“Why didn’t you say so?” they said. “Go between those two
Your friend,
Rudy
Dear Kevin: I awoke in the canoe when the stream was widening into a river and paddled with my hands to the first landing I could find with a mailbox on it. It was a small dock and a man and boy were fishing from it. “Excuse me,” I said, mailing my letters, “but what state we in?” “Have no idea,” the man said. “I don’t hail from around here.” “Where you from?” “About five miles upstream where two pixies once gave me a canoe.” “There are no such things as pixies,” I said. “I know. But I took the canoe from the place they pointed to and landed at this dock. Then like they asked me to, I sent the canoe back upstream.” “Nobody told me to send my canoe back upstream.” “Send your canoe back upstream,” a voice, something like Pat or Pete’s through a loudspeaker, said from somewhere way out in the woods. “You hear anything?” I said. “You mean something like a pixie’s voice over a loudspeaker saying you should send your canoe back upstream?” the man said. “Yes.” “No, I didn’t hear anything.” “Neither did I.” I turned the canoe around and gave it ashove. We watched it drift upriver against the current and disappear around the bend I’d just come from.
“You know,” I said, “your travels sound a little like mine. “Where were you before you happened to stumble upon that canoe?” “Before the canoe,” the man said, “I came across a lonely cabin in the woods. The man inside kept insisting he had to be outside if I was inside the cabin, so I walked away leaving him thinking he was walking away from a real extreme hermit who hadn’t left his home since the day he was born and had no intention to. Now before the hermit, I was either in a mountain or I wasn’t. All I know is I gained twenty pounds from all the chow and swill I had in the rooms and banquet halls inside this mountain that I only might have dreamt I was in. Before the mountain, I know it was no dream that I escaped from a balloon patrol on the back of a three-legged horse I found in a field.” “Not a black and brown stallion who’d only ride eastwards,” I said. “That’s the direction.” “And who’d only answer to the name Just Plain Mo?” “That’s what he was called.” “Then it couldn’t have been the same horse.” “Wouldn’t think so,” he said. “Too much of a coincidence. Now as to where I was before I met Just Plain Mo is so long ago for a man my age that I plumb forgot. All I know is I ended up at a place I always wanted to be since I was this boy’s age. And that’s sitting on a dock with a mailbox on it, by a river with all the fish I’d ever want to catch in my life.” “Really biting, eh?” “Haven’t caught one since I first canoed down here, but the boy got one this winter.” “The winter before that,” the boy said. “Had to dig a hole through the ice to get it though.” “Not a hole in the river,” the man said, “but one he dug in the road up beyond. And there it was. Wrapped in newspaper with a string tied around it, just ready to be pulled out. A real whopper.” “As big as this,” the boy said. He brought his hands together till the fingers joined. “Aren’t you exaggerating a little?” the man said. “Maybe by a little. But we’re still eating it, aren’t we? And that was fourteen months ago the fish was caught.” “Half of it we smoked.” “You smoked it. Because you said it was too dangerous to my health if I even smoked a bit of it.” “And it wouldn’t be? Start this young one on bad habits like that and he’ll be drinking my whiskey next.” “You don’t have any whiskey,” the boy said. “There, you see? He must have stolen it right from under my nose. Probably getting soused when I’m out here all day fishing. I knew you’d come to no good.” “You never had any whiskey,” the boy said. “All we ever had to drink besides river water was twenty-four cases of frozen grape juice that floated downstream one day and which in one sitting you drank all by yourself straight.” “I wouldn’t have drunk the juice straight if you hadn’t stolen my whiskey.” He pulled in his line. “Damn, that’s the sixth hook I lost today. Seems hooks are the one kind of food the fish around here will eat.” “That’s because you keep giving them the best copper ones,” the boy said. “You know they like those kind most and can live on them, in fact. Give them your bent-up rusty safety pins like I do and they’ll taste one, spit it out, and leave your hooks alone from then on.” “What do you know about fishing anyway, son?” the man said. “Go back in the house and see if your ma needs any help with the ironing.” “I don’t have a ma and I’m not your son. I first saw you when I came downriver on a canoe the pixies loaned me and you were fishing on this dock and called me over to stop.” “There are no pixies,” I said. “Who said there were?” the boy said. “All I’m saying is that before I came downriver, I also spoke to that inside man who said he was out, and before that fatted myself silly in a mountain I might have only dreamt I was in. And before that, I was on a three-legged horse who also couldn’t have been the one either of you two rode, as this was a brown and black stallion named Just Plain Mo who’d only go east. And before that I was just too young to remember anything, something you two are too old to remember having been. But as far back as I can remember, I know the one thing I never was or wanted to be in my life was this man’s son. And the one thing I never wanted to do for even a single hour in my life was fish off a dock with or without a mailbox on it and with any number of fish ready to be caught. And the one thing I was always trying to get to but never succeeded was California.” “That’s where I’m heading for now,” I said. “California?” the boy said. “Where all those tall buildings are and the Catskill Mountains and Statue of Liberty and downtown New York?” “That’s New York State you want to go to and where I recently came from.” “That’s not what my geography book says.” “He’s right,” the man said. “I seen him reading that book. It has all the facts you’d ever want in your life. And it says California is just what my boy here says.” “Believe me,” I said. “If you look at that book again and see a map of a long American state with the Sierra Nevada on most of one side of it and the Pacific Ocean on all of the other side and that state isn’t California, I’ll buy you another geography book.” “Pacific Ocean?” the boy said, even more excited. “You mean the one with Coney Island and Cuba in it and those Cape Cod beaches and which is also called the Gateway to Europe?” “That’s the Atlantic Ocean. The Pacific is the one on just the other side of this country.” “Look at him,” the boy said. “Doesn’t even know that the state he’s traveling to is California. But what do you say you take me along, mister? As my dream has always been to meet up with my sister under the Brooklyn Bridge.” “I’d love to. But the California I want to get to must be a different one than yours.” I was beginning to feel concerned for the boy with his pained expression and the harsh way his father treated him, so I said “If it’s okay with your dad, why don’t you come with me anyway? Because even if we reach my California on the Pacific, all we have to do is work for a while when we get there and then send you to your sister in your California in New York.” “Nah,” the boy said. “I’m getting the feeling you don’t know where either of our Californias is. Then you’ll get us both lost and wind us up in some California in the middle of the country, so the best thing for me now is to stick right here,” and he reeled in an empty line. “Think I better run back and ask Maif dinner’s ready?” he asked the man. “What ma?” the man said. “Then I’ll run back to the house and get dinner myself.” “What house?” “The one I caught for us last year that was coming downriver.” “You mean the one you tried to catch but couldn’t keep. I told you your line wasn’t long and strong enough and that you should let me help you bring it in with my tackle and rod. But no, you wouldn’t listen to me. Thought you had become smarter than the old man. Said to me ‘This baby’s mine and mine alone, Pa, and nobody’s getting credit for bringing it in but me,’ and you let get by us the biggest darn house we ever seen floating down this river. From now on I don’t want you calling me Pa or Pop or any of those words, you hear? Because just thinking of that house fished out farther downriver by a lesser fisherman who probably won’t even know what to do with his catch, makes me ashamed you’re my son.” “I’m not your son and you’re not my father.” “That’s right. You aren’t and I’m not. But next don’t go forgetting what you just said to me here either, as this man’s my witness.” “Beg your pardon, sir,” I said. “I don’t want to be causing any bad blood between you two. And I don’t see how I can be your witness for very long, as I’ve got to get a move on soon.” “Don’t worry your head none, as bad blood between this boy and me started long before you arrived. And if I suddenly need you as a witness, then just like I done with this boy here, I can find you and bring you back anytime I please.” “Then you’ll have to stick pretty close and move right along with me,” I said. “Though I don’t mind company when I travel, I’ve still along ways to go and am going to get there fast as I can.” The man and boy resumed their fishing. I began this letter, will stick it in the dock mailbox when I’m through writing it, and leave.