Riding High

By Scott Oglesby

Take a fast Manhattan ride with Steven McGowan, an aging, burned-out pot dealer looking for an easy exit from his crime-lite life. But grab your helmet, there's a dicey curve ahead when his Southern ex-boozing father shows up heaven-bent on patching up family wounds. Then hang on for a heady road trip through a whacked-out universe of rowdy dopesters, down-home geezers, Russian limo-drivers, and overzealous drug warriors. Pit stop with spiritual shrinks, Rasta gurus, homeless angels, and a tough-love sweetheart for inspiration and fresh wit. Will our old-school slacker steer a new course and deal with his life, dad, and sweetie? Or will he just roll another doob and crash on comic despair? Lord knows, but before his wild ride is over, you'll either hug him or strangle him with your bare hands -- if you don't laugh or cry yourself into a ditch first.

Riding High is a bittersweet tour of dysfunction and redemption, but stay on its path of black humor, pain, and promise, and you'll find a metaphor for a country still in recovery from Vietnam, the Cold War, a misguided drug war, and the breakdown of the American family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2003
• ISBN: 9781412213486

Scott Oglesby

Currently a New Yorker, Scott Oglesby grew up in the "Ark-La-Tex," and has a BA from the Univ. of Arkansas. He spent the next twenty years in Cleveland, LA and San Francisco working in civil rights, public schools, and social services before opening a cafe in S.F. Then indulging long repressed muses, he reinvented himself as a photographer, singer, theater artist and comedy writer. Eventually, his Southern genes and inner demons pushed him over the edge to novelist. His article, No Radio, a tale of a beleaguered Manhattan motorist, was published in New York's West Side Spirit. Riding High is his first novel.

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© Copyright 2003 Scott Oglesby. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Oglesby, Scott, 1946-

      Riding high / Scott Oglesby.

ISBN 1-4120-0560-4

      I. Title.

PS3615.G54R52 2003   813’.6   C2 003-904 7 97-0

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Suite 6E, 2333 Government St., Victoria, B.C. V8T 4P4, CANADA

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Web site www.trafford.com      TRAFFORD PUBLISHING IS A DIVISION OF TRAFFORD HOLDINGS LTD. Trafford Catalogue #03-0929 www.trafford.com/robots/03-0929.html

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Contents

riding high

going fishing

icebergs of concern

domestic pursuits

golden handcuffs

trailer trash

daydream city

fools sport

race bait

family planning

too late for coffee

batting zero

home alone

R+R = THC

psychic suicide

romantic rendezvous

drug test

comrades in anarchy

Valentine

shotguns and troopers

Jersey vacation

shameful notions

big mistakes

schlock therapy

Uncle Maxie

a southern thing

missing in action

genuine concern

fertile ground

road trips

war stories

conspiracy of love

psychobubbas

disco fever

toast of the town

Arklabama blues

changing gears

dramatic whimsy

pooh bear

sure as hell

for daddy

riding high

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Steven hunkered down over the low-slung handlebars, pulled his knees in and coasted. He listened to his skinny tires humming on the pavement, felt the wind rushing over his goggled face. The cool morning breeze airbrushed him alert, energized him, made him feel young. He felt his neck muscles tighten from the cramped angle required to look forward—north, up Tenth Avenue, one-way and all to himself, except for the cars clogged at the intersection a block ahead. He was catching up to them now, and doing a pretty good clip, thirty miles an hour, he figured. Passing cabs like they’re standing still. He grinned, noting that they were still—three lanes of them, stymied five deep at a Manhattan red light.

With a flick of his head, he glanced over his shoulder then angled out of the far right lane and into the space between cars in the middle lanes. It was safe here from car doors flinging open, a constant fear when riding next to the parking lane. He cruised up to the light and looked for room between the cars moving across 43rd. Spotting an opening, he stood in his pedals, pumped hard and shot the gap between a cab and a Toyota. He sped past them, through the intersection and into open road.

Exhilarated, he pounded his legs up and down like pistons, swinging the bike frame side to side at each stroke. He had the lights for a few blocks now, so he released the handlebars, sat upright and coasted again, his arms spread like wings. Cheap thrills, he thought with a smile. Even at his age he could still crash a light so fast that most drivers didn’t even tap their brakes. Look out for guys over forty with something to prove.

He’d been riding like this for years, his main pillar of exemption from being just another massed and teeming New Yorker. What he lacked in physical prowess he made up in danger quotient. Sure, it was crazy—hot-dogging at high speed as if the cabbies gave a damn if he lived or died. If he had kids he’d be like the normal guys his age, riding sensibly, their offspring mounted behind them on tot carriers. Without health insurance, he knew it was doubly foolish. But it made him feel centered. Powerful. I am prospering in all that I do, he affirmed silently. I’m releasing myself from fear and limitation. God provides me with all I ask for.

Beaming positives, he sprinted for the next two blocks until he saw the crosswalks ahead full of people. Crossing against the light, they were comrades in anarchy—like him they ignored the signals, watched the traffic instead. He slowed up slightly and yelled, Coming through! He weaved gracefully through their stuttered steps. Behind him he could hear the rumble of traffic catching up. They overtook him just as he leaned into his turn at 55th Street.

Soon he was snaking through bumper to bumper vehicles in midtown, but it was only for a few blocks. In less than a minute he was curving around Columbus Circle and onto an entrance road to Central Park. Cars were banned here this time of day, and when he rolled onto peaceful West Drive, the hush of natural greens and browns replaced the roar of traffic. Now the hazards were rollerbladers and strollers, but if there were a collision, at least he was up a notch in victim hierarchy.

He coasted again, absorbing the new visuals of trees, lawns, and outcroppings of rock. With a long deep breath, he finally allowed his diligence to recede. He could almost feel the tension shedding off his skin along with exhaust soot from cars. Riding through the park always brought back wistful memories of his former cycling life in California—serene rides in the tawny hills of beautiful Marin County, and San Francisco with its sensual vistas of blue skies and ocean. In Manhattan he had been forced to forge new rhythms from the gritty poetry of potholes and gaping storm grates, adapt to the edgy etiquette of horn-happy cabbies, and share the road with mirrorless panel vans and gargantuan tractor-trailers. It wasn’t as artful, but it had certainly made him more alert.

On his right now, a horse carriage was merging with him onto East Drive where it curved north. He dropped down two gears, stood in his pedals and passed the carriage quickly, then powered up the winding hill, avoiding numerous joggers. In front of the boathouse he passed several riders on mountain bikes, feeling a

tinge self-conscious. Alloy racers like his were the speed kings in the park, but he had always been a reluctant competitor. Around other riders he was a secret warrior, careful to hide any hint of challenge. It highlighted one of the major backfires of his life—by avoiding competition in anything, he unconsciously competed in everything. But today he laughed off his mind game—other factors were rationing his competitive forays, like his thighs which were killing him. And the dope was wearing off.

With a few dozen muscle-burning strokes, he reached the plateau behind the Met Museum. He slowed his pace some, sat up and extended his head forward and down. A stiff neck was a price he willingly paid to ride buzzed-out on weed.

Suddenly, a group of roadies burst by him—a club going super fast. In matching red-and-yellow team jerseys, they rode in real tight together, their motions uniform, all in the same high gear. He watched them for a bit, wondering at his ambivalence towards them. Speed was about all he had in common with roadies. He had never been a clubber. He usually rode solo, digging the anonymous feel of whizzing by in helmet and shades, too fast to be noticed or participate. Clubs weren’t very dope-tolerant either. They took themselves too seriously—staying real to keep a competitive edge. Another dumb reality for people who can’t handle drugs. He smiled, and impulsively reached back to a small leather bag strapped to his carrier. Look at me, he laughed, advertising my stash to thieves. But jeez, what could they do—swoop down from a passing bike?

Chuckling at his silliness, Steven cruised lazily all the way up East Drive, past the reservoir and ball fields on his left and Museum Mile to his right, insulated by meadows and trees. This was the part of his job he always liked. It was too bad the park leg was so short.

Ten minutes later, he was sweating in the foyer of a huge apartment building on West 104th. He played a riff on the buzzer of his friend, Victoria—artist, dogwalker and customer. He was already thinking ahead; just asking Victoria how she was doing could be dangerous, you might hear how to build a clock when all you wanted was the time.

Friend or foe? a female voice crackled.

Un amigo, Steven jibed, using up most of the Spanish he knew.

In the elevator, he tried to cool down by pinching his jersey over and over to blow air on his torso. He was determined to make it a

fast stop, others were waiting. But so was Victoria when the door opened, a pack of exuberant dogs trailing behind her. Hi,Vic.

Hey, love. She planted a kiss on his cheek as he rolled his bike out. Equally friendly, the canines jumped on him as if he were a delivery of fresh meat, collars jangling like a dance troupe of gypsies.

Whoa! He deflected a pair of poodles with his bike.

Enough already! Victoria clapped her hands twice, which sent most of them funneling back through her open door.

Lordy, mama. Steven grinned, shook his head. I don’t know how you handle so many.

I can tell you how. She fixed her eyes goofily on his bag.

Let’s go in. He began rolling to her door. Can’t stay though, I got a few more stops.

You always say that.

Well, it’s truer today than usual.

Inside her apartment, Victoria cloistered her pooches in her bedroom, then went into the kitchen. Steven parked his bike in her living room under a bank of fauve oil paintings which she had hung close together, like substitutes for wallpaper. Nudes were her only subjects, bold her only nuance, and as far as he knew, these walls her sole gallery. He pulled his helmet and gloves off, trying to avoid the pull of orange crotches, massive blue mammaries and large red dicks which basted the walls like a brothel of acid-happy contortionists. OK, down to business, he said to himself, unzipping his bag.

Victoria always wanted to see everything that was happening. It was a pain, but she was also one of his oldest customers, going so far back he couldn’t even remember how they’d met. He began lining up small hand-labeled bags on her dining table—weighed-out eighths of ounces.

She returned with a glass of water. Here you go, love.

Ahh. He slugged down the water while she checked out his wares.

She held up a bag with an X sticker on it, squeezing its puffy green buds through the clear plastic.

That’s the exotic, Steven said. It’s clearheaded, peppy, real easy on the eyes. Pricey as hell though. He pointed to a bag of duller green, labeled T. I just got the Tex-Mex. It’s upper end, almost as good, but less heady.

‘You sound like a bloody waiter,"she cackled. ‘What did I get last time?’

You took that dirt weed. He grinned, pointing to a brown bag labeled Z. I know it’s cheap, but it tastes like potting soil. The Z’s for zonker, if you didn’t know. Why don’t you just spare your lungs and glue some quarters on your eyelids?

She smiled, opened the bag and held it to her nose. It’s not so bad.

Steven frowned. You can paint on that stuff?

She grabbed his arm. I could skydive on it if they’d let me. Laughing, she reached for a small tray and pushed aside its tiny brush pile of sticks and seeds.

Steven shook his head. It’s your money, hun. His eyes strayed to the color-splashed walls. Anyway, I guess it’s obvious you paint on it.

Busy rolling a joint, Victoria smiled without looking up. When are you going to sit for me, Steven? You know we’d have fun.

Ohh no, I don’t think so. He reached for his gloves. I can’t compete with some of those, uh, proportions.

Grinning, she glanced at his skintight bike shorts. Why sure you can, love.

Now stop that. Steven laughed, grabbed his helmet. Gimme forty bucks and I’m outahere.

Victoria sent him off with another kiss at the elevator. Going down, Steven watched the floors light up, and visualized her ongoing modeling offer. Her loaded and him butt-naked, he knew where that would end up. A helluva job perk, he grinned, but even his job had rules. No shitting where you eat.

Steven’s next stop was the sprawling steps in the middle of the Columbia University campus. There he met Herbert Bromberg, another veteran customer. Herbert worked a few blocks away teaching English to Russians for some church outfit. Herb insisted on the school rendezvous to satisfy his jones for ogling brainy coeds. He also got a kick at hearing Steven’s public-coded sales spiel where he used book critiques as surrogates for drug potency. There was less room for accuracy, but it made little difference—like Victoria, Herbert always went for the cheapest read available.

As usual it went without a hitch, sharing fast small talk about passing blondes, brunettes, and Herb’s kids back in Paramus. Steven rolled away with sixty more bucks in his bag. He headed for his last stops—the easy ones, dropping off officious looking packages in home-wrapped FedEx cardboard. Accepting them were doormen at exclusive buildings on West End and Claremont Avenues. On instruction, the doormen gave him sealed envelopes stuffed with big bills from Steven’s ounce customers—high-flying professionals, well-heeled and highfalutin enough to stamp out a doorman’s curiosity with hefty holiday tips. These were Steven’s bread and butter clients,

but also the guys who had ruined the dope business, lawyer-broker types wanting only the best. Their pay-any-price demeanor had pushed the price of exotics through the roof, just like Manhattan real estate.

No, he wouldn’t think about that now. Why ruin his best week in months? He rolled his bike out of the building, and looked out at the woods of Riverside Park across the street. Pieces of the Hudson showed through the foliage, and New Jersey strained over the tree line. God, look at this. He was lucky not to be trapped in some office, a computer screen dictating his next move. He mounted and scooted across 115th and onto Riverside Drive. It was still early in the day, and the only thing required of him was to navigate a great winding downhill all the way to 96th.

In a few seconds he was flying past a fenced-off kiddie playground on his right. With minute twists of his wrists he aimed his bike past holes in the road that he knew well by now. The same scenario could have been anytime in the last ten years—different streets, other customers. He loved to ride and his risky gig was a perfect vehicle for his 12-speed life. He smiled. Living off the grid in the grid capital of the world. Today, it was OK.

going fishing 

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On that same morning, seven states away, Steven’s father was climbing into his Chevy pickup. It was 6:30 a.m. in Shongaloo, a small mill town in upstate Louisiana, and Ed McGowan was kicking off a daily routine. With his fishing tackle stowed in the back, he was driving out to his favorite creek. What made this morning different was the letter in his breast pocket which he pulled out now while the engine warmed up. Ed checked his son’s New York address again, then swapped the letter for a baseball cap lying on the dash. He perched the cap on his graying head and backed out of his carport.

A few minutes later, Ed left his hometown behind and drove past the bait shop at the state line. As soon as his tires hit Arkansas blacktop, the two-lane highway became a patchwork mess. But Ed was used to it. Keeping to the right, he followed the road’s faded white lines into Lafayette County, the rural county of his boyhood. Small farms had dotted the roadside when he was a kid, but in the

last fifty years most had been plowed under, making way for the thick rows of pines planted by International Paper Company. The new evergreen crop covered most of the county now, a prickly glacier usurping the onetime vast acreage of cotton, peas and soybeans. The quiet dirt lanes of Ed’s youth were now muddy, over-used logging roads. For miles, the only break in the pine monotony were occasional clearings where dreary little buildings of concrete blocks stood. Drab and gray, these Assembly of God and Baptist Churches poked out of the morning fog like indigent mushrooms after an all-night rain.

From habit though, Ed still glanced down every clearing and road that he passed. On some mornings there’d be deer, a covey of quail, fox, or even a wildcat. His truck’s Louisiana plates carried the boast sportsmen’s paradise, but the ranging critters ignored the state border, making the claim just as true for Arkansas.

For Ed, paradise usually began at the break of dawn, but this morning it wasn’t only about fishing, or even the old farm-boy habits that in his old age were winding his internal clock again. Today, Ed had family on his mind, and just like he’d done once a week for the last few months, he was taking a detour by his late folks’ old homestead. He rounded the familiar long curve, and once again let his eyes wander out the window at what was left of the place. It was just an ivy covered ruin now, the old tin roof collapsed like a rusty coffin, the brick chimney standing over it like a gravestone. Every time Ed drove by, its surviving haints would jump out at him, but he reckoned that was why he did it.

Vivid as yesterday, he remembered the backwoods seclusion of growing up here in the Thirties, every neighbor so dirt-poor that nobody bothered to notice. It took a World War to change things—Ed’s first out-of-state trip becoming a troopship ordeal to the Soloman Islands. He returned home two years later; and all in one piece, it seemed, but inside he had been shaken into a restless hell and tortured with new worldly notions. Like thousands of other hayseeds who had seen Paree or San Francisco, soon he was scrambling to get away from the dawn to dusk work of farming. Rebuffing his daddy’s pleas, Ed hired on at the new paper mill in bustling Shongaloo, 6,000 strong and just a grocery ride away. A few months later, he married his neighborhood sweetheart, and in no time at all, they had settled into a GI-mortgaged home and were raising two healthy boys.

He had a good stretch going until 1953—that’s when he lost his wife, June, in a road accident; the boys were only three and six. Ed stared straight ahead, remembering that unbearable time, his world upended and rendered instantly barren. Bred from Southern stoics, it just wasn’t in Ed’s blood to show pain; instead, his grief had found secret relief in drink. Stricken but determined, he had raised his boys alone through the hard years that followed, proud that he never drank in front of them. In time he learned to believe that he was an able single parent.

Then, in another heartbeat of years, Vietnam claimed his eldest son, Pal. Steven had already run off to California, but when he got the news, he completed the fracture in a rage of crimination. Except for rare phone calls and one fluky visit, Steven had remained estranged ever since. Ed flinched silently, pummeled anew by these body blows from his past. He usually stopped himself from thinking about it, much less talking about it. For years he had just carried his hurt around like a sharp pebble in his shoe, vexatious at times, but not something he’d fuss to other folks about.

Except maybe today to his best friend Guy Wilson. Meeting him at his fishing hole was pretty likely unless Arthur, as Guy called his arthritis, was acting up, or it was raining too hard. Ed eyed his letter, which had vibrated to the far end of the dash. Writing to Steven had been Guy’s suggestion after Ed’s miraculous reunion with his son only last year. Ending over twenty years of physical separation, Steven had come by with his girlfriend for a surprise visit. The tenuous one-nighter was short and bittersweet, but Ed saw it as precious evidence that his son had buried his hatchet in at least a shallow grave. It was on that slim footing that Ed had kept sending letters every few months. They were mostly just newsy yarns and folksy scribblings about life, but his longings lurked between the lines. All of them remained unanswered, yet somehow they buoyed his hopes. He reached over and pushed the letter further up on the dash.

About twelve miles into Arkansas, Ed braked and turned off onto a rutted dirt road. Slowing down to a crawl, he swerved around the copious potholes and stole peeks at the sky, its clouds thick as curdled buttermilk. It wasn’t promising, but the fog was still clearing, and a quarter mile ahead he could make out the bridge at Bodcau Bayou, his destination. Parked next to it was Guy’s old Dodge pick-up, distinctive for its pair of dilapidated dog houses in the truck bed. Years ago, Guy used them to take his pointers out, but after Arthur moved in, he gave up quail hunting. The sad structures sat in the back now looking like squatter shacks, their plywood roofs crinkled from years of rain and sun. He told Ed it was just too damned hard to get ‘em out of the truck, but Ed figured he really kept them there for show.

Like Ed, Guy was in his seventies and a widower, both retired from lifelong jobs at the paper mill. Together they reeled in a lot of slack for each other, turning most of their daylight hours into rod and gun time. Rod time being easier, fishing off Bodcau Bridge became their mainstay—a place where they passed hours with minimal discourse. Frequently they hauled in larger catches than the spryer types who went out in fancy bass boats from an adjacent landing. White perch were the prize; patience was the key. If they weren’t biting, Ed and Guy would wait until they were, standing for hours in pain or drizzle.

Ed parked behind Guy’s truck, gathered his gear, and began walking across the eighty-foot WPA structure, a roadbed with a short concrete wall on each side. At the center of it, in camouflage overalls, Guy stood leaning over one side dangling a nylon fishing pole. He was keenly absorbed in his red and white cork which danced on the water twelve feet below.

Ed and the first sprinkle of rain arrived at precisely the same moment. Guy didn’t look up at Ed, instead he regarded a huge raindrop that ran down his wrist. I see you brought some rain with yi. He glanced at Ed. Maybe you should have stayed home today?

Well, I reckon I ought. Ed looked skyward, then peered into Guy’s empty bucket. You ain’t doin’ no good anyways.

That’s not altogether true, big ‘un. I threw three nice ones back this morning, jus’ didn’t feel like cleanin’ ‘em.

Uh huh. Ed detected a lie in the click of Guy’s dentures.

You watch Vanna last night?

Yay-uh, I did, Ed replied, exaggerating his hick-drawl.

Raindrops began plinking in earnest while Ed adjusted his cork for depth. The creek was running full this time of year and perch were good about biting in the rain. Guy leaned his pole against the side and took off for his truck. A minute later, he returned with two canary yellow rain parkas, unofficial retirement booty from the mill. They pulled them on right over their caps, and returned to their fishing stations. With hushed intensity, the showers rose and fell like an airborne tide, and before long both men were hypnotized by bobbing corks and the tap tap rhythm on their plastic skins. Water collected in small eddies on their hoods, then became tiny torrents pouring off their cap brims in front of them. For almost half an hour, Guy and Ed manned their stalwart positions. The fish were just as stubborn, refusing to bite for reasons only they knew.

Finally, Ed spoke up. I got two Baby Ruths in my truck.

Guy reeled in his line. Guess we better eat ‘em.

They munched the candy bars sitting in Ed’s truck, both leaning forward occasionally to check for any let-up in the drizzle. All of a sudden, Ed donned a provocative scowl and began squinting at Guy’s truck. Taking the bait, Guy got caught up in Ed’s antics.

You know what? Ed sniped. You’re the only man I know who drives a Dodge truck.

Well, I guess I’m the only man you know with any brains, Ed.

Ed didn’t answer, he just wadded up his candy wrapper and wedged it forcefully into a plastic garbage bin straddling the hump on his floorboard. Already overflowing with months of funky discards, only its sandbag flap anchors kept it from tilting.

Guy flashed a grin. Wha’cha working on there, Ed, a compost heap?

I just can’t remember to empty the durn thang.

There’s a can right over there. He pointed at the landing.

Yeah, but it’s raining now.

Aw, shoosh. Guy swung his head in mock exasperation.

Ed smiled. He loved their incessant haggling. Using an array of topics bearing little consequence, the two of them had been ragging each other for years. It was the focus of their discourse and friendship, and one they worked best with an audience. Ed had fond memories of Steven playing that role on his visit a year ago. Sandwiched between them in the truck like captive lunchmeat, Steven had been a pliant conduit for their jibes. It was the only high point of his visit. Ed turned suddenly to his friend. I guess this weather’s making ‘Arthur’ act up a little, huh?

Naw, it’s not so bad. Guy flexed his hand. I can’t complain, especially when I’m sittin’ here with the ‘Klestral Kid.’

Known for binges of cholesterol-counting, Ed jabbed back, You son-of-a-gun. You just saw me eat that candy bar with nary a word; an’ last week my count was two-hunnerd an’ somethin’.

Oh hell, Ed, more ‘an likely that was your golf score. He let out a whooping laugh.

Ed gripped the steering wheel, stifling an impulse to dump his compost in Guy’s Dodge. He could feel Guy glancing over every few seconds, waiting for a return volley. After a bit, Ed looked up. Well, I should get on home, I guess. This rain’s gonna be here a while.

Aw, don’t run off, Ed, she’ll let up in a bit. Getting no response, Guy plowed for better dirt. Hey, when’s Steven comin’ down again with that pretty little thang, what was her name?

"Her name’s Molly, but I doubt he’ll bring her again after the

way you made over her so."

"Awwww, the girl was grinnin’ ear to ear—"

She was grinnin’ cause she was embarrassed. Ed paused, cleared his throat. Anyways, I been thinkin’ bout goin’ up there to see ‘em.

Where? To New York? A weird smile warped his face. You’re joshing me, ain’t yi?

Nope, I ain’t.

Guy’s long cheeks sagged out of their smile. Well, uh…I don’t know, Ed, a big Yankee town like New York? He glanced at the dashboard. I saw your letter there. Made me wonder why yi didn’t mail it.

Ed waited a moment, then confided to the steering wheel. You know my oldest boy, he uh…he woulda’ had a big birthday next week. Woulda’ been fifty on Saturday.

Uh huh, I shoulda’ known that. Guy clicked his dentures. An’ I guess you wanna talk to Steven, huh? Letter won’t do?

Ed nodded, happy to have Guy read his mind.

I gotta say though, Guy scratched his head, it shore surprises me. Looked to me like you was havin’ a hard time with ‘em when they were down here.

I did, but there’s something else, too. You remember that flying coupon my brother sent me last Christmas?

Yeah, I suppose I do.

Well, I was looking at it last week. Ed paused, looked at Guy. Would you believe it expires the day after Pal’s birthday?

Guy raised his eyebrows. Uh huh.

Gotta be Providence, I figure, a hand in there somewhere.

Or maybe your brother’s?

Ed leaned back in his seat. Could be both.

Could be.

Ed used a moment of silence to meld their agreement. He slapped his knees. Well anyways, I’m a goin’. A future father-in-law’s gotta pay his dues. He smiled snottily. An’ that ain’t much to protect her from the likes of you.

Guy laughed. You’re hurtin’ my feelings, Ed. But I forgive yi. You sure you don’t want me to go up there with yi?

Shee-it. Ed shook his head. Deciding that enough was said, he flipped the radio on to Paul Harvey.

They listened for the next twenty minutes, waiting for the rain to let up, then climbed out and fished a while longer. Guy caught

four keepers, Ed only one.

Guy zeroed in after his fourth catch. It’s all in the wrist, Ed, just watch. Exaggerating the action, Guy flicked his pole making his cork jump slightly on the water. You jus’ gotta jerk your pole a little.

Well if anybody knows how to jerk his pole, it’s you Guy.

Guy cracked up, but Ed’s heart was no longer into skirmishing. His mind kept slipping away to the bigger challenge of calling Steven with plans of his proposed trip. His thoughts were interrupted by an enormous black woman named Naomi, one of the bridge regulars, who strolled up from the other end. A cordial equality had spawned amongst all the fishing folks. She flashed them a big smile. How y’all doin’ Mr. Guy? Is dey bitin’ today, Mr. Ed?

Ed flinched at the horsey sound to his name. He glanced at Guy, whose large wink was reminder enough of his glee at hearing this rib reborn every time they saw her. Aw, not so much N’omi, Ed said. It’s been too wet for much fun either.

Don’t believe him girl, Guy jumped in, I got four uv ‘em, skillet-size right here.

No foolin’. Naomi peered goggle-eyed into his bucket. Oooh, dem some nice ones, Mr. Guy. Then, as if responding to hidden radio signals, she turned and yelled in a deathly serious tone, "Stay out of the road, Rodney! You betta keep yo brother close! Her two young boys following ten yards back quickly closed rank, giving physical testimony to her persuasive powers. She turned back with an amiable smile. Did’ja catch ‘em on flies, Mr. Guy?"

He caught ‘em by the skin of his teeth, Ed chipped in.

Savvy to the Guy and Ed show, Naomi let out a rolling laugh. When her boys caught up with her, she began moving down the bridge again. The boys, in bright new Wal-Mart clothes and tennies, scampered by in a hurry, stealing uneasy glances at the older white men. The elder brother struggled with three unruly cane poles which clattered noisily on one shoulder. His brother stuck close to his heels, swinging a pail of worms with perilous abandon. It was the New South, but while Guy and Ed fished for fun, the black folks on the bridge fished for dinner, each using the best bait for what they needed the most.

In the next half-hour, Guy caught two more perch while Ed didn’t get so much as a bite. With a sudden huff, Ed swung his fly out of the water and began wrapping the line around his pole. Guy, did anybody ever tell you the diff’rence between patience and stupidity?

Naw, but I reckon you’re about to, aint’cha?

I shore am, Ed said. It’s about thirty minutes.

Aww, stick around Ed. Guy grinned. Even a blind hog gets an acorn ever’ now and then.

Undeterred, Ed finished up by jabbing his hook into the pole’s cork handle. Then he grabbed his pail of water. Here yi go, he said, dumping his lonely perch in Guy’s pail. Might as well have one more to clean.

The fish thrashed around, showering Guy’s leg. I guess I won’t thank yi for that. He gave Ed a dry look. "So what else yi got to do anyways? Besides not catchin’ fish?"

I got a call to make.

‘Yeah, I kinda thought so. Guy glanced up the creek, back at Ed. Awright then you take care, big ‘un."

After a quick hand on Guy’s shoulder, Ed headed for his truck.

icebergs of concern

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In New York, Steven had continued his cruise down the West Side, spinning all the way to Battery Park at the tip of the island. After a quick espresso, he skirted the harbor, glimpsing the Statue of Liberty between the rows of parked tour buses. Then he swung through the Wall Street area into Chinatown, where he stopped for pork buns and a pound of cheap shrimp at a sidewalk fish market. A block away in Little Italy, he bought cannolis and pignoli cookies, and further East on Grand, he picked up a dozen hot bialys at a Jewish bakery. He wolfed down one of the bialys