This is, as the title says, the 3rd part of the story. Read the beginning of River Apollo here.
Paul never wanted to be a mascot for anything. One time he came close. (That is, in fact, a significant part of his life. But it is significant enough to wait for a more opportune time. It is the kind of story one shares after an unwanted guest leaves.) However, living in a prominent house on a prominent trout stream put him in the crosshairs of various foundations, associations, and causes. Every good cause needs a face, and his weathered visage was apparently good enough for both cold water conservation and historical initiatives.
Paul how’s the fishing?
Paul was already irritated by the knock. Then he was further irritated by the fact that Gerry King was the one from which the knocking originated. The phrasing of the question, which sounded as if there was no comma between “Paul” and “how’s the fishing” irritated him to a point where he knew he must consciously smile and be pleasant so as to not slam the door in the face of the regional VP of Trout Unlimited.
Hi Gerry. Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t been out as much as I’d like. Yard work and whatnot.
Paul maintained, albeit only to himself, that Gerry King had the name of a used car salesman and the smile to match. His slicked back hair and bottomless wardrobe of tucked in polyester polo shirts added a certain aesthetic note to the association. If he wasn’t asking for top-secret fishing intel for himself he was asking for top-secret fishing intel “for the chapter.” As hard as he tried, Paul could never precisely put his finger on the difference.
Gerry was a legitimate cheerleader. He was always in the paper. He was always at the fly shop. And although Paul only knew it second-hand, Gerry apparently was always on social media. Pictures with fly fishing industry types and pictures with fat trout. And he’s somehow here on my front porch again, Paul thought.
Chapter’s got a big workday coming up Paul. M&K Machines is donating a few pieces of heavy equipment so that we can move some logs and rocks for the habitat project just downstream from your property. Almost my property right Paul? Heh. Anyway, do you think we could leave a Bobcat or something over there on your property? Unless there’s a riser there that you’re watching. Is there Paul?
Paul took a moment to respond. He was swallowing the three most irritating elements of Gerry’s words. First; his inability to pause when inserting someone’s name. Second, his less than subtle fishing for fishing info. Third, the mention of the property.
Unbeknownst to Paul, Gerry put an offer in on the house all those decades ago when Paul purchased it. Paul didn’t know Gerry at the time and didn’t much care about who he beat out. Knowing Gerry for a few dozen years now, Paul’s confidence in the rumors that the sellers didn’t take Gerry’s higher out of spite had grown. If he neglected to mention his failed bid five times over the course of their relationship, Paul would have been surprised.
Sure, Gerry. Anywhere along the road would be fine.
Great Paul that is great. The gravel trucks are going to be taking up all the spots at the parking lot.
The habitat project was sounding bigger than Paul anticipated. He knew about the bank reconstruction. But gravel?
What’s the gravel for, Gerry?
Gerry delighted in having this information. Partly because he had it. Partly because Paul didn’t. A man who is always trying to get information covets that unique information he actually possesses.
Spawning habitat Paul. We’re going to make it so that the trout will be able to get romantic all up and down this stretch of stream. It’ll be like fish swinger convention next fall in your front yard Paul!
Paul’s face and neck felt hot. The fish were spawning just fine. This wasn’t some no-name creek that was damaged by development in the mid-century. It was special because it was different. It wasn’t a cookie-cutter stream. Gerry or TU or whoever was going to mess up a good thing. And this wasn’t the first time this had happened.
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