This is part 5 of the story. Read the beginning of River Apollo here.
Paul had stepped out onto his slate front porch and closed the door behind him as Gerry talked to him about the potential habitat improvement. Practically, it was to keep the bugs out. At a deeper level, Paul was subconsciously moving into a defensive posture. He wasn’t going to get into a fist fight with Gerry King, Vice President of the Spring Meadow chapter of Trout Unlimited. At least tonight he wasn’t. But he was becoming more and more hot around his neck and up behind his ears. The summer evening was cool. The creeping heat was all about frustration.
Say, Gerry. Thanks for coming out here. And I know the chapter wants what is best for the creek. But… Well, when is the next chapter meeting?
Thinking of gracing us with your presence Paul? And maybe $35 dollars? You still a member?
Paul was indeed still a card-carrying member of TU. Even though the wounds from local projects were still raw, he knew that good was being done. And Gerry King was not the pattern for the vast majority of the guys who he knew and fished alongside. This fact, and the humble acknowledgment that his voice carried a certain influence when it came to his creek, nudged him towards making a rare public appearance.
If you’re talking about the stream, and you’re discussing logistics regarding my property, I can be there.
Paul you having reservations? We’ve got all the permits lined up and M&K have donated all the heavy machinery. Gravel is something we’re still working on, but Paul: you having reservations?
Gerry, I just want to see the big picture and hear the plan.
Squinting, Gerry backed up towards his SUV. His SUV had a lot of stickers, a lot of rod holders, and a lot of shiny chrome. There was some incongruity between the supposed function of the rig and the polished form that it had. Paul knew he had hit a nerve. Gerry never initiated leaving. His backing up three steps was the equivalent of slamming a door or flipping the bird. You usually had to sidle away from him and close a door or start casting before he left. Even then.
Okay. Yeah. It’s next Wednesday. Sure. We’d be… we’d be happy to hear what you have to say.
Thanks, Gerry. I’ll see you then.
Gerry nodded and climbed up his chrome running boards into his car. He turned the car and some unidentifiable pop music loudly kicked in. Paul instinctively made a face like he’d eaten a bug. Or heard autotune and synth beats. Gerry looked over. Paul tried to regain something of a straight face, but it was too late. Gerry backed up with his head down. A double insult. His scheme and his Taylor Swift had both been spurned by the man who was living in the property that he coveted.
Paul turned around to go back into the house. There was a bottle of rye and a big ice cube calling him.
Then he remembered his rising trout. The whisky would always be there. This fish was the reason why he endured painful conversations. This fish was the reason he was going to “grace the chapter with his presence.” This fish was why he was here.
In the waning minutes of daylight, he walked back over to the tree line uphill from where he’d been watching the fish. Leaning against a trunk, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the contrast of shiny dark water and the vague shapes beneath. Just upstream, a big mayfly was struggling to free itself from the water’s tension. It would pop up and flutter only to fall back to the surface. Almost knowing that it was in immediate danger, the bug ceased its striving. One beat later and it was slurped down into the open mouth of a large brown trout. The fish displaced what seemed like a gallon of water. The weird mayfly was all alone. The strange currents restored the glassy surface. Paul had the feeling that the fish was done for the night.
He was done too. Aside from the rye and some thoughts about what he was going to say in his upcoming public forum.
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