Tim was twelve. He puffed out his chest, flexing in front of the bathroom mirror. “I’m almost a teenager. Anything is possible. I’m going fishing!” He’d be thirteen in two months. He felt triumphant. He’d managed to sidestep the part-time summer job his mother had found for him.

 

“Honest, Mom, I’ll read at least one book a week.”

She glared at him. “OK, not counting comic books or the Japanese Manga Mags.

He protested, “Those should count double – they’re foreign novels.”

She countered, “Yes, foreign to anyone who is grownup!”

 

He swallowed. He knew he was in a corner. “OK. You can pick a couple of books.” He paused, not wishing to talk himself into a corner while at the same time not wanting to overcommit himself. “Maybe three of four.” And then he added, with air quotes, “Appropriate to my age.”

 

“Hmm. I guess we have a deal. And no more than two hours of video games a day – and, Timmy, I’m being generous here.”

 

He swallowed. “Timmy” was a sure sign that his mother was serious, or as his father had confided, “dead serious!”

 

Tim moved closer to the mirror hoping to find signs of a moustache. He remembered that his mother once had red hair. He spat on his finger and rubbed it back and forth under his nose. “Red, imagine if it came out red or maybe orange. I’d be elected class president for sure. Maybe captain of the golf team too.” He frowned, recalling that there was no golf team in his junior high school and that he didn’t even know how to play golf. One last look in the mirror. “You’re a quick learner, kid. You could do it!”

 

He lifted the toilet seat, stopped, then closed and locked the bathroom door. His mom was always sneaking up on him every time he was in the bathroom. He had to time his showers for when she was out shopping or visiting a neighbor.

 

“Darn. Still no pubic hairs. But I’m getting there. I can feel them.” He zipped up, remembering to flush and wash his hands.

 

After one last look in the mirror, he stampeded down the stairs. Rushing through the kitchen on his way to the garage where his fishing tackle was stowed in the far corner, he yelled over his shoulder, “Of course they smell, Mom. That’s from catching all those fish. I’m going to catch us a mess of ‘em. Don’t start supper!” He slammed the side door on his way out.

 

 

He unlocked his bike, a junker he had repainted himself. It was a garish red and he called the bike “Crimson Crustation,” claiming it gave him extra luck when he fished off an abandoned pier in the bay. It took fifteen minutes to bike there. He told his best friend, “Secret fishing spot where they bite all day. Dumb fish can’t tell it’s me, think it’s their lobster buddy. Smarts. Smarts, that’s what it takes to catch fish!”

 

The bike was a thirty-year old single speed with a foot brake. It took getting used to, but he could stand, pounce down on the peddles, and stop on a dime. “Class. This bike’s got class,” he’d repeat to anyone who would listen.

 

In the front between the handlebars was an onion sack jammed into a straw basket. It was his mother’s old sewing kit that he had liberated from their Salvation Army box. He had removed the lid and tied it on with garden twine. As soon as he got to the pier, he would tie the sack to a spike protruding from the old timbers and drop it in the water, solemnly warning it to get ready for the big catch. He never rinsed or even dried it later. It smelled enough to merit a balloon with an arrow pointing to it: Stinks big time!

 

He retrieved the cigar box with his fishing tackle and an old bamboo pole from the table at the back of the garage. Wedging the box inside the sack, he wiggled it around to make sure it was in securely and wouldn’t bounce out as it had a month ago. He pushed the button opening the garage door and wheeled his bike into the driveway. His mother was waiting on the porch.

 

She shouted as she did every time he went fishing, “Tim, you be careful crossing Beach Drive and get home by 4:30 before all the rush-hour traffic. Everyone is in a hurry to get home and go swimming before supper. They’re not looking out for a boy on a bike. You hear me?”

 

He groaned. “Yes, mother, I hear you.” He coasted down the driveway muttering, “Jeez, how’s a guy going to catch Moby Dick with his mother yelling at him to look both ways when he crosses the street. You’d think I was a ten-year old or something!”

 

Tim stood up and pedaled furiously as he came to Beach Drive, determined to beat the light. A commuter coming from the city was rushing home early to surprise his wife and also had a heavy foot. He swerved to no avail. His right headlight knocked Tim and the Crimson Crustation across the intersection.

 

It was spawning time in swamps in the north reaches of the bay and several large bluefish entered the inlet from the ocean. They passed the pier that afternoon, feeding on the bait fish schooling around the bulkhead.

 

~ * ~

 

Two years later, Tim’s mother dropped him at the end of a fenced lot. A “SOLD” banner was pasted across the FOR-SALE sign facing the street. He had new fishing gear.

 

“Trust me, Mom. I scouted this with Sonny last week. The pier’s still there and I can sneak in along the bay. Look, just come back in two hours. I’ll be fine.”

 

As he limped across the vacant lot, he muttered, “It ain’t the same – you can’t pretend you’re Huck Finn without a straw hat and bamboo pole. ‘Yeh, right, Mom, I know I can’t scamper out on the pier with a busted leg.’”

 

Tim monkeyed himself onto the pier. The end reaching out into the bay swung back and forth even more than he remembered. He made a face and cursed about the best fishing being out there in the deep water. He cast his lure out in the current, jigging it back slowly, determined he’d work the clock from two to ten first, fast and then slow, telling himself cripples don’t have much else to do anyhow.

 

It was hot. He fished patiently casting and retrieving the lure. He wished he had his old straw hat but was glad his mother had insisted he take a bottle of water. Wedging his rod over one leg and under the other, he unscrewed the top of the water bottle. The silver lure dangled two inches under the surface of the water, flashing in the sun. One of the old bluefish had returned, swooped in, and snatched the lure.

 

Tim grabbed for his pole, the bottle flying off behind him. He held on for all he was worth, worrying if he had remembered to check the drag. Too tight and the line would snap, too loose and a big fish would run the line out. Finally, the fish stopped its run. Tim fixed his left hand on the pole above the reel and slowly began pumping the rod and retrieving the line. Twice more the fish made a run. The third time he brought it back to the pier, the fish looked up and moved its head around in small circles.

 

He yelled. “Damned, it’s a bluefish. Got to be at least eighteen inches and five pounds.” He started to shout, “Moby Dick, Moby Dick – the great white whale! What do I want with a bluefish. This big they taste shitty.” He brought the line to his mouth and gnawed it through. What a way to go. I’ll just say the line snapped when I tried to lift it out of the water. Who cares what they say, I know I caught a beauty!

 

He wiped the sweat from under his nose, enjoying the feel of the whiskers on the back of his hand. He saw his fish breach off the end of the pier and waved goodbye, “Yeh, I guess there’s going to be days like this.”