The Old Fisherman

The Fisherman

I went out, as I always do when I am feeling the rage that has no scapegoat to direct it towards, not even myself. I walked for a mile or two and came to a lake in a park where some old men were fishing. Ducks were waddling around, coming within inches of my shoes. I remember thinking how easy it would be to kick them—that was the level to which my mind had sunk. An old man suddenly called to me. I approached him. He had a queer face, like that of a man who has integrated one’s inner child into the haggard body of an old man. He looked me over and said, “You have promise, young man. You ought to consider yourself a prince! Why do you hold yourself so low and mournfully? Hold your head high! Women will want to be with you.”

I told him that it was really none of his business how I held myself, and that he was better off focusing on his bobber than my posture, for, at that moment, the line went taut and the bobber went down.

The old man began to reel. “Oh, it’s a big one!” he cried. He reeled and reeled and I found myself utterly bored by the whole thing. Then, finally, the object the man’s hook had caught became visible. It was a pail—a large, rusty pail. “Damn!” the man cried. “Nothing but fodder the whole damn day!” He pulled up the pail. Inside there looked to be an old book of some sort. The man took out the book, opened it, and said, “Well, I’ll be! It’s an empty journal. Here. You take it.” He handed me the soaked-through journal, as if I might find some use for it. I took the journal and walked away, throwing it in the trash. The old man saw me do this and shouted, “Don’t throw away your life, son! You have something to say!”

I didn’t turn around. I wanted so badly to believe that he was right, and tears welled up in my eyes. I looked back at the old man, and said: “Thank you. It’s true. I see so much. I want to say something of value, but it all seems so paltry.”

“It’s OK to be just good,” he said. “You don’t have to be great.”

“Good things die very quickly,” I said. “Great things last for a very long time, maybe forever.”

The old man smiled. “I’m an old man,” he said. “I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. And I plan on seeing a lot more. But you, I will remember. That I can guarantee.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But you will die soon.”

Then the old man took off his shirt, and to my great surprise, spreading out behind his back was a pair of huge white downy wings. 

“I will never die,” he said. “And, neither will you.” Then, he winked at me, and in a flash of yellow light, he was gone. All I could do was to go back to the trash can and pull out the old journal. It was miraculously dry, and my name was emblazoned across the front in gold lettering. I went home, and wrote down the first thing I had written in months.

Admiring from a Distance

 I walked down the steps and out into the street. No one was there, so I lit up a cigarette and began kicking a bottle down the street. “Fuck ‘em,” I began to say. But I knew deep down that there was something erroneous about this. I was actually not in tune with the music that was playing from the park across the way. People were dancing, you see. Strangely, so it seemed to me. I walked over. Everyone turned and looked at me. “Strange music,” I said. They all looked at me as if quizzically. I began to dance in my own awkward way. They began to laugh.

 “Change the music to fit his silly dancing!” one person yelled.

 “We can’t find music for his type,” said the DJ.

 I spat across the field in the direction of the dancers. There was a collective gasp. “I only did that because my mouth is full of phlegm. I meant nothing by it.”

 Again, they laughed. The music started again and they began to dance again. I followed them with my eyes. My eyes seemed to be dancing, and that was enough. They couldn’t, after all, make fun of me for the movement of my eyes, could they?