line. Maybe he’s coming this way.” Liam strips in the line. Not only is there no fish; there is no Whistler. Artie looks at the end of the line and sees the telltale curl of a knot that has come undone.
“Looks like I need to work on my knot tying,” he says. “Not to mention how to attach the reel to the rod. I’m just beginning,” whines Artie.
“I know,” says Liam. “What did that last two, three seconds?”
“About as long as your dick.” Indian Mound has a new catch-phrase.
“This is weird. But I feel like I crossed over to the other side. Like there’s life above the water and below the water, and through this divining rod we were able to establish connection.”
“Well, for now, what’s been established is that fish have dominion.”
“Let’s try again.”
“I didn’t bring another fly. You can add lack of preparation to my list of failures.”
On the walk back to the beach, the talk turns from fish to women. Liam says he’s sorry to hear that his father has split from Meiko, but not to worry. There must be blond Asian women in Boston, too. Meiko caused a near riot at the clubs she had gone to with Liam. It was a heady experience to be with a woman lusted after by every man in the club, but in Liam’s opinion, Artie is better off without her. The woman is living exclusively off her appearance, and Artie, in the humble opinion of his son, needs a real person.
“You mean I should date someone my own age? Never happen. That’s disgusting.”
Artie hopes his attempt at humor will mask his embarrassment at sober advice from such a whippersnapper. He manages a rueful smile, and says “Who was the rock star who said ‘The best thing about getting older is that the young babes look just as good, but the old ones are looking a lot better.’”
“Yeah, and whoever said ‘Hey Meiko, why don’t you come to Indian Mound’ had rocks in his head.”
“Yet another woman who has Arthur Gordon at the top of her shit list.”
“By the way,” says Liam. “She called me.”
“Who? Meiko? What’d she want?”
“Just to say the two of you are history, but things are cool.” Artie has enough paternal wisdom not to probe further.
Show Biz
The talk drifts to My Mother, My Lover… and the lingering stings from the public’s reaction. Artie explains to Liam how his movie had its origins in the pain he felt after his wife left him just as he was coping with the death of his mother. Evelyn, Artie’s wife and Liam’s mother, accused Artie of having an affair with another woman. The other woman was never specified, because Evelyn knew enough about the world of Hollywood to know that everyone has affairs. The irony was that Artie was not having an affair with anyone. Evelyn was looking for a socially acceptable and financially secure way out of the relationship. What she really wanted was to turn her own life upside down.
“So she moved to New Mexico, moved into a home with six other women, and now works putting mud plasters on the walls of straw bale houses,” he tells his son. “And as far as I can tell, she’s completely happy without me.”
Liam agrees that that is the case. He probes further. “That covers the ‘Mother,’ ‘Lover,’ and ‘Wife’ part of your film,” says Liam, “but how about the ‘Sales Manager’?”
“I could have added ‘Lawyer’ in there, because whenever there’s a divorce, there’s a lawyer close behind. I was represented by a woman lawyer who would rather have been running with the wolves in New Mexico with your Mother. There’s nothing like paying someone $350 per hour to sympathize with your adversary. In fact, everyone I encountered had the attitude that ‘of course, you’re getting divorced and why shouldn’t Evelyn follow her bliss?’ I felt like the only person in America who felt that a marriage should be kept together.
“Anyway the ‘Sales Manager’ plot was stolen from a news story about a guy who was fired for sexual harassment when he hugged an employee, his female sales manager, who was distraught because she was broke, addicted to downers, divorced, and her teenage son had just run off with the family car. He was just trying to comfort her.”
“What happened?”
“In real life, or the movie?”
“Both.”
“In real life the guy sued the company for wrongful dismissal, and they settled out of court. In the movie, the guy loses his case in court, starts drinking, his life disintegrates. Eventually, he becomes homeless, and is set on fire while passed out on a park bench by a bunch of drunk teenagers, one of whom is the Sales Manager’s runaway son, who has become a pathological predator. Meanwhile, the woman gets promoted, because the company wants to do everything possible to make her look like a superstar. Then she has an affair with the Chairman of the Board and and is able to blackmail her way to the top of the corporate world.
“Maybe that was a little over-the-top,” says Artie reflectively, “But hey, it’s show biz. Did I tell you it’s doing amazingly well in video sales and rentals?”
All is calm, all is …
Artie starts making some notes on a yellow legal pad:
Wide shot. Boston Skyline in the distance. Jets roaring overhead. Sunset turns to sunrise.
Military music, something with a snare drum, denotes that a quest has begun.
Solitary figure walking on mudflats. He is carrying a fly rod. Casting in different locations, different times of day. Taking the water temperature. Picking up a clam from the mud.
Music swells.
Interior. Reading in the living room of his cottage. Pantomiming casting. Now in the backyard, practicing casting. Casts into neighbor’s garden, snaps off a flower blossom. Rocky-like.
Cut to neighbor, upset. Figure with fishing pole shrugs, smiles impishly. Music gets louder.
Interior. Man trying to tie a fly in living room of cottage. His bungled creation looks unlike anything that could be found in nature. Solitary man on mudflats. Manages to catch is own hat. Slips and falls. Catches boat on backcast.
Music swells. Single fish, silver with black stripes, underwater, sees man above surface flailing with fly rod. Ridiculous looking fly passes by nose of fish. Starts laughing. Second fish joins laughter. Entire school, a chorus of laughter.
Music ends. Freeze frame. Laughter continues.
Artie tears off yellow sheet, crumples it, throws it in wastebasket.