The Grasshopper Trap (14 page)
Read The Grasshopper Trap Online
Authors: Patrick F. McManus
11:25 p.m.:
Mr. Muldoon pulls into his driveway. On the radio, the archaeologist is screaming, “No! No! Stay away from meeeee!” Then there's the sound of wrappings scraping across the floor. “Urrr-uh,” says the mummy. “Urrr-uh!” Mr. Muldoon shuts off the radio, gets out of the car, and heads for the house. Then he goes back and shuts off the car lights. The wind rustles in the bushes. Mr. Muldoon rushes into the house and turns on the lights.
Mr. Muldoon pulls into his driveway. On the radio, the archaeologist is screaming, “No! No! Stay away from meeeee!” Then there's the sound of wrappings scraping across the floor. “Urrr-uh,” says the mummy. “Urrr-uh!” Mr. Muldoon shuts off the radio, gets out of the car, and heads for the house. Then he goes back and shuts off the car lights. The wind rustles in the bushes. Mr. Muldoon rushes into the house and turns on the lights.
Eddie and I have heard Mr. Muldoon drive in. Our
flashlight is dead. Our tennis shoes are dug into the starting blocks, but now we must wait for Mr. Muldoon to go to bed. Otherwise he will tease us unmercifully. Outside, there is a strange rustling sound, coming closer and closer. It's a good thing we haven't heard the mummy program.
flashlight is dead. Our tennis shoes are dug into the starting blocks, but now we must wait for Mr. Muldoon to go to bed. Otherwise he will tease us unmercifully. Outside, there is a strange rustling sound, coming closer and closer. It's a good thing we haven't heard the mummy program.
11:35 p.m.:
Mr. Muldoon shuts off the kitchen light
and
the porch light. He has no reason to expect his son and me to be outside after 9:30. He goes into the bathroom to take a shower, still thinking about the mummy.
Mr. Muldoon shuts off the kitchen light
and
the porch light. He has no reason to expect his son and me to be outside after 9:30. He goes into the bathroom to take a shower, still thinking about the mummy.
11:45 p.m.:
The rustling around the tent has increased. Eddie is fumbling with the knots on the door, but can't untie them in the dark. In a few minutes, Mr. Muldoon will be in bed asleep.
The rustling around the tent has increased. Eddie is fumbling with the knots on the door, but can't untie them in the dark. In a few minutes, Mr. Muldoon will be in bed asleep.
11:46 p.m.:
Eddie's dog, Oscar, returns from a date at a neighboring farm and slumps down exhausted on the porch. Oscar has no reason to expect Eddie and me to be outside after 9:30.
Eddie's dog, Oscar, returns from a date at a neighboring farm and slumps down exhausted on the porch. Oscar has no reason to expect Eddie and me to be outside after 9:30.
11:50 p.m.:
Mr. Muldoon thinks he detects a sore throat coming on. He walks into the darkened kitchen, pours some salt into a glass of hot water, and begins to gargle. He is wearing only a towel, wrapped around his middle.
Mr. Muldoon thinks he detects a sore throat coming on. He walks into the darkened kitchen, pours some salt into a glass of hot water, and begins to gargle. He is wearing only a towel, wrapped around his middle.
11:50:30 p.m.:
Eddie groans. “I can't get these dang knots untied in the dark. Let's go inside. We can take the tent off in there.” A shadow passes over the tent, accompanied by a rustling sound to our rear. We shove our feet through the burlap floor and, hugging the tent around us, hit the starting blocks.
Eddie groans. “I can't get these dang knots untied in the dark. Let's go inside. We can take the tent off in there.” A shadow passes over the tent, accompanied by a rustling sound to our rear. We shove our feet through the burlap floor and, hugging the tent around us, hit the starting blocks.
11:50:31 p.m.:
On the porch, Oscar opens his bleary eyes. A large, amorphous shape is charging him! Almost on top of him! Probably going to eat him! He tries to bark but has momentarily swallowed his tongue. “Urrr-uh!” he growls. “Urrr-uh!”
On the porch, Oscar opens his bleary eyes. A large, amorphous shape is charging him! Almost on top of him! Probably going to eat him! He tries to bark but has momentarily swallowed his tongue. “Urrr-uh!” he growls. “Urrr-uh!”
11:50:32 p.m.:
Eddie and I crash through the door into
the kitchen. Instantly we hear a horrible sound. We don't know what it is, never before having heard a naked man surprised in mid-gargle by a gunnysack tent. Oscar follows us into the house, still trying to bark. “URRR-UH! URRR-UH!” Water splashes on the floor and there is the sound of naked feet frantically trying to get traction on slippery linoleum.
Eddie and I crash through the door into
the kitchen. Instantly we hear a horrible sound. We don't know what it is, never before having heard a naked man surprised in mid-gargle by a gunnysack tent. Oscar follows us into the house, still trying to bark. “URRR-UH! URRR-UH!” Water splashes on the floor and there is the sound of naked feet frantically trying to get traction on slippery linoleum.
“Gargle, gurgle, choke!”
cries Mr. Muldoon. “St-stayâ
hack, gargle
âawayâ
choke
âfrom meeeeee!”
cries Mr. Muldoon. “St-stayâ
hack, gargle
âawayâ
choke
âfrom meeeeee!”
We didn't get the mess all sorted out and reconstructed until the next morning. Mr. Muldoon seemed quite embarrassed by the whole episode, and never again teased us for abandoning a backyard camp in the middle of the night. Later, though, he enjoyed recalling the episode of the gunnysack tent and having a good laugh over it. I was away at college by then, however, and never got to hear him.
Retch Sweeney is on the phone. “Want to go fish the crick tomorrow?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” I say. “What time you want to leave?”
“Four sharp,” he says. “You know the crick. The best fishin' is always at first light.”
“Okay.”
Note the casualness of the conversation, the hint of indifference. The tone conceals any hint of reverence for the proposed undertakingâto go fish the crick. But both Retch and I know that we speak of solemn and elaborate ritual. We are talking religious experience here, mysticism, transcendentalism even.
Yes, transcendentalism. What we hope to transcend is timeâthirty, forty years of time, back to the days of ancient summers with the crick flowing through our fresh, untarnished lives.
Rituals must be performed with precision. One flaw, one
misstep, one missed cue, and the spell is broken. I must take care tomorrow to do everything exactly right. Otherwise, my one day of fishing the crick this year will be ruined, and I will be left with insufficient mental, emotional, and spiritual resources to sustain me for the next twelve months.
misstep, one missed cue, and the spell is broken. I must take care tomorrow to do everything exactly right. Otherwise, my one day of fishing the crick this year will be ruined, and I will be left with insufficient mental, emotional, and spiritual resources to sustain me for the next twelve months.
“Where's my black tenner shoes?” I ask my wife.
“You mean those wading shoes you blew eighty dollars on? They're in your closet.”
“Not those. The black tenner shoes with the little rubber ankle patches that are starting to peel off. The ones that are worn through on the sides.”
“Oh, no! Don't tell me it's time for you and Retch to fish the creek again!”
“Crick,” I correct her. “The proper technical term for this sort of stream is âcrick.' A creek is something entirely different.”
“Well, your tenner shoes, as you call them, are out in a corner of the garage where you left them a year ago.”
“Good,” I say. “You haven't seen my fish pole, have you?”
“What do you mean? You have twenty or thirty fishing rods on the wall of your office.”
“I know where the rods are. What I'm looking for is the fish pole. It's steel and has three sections that telescope into each other, kind of green and rusty. It's got the old bait-casting reel on it, the one that makes the horrible sound because of all the sand in the gears.”
“Oh, that one. It's out in the garage by your tenner shoes.”
Early the next morning I head over to Retch's. I have brewed myself a large vacuum bottle of strong coffee and constructed a delicious lunch: thick sandwiches of fresh homemade bread piled high with roast beef, cheese, and onion; a banana; an orange; two candy bars; and a slab of
apple pie. It makes my mouth water to think of the lunch, nestled there next to my bottle of rich black coffee. There? Too late I remember the coffee is still on the kitchen table with my lunch next to it. Drat! Damn all kitchen tables, those incorrigible thieves of fishermen's lunches!
apple pie. It makes my mouth water to think of the lunch, nestled there next to my bottle of rich black coffee. There? Too late I remember the coffee is still on the kitchen table with my lunch next to it. Drat! Damn all kitchen tables, those incorrigible thieves of fishermen's lunches!
It's nearly six when I arrive at Sweeney's house, two hours late. He will be steamed. I ring the doorbell. Five minutes later Retch opens the door. He is still in his pajamas.
“Wha'?” he says. “What are you doin' here in the middle of the night?”
“It's six o'clock,” I snap. “Remember? We're going to go fish the crick today? I've been waiting out in the yard two hours for you to wake up!”
“Good gosh, the crick! That's right! Look, I'm sorry. Don't be mad.”
“Oh, all right. It's just that I have such high regard for punctuality.”
Retch leaves and returns a few minutes later. He is wearing his rotten old tenner shoes and carrying his fish pole. There is a dried worm on the hook that dangles beneath a quarter pound of split-shot sinkers.
“What kind of leader you got on?” I ask.
“Twenty-pound,” he says. “The usual.”
“Good,” I say. “We don't want any fish bustin' off. Now where are the worms?”
“Worms?” Retch says. “You was supposed to dig the worms.”
“Oh, no! I dug them last year, remember?”
“Yeah, I got an exact recollection. I dug 'em. And the year before that, too. Well, c'mon, let's go dig some out behind the woodshed. Grab the shovel. You can dig and I'll pick up the worms.”
“Why don't you dig and let me pick up the worms?”
“'Cause it's my shovel, that's why.”
We go out behind the woodshed, I spade up half an acre of ground, and we find only three scrawny worms. The next day Retch will plant his garden in the area I spaded up, but he fails to mention his plan to me now.
“Hey, I know where we can find some worms,” he says. “Over in my compost pile.”
In five minutes we fill the can half full of worms from his compost pile. Odd that he didn't think of the compost pile first. Mysteries like this tend to nag at one's mind.
I suggest that we divide the worms between two cans, but Retch says no, we will be fishing together so we can both use the same can. Besides, he says, he has only one good worm can.
It is ten o'clock when we arrive at the crick and start fishing. As Retch says, ten o'clock is the best time to start fishing the crick, because the fish were expecting us for the early-morning feed and will now be caught off guard. I agree.
The crick, still fed by melting snows in the mountains, is icy cold. We rule out trying to wade it, which means that we must hurl our lines over the wall of brush bordering the crick on our side and listen for the splash of the sinkers hitting the water. No splash means the hook snagged on a branch above the water, where it's unlikely to attract fish. We make several casts without hearing a splash. We then decide to cross to the far bank, which has less brush. We will cross the crick on two strands of barbwire, the remains of an old fence suspended above the water. The trick to crossing a stream on such a fence is to walk on the bottom wire and hold on to the top wire for balance.
Retch bounces on the fence over the middle of the crick.
He begins to lean forward, pushing the top wire ahead of him with his hands, the bottom wire out behind with his feet. “Hanhh hannhh hanh!” he says, but I am uncertain as to what this means. He reverses his posture and is now leaning backward over the crick. “Hannnnhhh!” he repeats, but with no more clarity of meaning. He gives the top wire a vicious pull, and faster than the eye can follow, flips forward. His body is now parallel to the crick, facedown, about a yard above the water, straining between the two screeching strands of wire. “Gah gah gah!” he says. I cannot help but be amused by this marvelous acrobatic performance, but enough is enough.
He begins to lean forward, pushing the top wire ahead of him with his hands, the bottom wire out behind with his feet. “Hanhh hannhh hanh!” he says, but I am uncertain as to what this means. He reverses his posture and is now leaning backward over the crick. “Hannnnhhh!” he repeats, but with no more clarity of meaning. He gives the top wire a vicious pull, and faster than the eye can follow, flips forward. His body is now parallel to the crick, facedown, about a yard above the water, straining between the two screeching strands of wire. “Gah gah gah!” he says. I cannot help but be amused by this marvelous acrobatic performance, but enough is enough.
“Stop fooling around,” I say. “You're going to drop the worm can.”
My admonishment comes too late. His belly sags toward the water, even though he makes a valiant effort to suck it back up. He now makes a sound similar to that of a dog tugging on a ragâERRRrrrrERRR! Then there is a whir and a yelp, and Retch plops into the crick.
I knew he would mess around until something like this happened! “Don't drop the worm can!” I yell. “Don't drop the worms!”
Ignoring my admonition, he splashes out of the crick on the far side, his mouth spewing out a stream half crick and half profanity. This is a bad omen.
I walk around a bend in the crick and find a cottonwood log that a considerate family of beavers had the decency to chew down so that it fell from one bank across to the other. Many people do not like beavers, but ⦠Halfway across the log, I notice that the spatula-tailed vandals have maliciously chewed a section of the far end down to the dimensions of a toothpick! I try to retreat. Too late.
“Pretty fast moves there,” Retch says. “The first five steps across the water you hardly sunk a bit. But that sixth step was a doozie.”
“Very funny,” I say, wringing out my hat while waiting for Retch to stop cackling. “Since we're wet and freezing anyway, we may as well just wade down the crick. I'm glad to see you didn't lose the worms. Give me a handful of them. I don't want to chase after you every time I need a worm.”
“Whatcha gonna put 'em in?”
“Why, my pants pocket, of course. They might ice up a bit in there, but I don't think it will hurt them, except they might not be able to have any more children.”
About noon, the fish start biting. Two of them, a small one and a big one. We put them on a forked stick and divide the rest of the day between fishing and trying to find the last place we laid the forked stick. Retch deliberates whether he should eat the big fish or have it mounted. I mention it will cost him ten dollars an inch to get it mounted.
“In that case, I better eat it,” he says. “I don't have an extra eighty dollars.”
We pass up the best fishing hole on the crick. I am tempted to try for a quick cast on my way past the hole, but I might break my stride. That's what fast, mean cows watch for, a break in the fisherman's stride, and then they've got him.
“Shall weâ
pant
âtry toâ
pant
âvault the fence orâ
pant
âroll under it?” Retch says.
pant
âtry toâ
pant
âvault the fence orâ
pant
âroll under it?” Retch says.
I glance back. The nearest cow is fifteen inches behind us and gaining. “Vault.”
We vault and land safely on the other side of the fence. Not bad for a couple of pudgy, fifty-year-old men. The few little pieces of us left on barbwire are relatively unimportant.
We slip down to the Old Packard hole. It is called the Old Packard hole because years ago someone dumped an old Packard into the crick there. My cousin Buck once drifted a worm through the broken windshield of the Packard and caught a big fat brookie out of the back seat. It is now late in the day. I think just possibly Buck's brookie's great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchild might have taken up residence there. So for my final effort of the day I drift a worm through the windshield of the old Buick. The worm drifts down into the dark water of the back seat. I twitch the line ever so gently. I wait. Perhaps there is no big fat brookie there, I think. Then, like a flash of lightning, it happens: I am struck by the revelation that I am never going to catch a fish out of the Old Packard hole. Retch and I give up and head for home.
Driving back to town, wet, cold, exhausted, bruised, cut, and punctured, with only two measly fish between us, we stare silently ahead.
“I kind of expected it would turn out like this, the way the day started,” Retch says. “You forgot your lunch, I forgot to set my alarm clock, we had to dig up half the countryside to find any worms, we both fell in the crick right away and then got chased by cows, all for two little fish.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was perfect, wasn't it?”
“Yep,” Retch says, grinning. “Just like when we was kids. Funny, ain't it, how after all these years we can remember how to do everything just right.”
“That's what a ritual is,” I say. “Doing it all just right.”
Now my wife is shrieking down in the laundry room. After all these years, you would think she would know better than to reach into a fisherman's pants pockets, especially after he has just returned from performing a crick ritual.
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