Short waded into the marsh cordgrass, trailing his bait bucket behind. He thought for a moment about casting out to the left of an old, partially submerged, rusted engine block. It was still there, slowly melting into the oyster reef he had waded onto, barefoot, as a kid and cut his feet, chasing a stingray he’d stuck with a homemade harpoon a flounder gig made from an old pitchfork. He sawed off all but two tines and heated them up in the leftover coals of his dad’s barbeque grill. Twisting them and hammering the ends together, trying to create a barb like Queequeg had on his harpoon in “Moby Dick.” He painted his version of Gulf Coast Indian motifs all along the handle with red fingernail polish, stolen from his older sister, and old blue house paint.
The very first time he used it he gigged what he thought was a flounder, but it turned out to be a home plate size stingray. It ran and jerked the harpoon out of his grip. He was not going to let that “stinkin devil fish” get away with his new tool. He chased after it through the calf-high water, catching it when the handle got snagged by a protruding part of the old shrimp boat diesel. He dragged it, with the wildly thrashing stingray, back onto the salt grass bank, not realizing until he struggled ashore that his feet were cut.
He sat waiting for the fish to stop fighting, letting his blood drop into the murky bay water – fantasizing about harpooning a shark drawn by the scent of his bleeding. He rested the harpoon over the handlebars of his bike, sitting on the decorated hickory handle. The stingray dangling out front like some kind of grinning monster, its barbed tail dragging the pavement. Peddling hurt his lacerated feet. He liked it. His Mom made a big deal out of his adventure, cleaning and bandaging his feet and thanking him for bringing home some “tasty fooler scallops.”
There were redfish tailing just to the left of the old diesel. Short turned and waded back to shore, putting his rod and gear on the shell littered salt grass, sitting just about where he had the day of the harpooned stingray. He stared at two dead oiled shore birds caught up in the debris of driftwood, plastic bottles, and other human detritus snagged by the rotting old engine. He didn’t feel like fishing anymore. He thought about what his old sheetrock philosopher drinking buddy had said once, talking about how careless and rude humans are to the planet.
“Short, if we aren’t careful, we’re going to bring down the wrath of butterflies….” (From “The Wrath of Butterflies” By Franklin Cincinnatus) (Kevin Tully is an artist, gallerist, woodworker, and writer. He has been a golf columnist and an allaround agitator. Kevin has a figment of his imagination, Franklin Cincinnatus, who dictates short stories ostensibly representing larger bodies of work. Kevin writes them down. kevin@asmithgallery. com)
