"God-dammit! That's five today." he said.
"Lines too loose, and you're tugging the line too quick. Have patience, Benny."
"That's all it is, huh?" said Benny. "And I suppose patience is why you haven't reeled one in, either?"
"No..." he bit down on his sinker and mumbled on; "I got none 'cause I have the biggest clunk on board."
Benny shook his head, took a swig from his metal flask, and threw in another line. He muttered something or other, rested his bare feet on the edge of the boat, and closed his eyes to daydream of catching a 20 pounder.
Benny was a bit absent-minded when it came to fishing, and his movements were as subtle as an elephant in a jewelry shop. Still, he was good company, and Lawrence needed a good laugh to keep him sane.
Lawrence was an angler, had been since as long as he could remember. Was born to it, he'd say. Never knew nothing else.
When Lawrence was five, he knew how to set up a fishing rod better than kids twice his age. By the age of ten, he was tying fishing-flies and selling 'em for enough money to buy his own equipment. And, like his father, he won his first contest at the age of twelve. He hadn't looked back since.
Benny's been there for all of it—good and bad. He was there when the Decker boys, two, ugly-looking brutes, tried to steal their biggest haul (20 Bass; 40 fish in all). It took the speed of Lawrence to catch 'em—hooked 'em by the shirt collar and reeled 'em in—and Benny's 160-pound, ten-year-old body to keep them huffin'-and-puffin' on the ground (he sat right on the two).
He witnessed the first time Lawrence caught a fish, about two years before the robbery attempt. You would have thought the two friends hit the million-dollar jackpot; the way they were jumping and splashing around like there was nothing greater. For Lawrence, there wasn't.
Benny saw it all. But, every friendship has its trials. For Benny and Lawrence, those trials began when Benny left the Hudson, left the creek—and his best friend, to go fight some war he had no business fighting. You got your thing. Lawrence would say. I gotta find mine. And he did.
By the time Benny came home, some years later, Lawrence was well-known as one of the top anglers in the area. Benny settled in as some sales rep (he figured he couldn't shut the mouth of his, might as well use it), and on the weekends he announced the local sports games for a couple of extra dollars.
He found his niche—and shortly after, it was as if the two friends, now 25-years old, never left each other's side: fishing three evenings a week, with Lawrence fishing every day as if it were a sin to miss one night.
Back on the boat, both friends sat and fished in the comfort of their own thoughts. It was early October and all was peaceful on the water. Lawrence relished this time of the year. Not only was it the best time to catch Bass, it was also a beautiful time for nature. The creek flowed calm, and, besides the trickle of water flowing from the rocks, flowed silent. The air felt cold and dry and refreshing, like walking into a cooler after a hot day. The breeze moved as soft as a whisper that grazes the back of your neck and sends sweet shivers down the spine. Every few minutes, the breeze would turn to a gust and rattle the leaves, creating a delightful sound to the ears. Soon, the birds would join with song; the crackle of trees would add to the tune, and the fallen leaves would applaud nature's symphony. One could close their eyes and listen in solitude for hours. Though, Lawrence never did. For if he did, he'd miss what he considered to be the main attraction: the mountains in the distance.
As Lawrence gazed toward the mountains, he could think of no place he'd rather be. A Hudson boy his whole life; the only life he knew outside the creek came from photos and gossip. Yet he never dared to leave, nor thought of living somewhere else—and not even for the slightest moment did he dream of another life. For once you've found your calling—your passion—one would be silly to leave for something more. Lawrence thought this as the sun rested behind a cloud, while Benny rested behind his shades, flask drooping (still open) in his hand. Poor guy needs to toss that poison overboard. thought Lawrence, as he threw in another line.
