Two Knuckleheads Go Fishing

 School was out for the Thanksgiving weekend, and I had four days with no obligations. I was visiting my best friend, Don, the day after Thanksgiving. Gadabout Gaddis, the Flying Fisherman, was on TV. He was down in Florida catching Largemouth Bass on a fly rod. We were sitting in Don's living room in Ohio filled with desire; not for girls, we both knew that wasn't going to happen. We were overcome with an overpowering longing to go fishing. It was Gadabout's fault. He was having so much fun that it was contagious. It didn't seem to matter to our juvenile brains that the temperature was hovering in the thirties outside, fishing seemed like a smashing idea at the moment. I ran home and put on a sweater and a winter coat, grabbed some gloves and a long stocking cap called a toboggan. It was red and black striped, about three feet long and had a fuzzy ball at the end. I scarfed up my fishing rod and tackle box and walked back to Don's house. He met me with a winter coat, a summer cap that his dad wore to the golf course, a pair of mittens and a backpack which contained a canteen, which we found out after the fact, leaked. Of course he too had a fishing rod and tackle box to complete his wardrobe. I don't know if we had taken leave of our senses, or if we just never had any good sense to begin with. We needed bait, and the only place that sold bait in town was the Idle Hour tackle shop, about a mile and a half away in the industrial part of town, where a good bit of crime was known to occur. Being freshmen in school, we were too young to drive, and since both of our parents were at work we had no choice but to walk. Which we did. One would have had to have searched far and wide to find two more stupid looking people than the pair of us. Somehow we were oblivious. I guess we were still under Gadabout's spell. We made it to the Idle Hour, spent a quarter for a dozen night crawlers and walked a few blocks to some railroad tracks where we had to wait for a train to pass. There was a roundhouse that serviced the railroad engines close by, and there were so many trains coming and going that there was no mechanical crossing, just an old fellow with a fluorescent orange and white vest holding a sign that said STOP. While we were waiting, Don prodded me and said, "Take a look at that Buick over there. There must be twenty hillbillies crammed into there." I looked and must have commented, but I don't recall. We resumed waiting when I felt someone tap my shoulder. As I turned my head, one of the hillbillies punched me right in the ear. His buddy was busy doing the same thing to Don. Meanwhile the old man with the STOP sign was jumping up and down and shouting at Don, "Hit em' with the knapsack! Hit em' with the knapsack!" I wish I could say that we did. Instead, I'm sorry to report that we ran like two scared rabbits down the train track. We went a block or so and stopped when we were certain the ruffians weren't pursuing us, pausing to sit on a pile of coal that had been deposited close to the tracks. My ear hurt like bloody hell and when I looked at Don I saw that his was shades of red that is normally only seen in the produce department in the tomato bins. They were already cold prior to the thumping, so it added to the unpleasantness. For reason's I can't explain, we both started laughing like maniacs. Here we were, at the start of winter in Ohio, sitting on a pile of coal with fishing rods and tackle boxes. I can't really say that I blame the hillbillies for using our heads like punching bags. We might as well have had signs on each of us inviting some form of physical abuse. Two more ridiculous looking people were nowhere to be seen for miles around. We decided to eat our turkey sandwiches right there on the coal pile. Don reached into his knapsack and discovered that the canteen had leaked and the sandwiches we'd made that morning were floating inside the sack like a couple of otters. Fortunately I had put mine in a name brand sandwich bag, which kept the water out. Don wasn't so lucky. His were wrapped in some plastic wrap that just wasn't up to the task. We shared mine and drank the last few sips of water that remained in the canteen and proceeded down a different set of tracks that led to a little stream, looking back from time to time to make sure the Buick wasn't anywhere around. I'm happy to report that we made it to the stream, and I even managed to catch a small catfish, all the while trying to keep warm while a snow squall blew around us. We took an alternate route home, half frozen, but laughing hysterically as we recounted our experience. It was just one of many that we would have as we worked our way through school and into adulthood.