You’ve been there…having a chat…enjoying the conversation when something catches your attention and won’t let it go. You don’t want to keep looking but you can’t help it. There, in the midst of a clean-shaven face, animated eyes, and the lively conversation…stands the dancing black hair perched at the end of the nose. Not right at the tip. Not on the bridge, but in that in-between no man’s land, safely ensconced in the facial features.
Over the years I’ve tried to grab the stubborn black hair when the owner was unaware, but to no avail. My humanitarian efforts are flicked away as annoyance. And so, that little black hair, safe in his lodging has mocked me to the point where he is slightly grey at the end. Now he is an aged mid-black hair as lively and distracting as ever under the protection of an unconcerned master.
It isn’t right when one is all set for the fight and the enemy keeps alluding even the most stealthy attacks of tweezer or pincered nails.
And so, I lament with a “Sad Song” for they “say so much” and my opponent openly mocks me with his “I’m still standing” after all these years. Again, I lick the wounds of defeat, planning to fly the flag of truce, when the balled up, woodsy, bush-like inner nose hair spring to the corus “yah, yah, yah”.
“No,” I say, hands cupped over my face. “No.”
It’s true, as I peek through the parting of my fingers, there in the clipped rug of the ear, some curling strings echo the bushy inner nose hair and ignore my flag of truce, flaunting their all out victory and point to my chin. My fingers find the place and “NOOOO” But it’s just a hoarse whisper because a wiry black hair of my own has sprouted to some length and super power strength to adhere to my jawline, just west of my chin.
A new battle wages and instead of “Singing the Blues”, with tweezers and 10x mirror in hand, I take up the battle cry, “The Bitch is Back”.
“Little beige row boat slammed into the beach in front of the Power cabin during the great flood of ’17, chief. It was coming from the other side of the lake, just beyond the narrows, after the storm. The thunder storm.
One tall man went into the water. One tall man came back for the lifejacket and swimmer shoes.
Vessel came aground in twelve minutes.
Didn’t see the algae for about the first half an hour. Green. Sticky stuff. You know, you know that when you’re in the water, chief? You tell by lookin’ in the water and then at your clothes. Well, we didn’t know. ‘Cause our storm had been so secret, didn’t even make the weather channel. Huh, huh. Local news didn’t even list the rain accumulation for a week.
Early evening, right, chief. The stink blows. So that tall man formed himself into his swimming gear, cruisin’ in his life vest. Still kept his tee-shirt on. You know it’s…kinda like ‘ol vendetta, like I gotta get rid of this stinking row boat. It’s not ours. And the idea was, the algae’ll just wash off. So he starts hollerin’ and screamin’ and sometimes with a good washcloth, the algae would go away. Sometimes, in the crack of his bum, it wouldn’t go away. Sometimes, that algae, it just sticks. Gets right into your eyes.
You know the thing about that row boat…it don’t care about the algae. When it comes back onto the beach, it just sits there, bobbing in the waves. Seems to be a livin’ thing. Until you gotta get back into the water, with the green algae.
And then, ah then, you hear the moans and groans and the lake turns green in spite of all those good intentions.
Y’know by the end of that first day, the little row boat came back. I don’t know how many times the tall man cleaned, maybe once. I don’t know about the little groves and cracks, algae gets everywhere.
By the next weekend, chief, the rowboat bobbed over the reeds. The ones lining the front of the beach. Tall stuff, green, healthy. They keep the beach clear. I thought they were great. The damn things cut! Reached over to grab one to steady myself and sliced my palm.
Noon the next weekend, Mr. Hooper, that beige little bastard of a rowboat was back again. I swear to God, if I gotta get back in that lake to drag the fucker out. I need an anchor. Water level had gone done and managed to get the last pieces of the dock in. Everyone says they hadn’t seen a storm like that in the last twenty years. I called bull-shit to that, Mr. Hooper. Anyway the storm came and the storm went. Thunder and lightening lit the sky.
And by the next day, that little beige rowboat had been picked up by a passing boater. You know that time when you wonder, do they own it or are they just stealing the damned thing. An opportunity like. That was the time I was most frightened. Waiting to see if they would just bring it back.
I’ll never swim with algae again.
So, one tall man gets into the lake. All to take one small dory back out to the middle, so anyone could have taken ‘er, August 2017. Anyway, that was the storm.
Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain."
The fight was real. That much can’t be disputed. Which story is more accurate, depends on perspective. There’s the truth of the fisherman, rod in hand...that of the fish, who took the bait...and then…what really happened.
“There are many ways this could have gone down,” Jack said.
He had floated into the shoal, having fastened a crutch from the weeds. Wondering Eye Walleye hovered at the bar and lifted his brow in silent question when Jack joined him. Talking out of the side of his mouth, Jack ordered a stiff algae punch from the bartender.
Perched under the hanging willow, the thick wall of reeds offered protection from the sun and shielded the patrons from eyes above. A school of minnows turned to stare in disbelieve when Jack laid his crutches to the side. He knew he looked more than a little worse for wear for the usual catch and release crowd. Small guys like them typically never came back.
Jack nodded and turned back to the bar and the drink. “Sure I shouldn’t have taken the bait," he said. "But how many of us can resist?” He spoke as though Wondering Eye had asked. He needed to tell it regardless.
He brushed a fin by the side of his jaw where the wound still smarted. The lost tooth would be missed, for sure. “Three times,” he muttered as though to himself. “Three times in the water, three times on the dock before they let me go.”
An audible gasp from Patti Pike encouraged him to go on. Her milky gaze looked on sympathetically. The school had swam closer to hear.
“That’s right, still on the hook.” He paused to take a swig from the mug, wiping the foam from the drooped side of his lips. “He hooked me, yanked me out of the water, prodded and tossed me back in.”
“Yup,” Jack straightened his spine and spread his fins. He’d made it out where other’s hadn’t. “A three pronger.”
“No.” the word drew out on a chores of gasps.
A brethren of his fellow Jack Fish eased closer to hear.
“For a while we stared at each other. I alternated one eye to the other from under the dock and him with his full frontal lenses from above,” Jack continued. “But I held my ground. There was nowhere for me to go ‘til I could get that damned hook loose. But I knew right then and there he wasn’t getting the better of me.”
He’d finished his drink and without asking, a new mug appeared before him. He couldn’t smile, so waved his fin in acknowledgement.
“And get this.” He turned in his chair to address the patrons and Wandering Eye followed suit as hooked on the story as Jack had been to the rod. “For a while there I just dangled from the stick he hooked to the side of the planks while he walked away. By God, that’s when I thought it was the end.”
“Where’d he go?” Patti Pike asked.
“Dunno, but he wasn’t gone long.”
“Gone to get the hammer.” Wandering Eye spoke for the first time.
“Gone to get something,” Jack confirmed. “Then he sprung me again. I tell you I hit those planks like the time ol’ Yellow Perch rammed the speed boat. I saw stars and that’s not just ’cause I couldn’t breath.”
“Sure, sure,” Juniper Jack said laying a fin on the bar top, easing his girth. “I was sprung once. I know what you mean.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack said. “He stuck the lever in but couldn’t seem to spring me.”
“Ouch,” the minnows said in unison.
“That’s when I started to fight back,” Jack drew breath. “I flopped and got ’im too. Nailed him good with my tail. Didn’t know what hit ’im. He dropped me then and threw me back in the lake.”
Without waiting to be asked. “Yes, yes, still hooked.”
Wandering Eye brushed a fin by his own jaw and shook his head.
“I’d started to bleed then. It was him or me.” Jack swiped the foam away and licked the drip oozing out of the injured side of his mouth. “Third time up. Yank. Smash. Boom.” He’d swam in a tight circle and gestured with his fins. “I was almost down for the count. One. Two. Three. And on it went. The metal went in and finally.”
A collective breath seemed to whoosh out of the crowd.
“That’s right and a piece of my gill with it.”
Patti Pike was bent double holding back a wretch, looking more green than grey.
“Just before I turned tail fin on the tormentor," Jack said. "I spat my tooth at him and told him to keep. It’s a souvenir.”