The only other fisherman out on the river that day who was close enough to notice that the dead man had fallen into the river was a fisherman by the name of Bob.
But Bob was too busy fishing to notice that the dead man had fallen into the river.
Bob had his eyes looking down into the river, at the fish that he was hoping would be his fish.
It’s true that Bob did see the dead man’s boat not so far away from his own.
The police and the Coast Guard spoke to Bob and asked Bob if he heard or saw the dead man out on the river fishing.
Bob said yes, he did see the dead man’s boat fishing out on the river.
Did Bob notice anything strange, they wanted to know from Bob, about the dead man’s boat.
What Bob said he noticed about the dead man’s boat was that it was drifting out towards the lake.
Did Bob think this was strange to see the dead man’s boat going out into the lake?
There are fish in that lake, was what Bob said to this.
When Bob said this, Bob turned and faced the lake.
Bob fishes the lake when Bob isn’t fishing the river.
There are people in town who believe that the big fish live out in the lake.
But there are little fish, too, who live out in the lake.
The fish in the lake sometimes come up into the river.
The fish in the river sometimes swim out to the lake.
Bob doesn’t care if he is fishing the river or the lake.
Bob knows that the fish that he is fishing for doesn’t care if it is in the river or in the lake.
To a fish, water is water.
To Bob, water is water.
The river flows out to the lake.
The river turns into the lake.
All that matters, to Bob, is the fish.
Is the fishing.
Is the fishing for his fish.
Bob is the fish that I am fishing for.
Is there a bigger fish for a man to fish for than the fish that is his father?
I can think of only one fish that is bigger than the fish that is the father.
The fish that is the son.
The fish that is the son is a fish that wants to be fished up from the bottom of the river.
I am a fish.
I am a fish.
When I fish, I fish for Bob.
When I go out onto the river, in my boat, I am not just a fishing man.
I am a fish waiting to be caught.
The river is a bridge to Bob.
In my boat, I float and I drift and I motor on by Bob with the hope that one of these days Bob is going to look up. One of these days, when Bob looks up, he will see a light that he is looking to see.
One of these days, when Bob listens up close, he will hear a sound that he is listening to hear.
This light, this sound, it is not coming from the inside of a fish.
This light, and the song behind it, it is coming from a boat.
Not just any old boat.
It is coming from the dead man’s boat.
And I am the captain, I am the fish steering and standing in the back of this boat.
One of these days, I am going to holler out, to Bob, Bob, take a look at this fish.
I will stand with my arms spread apart as far as I can stretch them, to say to Bob that this fish that I am talking about, it is a big fish, it is a fish so big it is too big to fit inside this boat.
Will Bob even look up?
Will Bob lift up his head?
If Bob knows anything, it is this:
The fish that’s already been fished up out of the river, that fish isn’t the fish that he is fishing for.
It’s not the fish that you can see.
It’s the fish that you can’t see.
The fish that hasn’t yet been caught.
The fish that hasn’t yet been named.
When Bob reaches his hands into the river, there is no telling what he might fish up.
And then, one day, up from the river, it is the sun that rises up.
And then, like this, in the light of this light, I see the man that I call Bob.
Bob, I say, when I see that it’s him, but Bob doesn’t see me.
I am the son that Bob does not know.
I am the fish at the bottom of the river waiting to be fished up.
Bob’s boat is a magnet.
The fish in this river rise up, up to Bob’s boat, as if they are fish made out of steel.
Bob’s father liked to fish but he did not like to fish as much as Bob likes to fish.
Bob’s father was most of the time too tired from working to be able to want to fish.
When Bob’s father left the mill, after working his shift, he did not go down to the river.
To the bar, not the river, is where Bob’s father liked to go.
Bob’s father liked to drink.
Like a fish, Bob’s father, he drank.
Bob’s father liked to drink.
Like a fish.
Bob likes to fish.
Like a fish.
Bob and Bob’s father are like two fish.
They are like two fish swimming in two different rivers.
Sometimes, Bob’s father drank not just after work.
Sometimes, Bob’s father drank before work too.
Sometimes, Bob’s father even drank when he was working.
Sometimes, drinking was all that Bob’s father ever did.
And then, one day, the mill stopped making metal.
One day, the fires burning inside the mill stopped burning.
One day, the smokestacks of the mill stopped smoking with their smoke.
And from that day on, Bob’s father only had one place to go.
No, he did not go down to the river.
He’d go down to the bar.
Where he drank and drank until, one day, after drinking too much whiskey, he turned into a fish.
One night Bob’s father drank so much that when he left the bar to go home, he walked the wrong way home.
He headed down to the river.
It was dark out that night.
The moon was not anywhere in the sky shining.
Bob’s father walked down to the river in the dark.
When he got down to the river’s edge, Bob’s father, my grandfather, walked out into the river.
He did not stop walking even when the river rose up past his feet and knees.
He went on walking and walking.
He did not stop walking.
The river, it did not hold him up.
What the river did, the river, like a hungry fish, it swallowed Bob’s father up.
Bob’s father ended up, three days later, being spit back out onto the river’s other side.
The fishing man who found Bob’s father stretched out on the river’s muddy shore hoped that this man stretched out face down in the mud was only just sleeping.
But no, he wasn’t sleeping.
Bob’s father was a fish washed up dead on the river’s muddy shore.
Bob’s father’s body was brought by boat back to our side of the river.
It was then driven by ambulance into town where it ended up being taken to our town’s only undertaker.
Mr. Lynch.
Unlike many undertakers, ours did not dress in black.