Cat Got Your Tongue?

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       One key component dresses the setting for this tale: I dearly loved to fish for catfish at night—all night! I remember a time when my mother sat in the car reading an entire novel while I sat somewhere down on the riverbank... in the rain... freezing... waiting patiently in the dark for that one bite. It never came. That’s no matter—I was fishing.

       I am a twelve-year-old boy upon the opening curtain of this story. It was likely mid-May due to the warm days and chilly nights at the time. On this Saturday night, Mom was driving us home from the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars club). I watched the hood of Mom’s car sporadically probe the outer boundaries of the highway’s right-hand lane.

       “Can I go fishing tonight, Mom?” I asked.

       “I’m not driving you.”

       My mother hadn’t given me free rein yet, but it would soon come as a result of my relentless testing. Tonight would be one of those times that I would probe my boundaries. One could easily infer that Mom had permitted me to go fishing all night; I’d just have to get there on my own. Who could blame me? She didn’t say “No.”

       Mom passed out within minutes of walking into our house. I went to work preparing for a night of fishing. I sprayed the lawn with our water hose, soaking the soil sufficiently to entice my fish bait to slither out of the ground. I snatched a couple of pillowcases out of the bathroom closet and filled them with hot dogs, buns, mustard, marshmallows, coffee, my transistor radio, a coffee pot, and two coffee cups. Why two coffee cups? I don’t know, but I would be glad that I did.

       After checking to ensure that Mom was snoring soundly, I retrieved the pint and a half of Imperial whiskey that I had accumulated, wrapped each pint Mason jar in a towel, and put them into a pillowcase. The only thing I can remember my mother and me ever doing together as a boy was playing Scrabble. Every so often, while we played, she would get her bottle of whiskey or Port wine out, pour a shot, and gulp it down. Then while she went to the bathroom, I would pour a shot into my pint jar that I kept under the sink, far behind the cleaning supplies. I never worried that she would find my stash because I did all of the house cleaning. I hated drinking that nasty, dry Port cooking wine, so I was grateful that Mom had been drinking whiskey lately.

       On my hands and knees in the front yard, a flashlight between my teeth, I filled a coffee can with several dozen night crawlers, changing their destiny from a night of slippery sex to being skewered on a hook at the bottom of a deep, watery eddy. Life sometimes sucks, depending on one’s perspective. Mine didn’t—mine was filled with glee that night as I prepared for a fantastic night of fishing for catfish.

       I slid my belt through the hoops of my leather survival knife and hatchet cases; put on my brand-new corduroy jacket which my stepdad had bought me while he was home on leave from Vietnam; tied the ends of the two bulky pillowcases together with a rope and hung them around my neck; strapped my four fishing poles to my back; and picked up my sleeping bag, tackle box, water jugs, and can of worms. “Alright, I’m all set to go fishing!” I whispered excitedly. On my way out the door, I remembered to go back and get the 18 cigarettes that I had surgically removed from the bottom of my mother’s cigarette packs. (I took two from the center of each pack, so it didn’t matter which side she opened.) Now, I was all set for a fun night of fishing on the riverbank. I just needed to hike three miles to my favorite fishing spot on Big Walnut Creek while lugging some forty pounds of gear.

       My arms and shoulders ached as I trudged past the VFW, hoping with all my might that no one would pull out of the driveway, recognize me, and try to put a stop to my big adventure. Another mile down the road, I stepped over the guardrail. With scant starlight to see by, I slid down the loose debris of the embankment to my favorite fishing spot. My arms and shoulders were colossally relieved when I dropped all of my gear on the hard-packed dirt. I had to flex my fingers for a couple of minutes before the blood flowed freely again.

       Following the sweep of my flashlight, I retrieved rocks to form my campfire rim, gathered a large pile of dry driftwood, and built a blazing fire. I baited two fishing poles and cast them out into the shallows to catch bluegill for cut-bait. Then I baited the other two poles (including my treasured Zebco 33 that Aunt Marvelene had sent me for my tenth birthday), casting them into a deep eddy on the far side of the creek some forty yards away.

       I primed my coffee pot and set it close to the fire. My chores finished, I sat down and poured a double shot of whiskey into a coffee cup, drinking half. I lit a cigarette using an ember. I was on top of the world—Hemmingway’s “Old Man” pursuing that mighty fish, the Marlboro Man, and John Wayne, all rolled into one!

       Cutting a green sapling branch, I speared two hotdogs and charred them over the flames. All the while, I kept a dedicated vigil over the fishing lines, watching intently for the least movement of the rods. I ate dinner and followed it with blackened marshmallows for dessert. A couple more shots of whiskey gave me a nice warm glow. I was well pleased with myself.

       A while into the night, a car grated the gravel along the access road above and crunched to a stop at the next fishing spot, some thirty yards upstream. I heard muted arguing from the car: a male and a female. Two car doors slammed. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, you stupid bitch?!” a guy yelled.

       My campfire had died down; however, the half-moon enabled me to visually follow a shadowy figure moving down the embankment toward the water. I heard a splash in the creek and watched what appeared to be someone swimming to a sandbar outlining the far shore.

       “You’re on your own, cunt!” The car revved its engine and threw gravel everywhere. He continued flinging gravel for another fifty yards or so to the blacktop road and squealed his tires for quite a distance beyond.

       I put more wood on the fire and stoked the coals to enhance my vision as well as to signal my welcoming presence. Is that a woman sitting on that sandbar in her bra and panties? I couldn’t be positive in the darkness, but it sure looked like it! She stood, splashed into the water, and swam toward me. I quickly reeled in the two cut-bait lines that I had cast in that direction.

       “Hello there, young man,” she greeted as she casually swam a breaststroke toward me.

       “Hello, ma’am,” I responded.

       She raised up at the water’s edge wearing nothing but a bra and panties. (Now remember, I am a twelve-year-old boy and had never seen a woman in her bra and panties in real life before. Sure, I’d seen women in bikinis at the swimming pool, but that’s not the same, not the same at all!)

       “Mind if I warm myself by your fire?” She gracefully tiptoed to my campfire, shivering in the nippy night air. There, dripping in front of me, stood a half-naked young woman every bit as sexy as the women I’d seen in Playboy magazines. “Cat got your tongue?”

       “Uh... yes, ma’am!”

       “I can’t believe he ran off and left me here.”

       I grabbed my sleeping bag and spread it out on the ground so she could sit next to me. This goddess, dressed only in her bra and panties, settled her dynamite tush on my sleeping bag less than two feet away from me! I struggled to breathe.

       “Relax, kid; I’m not going to bite you.”

       That “kid” remark snapped me out of my reverie. I had finished the half pint of whiskey, so I grabbed the full pint out of the pillowcase. I poured myself a shot, tossing it down with barely a grimace. “Would you like a shot of whiskey to warm you up?”

       “How old are you?” she asked, displaying a look of amazement.

       “Twelve.”

       She smiled broadly.

       “I’m a savvy twelve.”

       She smirked, chuckling. “Sure, I’d love a shot of your whiskey.”

       I poured a generous shot into a cup and handed it to her. She drank it down, choking briefly. “I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes, do you?”

       “I’m not a Boy Scout, but I come prepared anyway,” as I lit a cigarette for her.

       “You certainly do, young man! Look, I’m freezing in these wet clothes. Do you mind if I dry my bra and panties over your campfire?”

       This sex goddess’s question stymied me. She didn’t wait for the answer that I couldn’t get out before she stood up and began removing her bra and panties! She looked at me as though she wanted me to do something, but I was mindless. This naked woman giggled as she watched me trying to look at her while at the same time trying not to look at her. I, at last, regained a smattering of composure and propped a couple of branches near the fire on which she could hang her underwear to dry. I poured both of us a cup of coffee laced with another shot of whiskey.

       She held up her cup, proposing a toast, “Thank you for rescuing me, kind sir.”

       I clicked her cup with mine. “You’re welcome, my beautiful damsel.” Out of respect, I was still attempting to not stare at her sexy body.

       “You’ve never seen a naked woman before, have you?”

       “Only in magazines.”

       “You can look at me, honey; it’s the least I can do to repay you for sharing your whiskey, your coffee, your cigarettes, and the warmth of your fire.”

       I looked over at the erect nipples on her mind-shattering breasts, glanced down at the silky auburn hair between her legs, and breathed deeply into my taut chest.

       We shared a carnal smile.

       My fishing poles had lost their importance: they flat-out didn’t matter.

       “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” I spiked our coffees.

       “What do you mean?”

       “Why do you let him call you those nasty names?”

       She dipped her head. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

       “You have a choice. You deserve better than that. If you were my girl, I’d treat you like a princess,” gesturing as though rolling out the royal carpet.

       “You’re a sweetheart.”

       “I’m serious, ma’am, I would,” raising my cup in salute to her.

       A car drove past and stopped above the other fishing spot. A few minutes elapsed as my dream lady pretended to ignore it. The car began honking petulantly, and her face drained its life.

       “If you don’t get up here now,” lashed a seething voice, “I’ll beat the shit out of you, you worthless bitch!”

       “You don’t have to go, ma’am.”

       “You don’t know the violence he’s capable of.”

       “I’ll protect you,” making a show of unsnapping my survival knife.

       “I bet you would, my valiant prince.” She smiled sadly. Another moment passed, and the beautiful naked lady stood, put on her bra and panties, and leaned over. Tears trickled from her eyes as she looked into mine. She kissed me tenderly on my cheek, turned, and breezed out of my star-struck life. Her tear gently traced the outline of my jaw. I dared not touch it for fear her memory might disappear.

       I sat and stared at the glowing embers for an immeasurable span of time, fondly replaying and replaying the night’s magical events, searing them into my memory. I slipped off my tennis shoes and slid into my sleeping bag on which my lovely naked lady had been sitting.

       “Wow.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       A clattering sound woke me. I poked my head out of my sleeping bag. Brushing the sleep from my bloodshot eyes, I surveyed my surroundings. A round, orange glow—a campfire. A layer of haze drifting above a faintly seeable flow of water—the sun’s first morning rays highlighting fog over Big Walnut Creek.

       Another clatter—my fishing poles!

       I wriggled out of my sleeping bag. Unable to see clearly, I shuffled my sock-covered feet, tactually exploring the location beside the sycamore tree where I had propped my two deep-water fishing poles. They’re gone! Oh no, my Zebco 33 is gone! Stumbling. Searching. I strained my eyes to see details in the early morning mist. Where did it go?!

       I went to get my flashlight and heard that clattering sound again, this time louder and mixed with two other sounds: the high-pitched whizzing sound of my Zebco 33 reel’s drag and a swirling, splashing sound coming from across the water. Urgently fingering the ground between the sycamore and the shore, I moved closer and closer to the water. I felt the intimately familiar chrome Zebco 33 casing!

       Relieved, I grasped my beloved reel. The handle had snagged on a root. I freed it and realized that both fishing poles were tangled. As I tried to untangle the poles and fishing line, something jerked them out of my hands! I dove into the creek after them and bashed my knee against a large boulder. Floundering in the water, I again felt my precious reel lunging away from me. I latched onto it and braced myself against that big rock as the cold current streamed past my chest.

       A net! “Damn, I didn’t bring my net!”

       I pressed the reel’s release button to give me slack and scrambled back to shore. I extracted my survival knife from its sheath and carefully cut the other pole’s line. I took a deep breath and turned the handle, locking my Zebco 33. I quickly reeled in the slack until I felt the life of my powerful opponent. Our war began.

       ZING!!!

       My unseen adversary stripped yards of line from my reel so many times that I fretted our battle would end abruptly. I’d reel him in a bit, and he’d zing even farther away. Nothing existed in the world except the invisible force attached to my line, and me, “The Old Man.” Extremely careful not to horse my prize to the shore before he was sufficiently exhausted, I bestowed on him my utmost respect.

       The only clock at my avail to time this epic struggle was the sun’s evaporation of the lingering fog that hung over the creek. The morning sun shined through the trees, and the fog was gone by the time I sensed my foe’s waning strength. That was a good thing because my arms ached with exhaustion. As I reeled shoreward, whatever was on the other end of my line made one last colossal attempt to escape. The water churned violently near me. I glimpsed the gigantic catfish as he snapped my line. I dove into the water after him. I felt the slick, leathery skin of my abominable prey and bear-hugged him, not caring about the danger of his enormous dorsal fin. I wobbled my way back to shore as my dance partner thrashed in my arms. Once we were a safe distance from the water, I dropped my vanquished monster on the ground and slumped to my knees. I rested. He rested. I grinned! Adrenaline gushed into my veins. I howled!

       Fetching the spring-loaded weigh scale from my tackle box, I weighed my huge shovelhead catfish—just over eight pounds! Hot damn!! I could barely wait to show off at the VFW where the old fishermen gathered out back on Sunday mornings to boast as they cleaned their night’s catch. This time I wouldn’t be the admirer—I’d be the admired!

       The experienced fishermen usually showed up with their catfish in wash tubs to keep them alive until it was time to clean them. Even on a stringer, I was NOT going to chance putting this magnificent catfish back in the water. Instead, I wrapped him in my brand-new corduroy jacket and soaked it down to keep him alive while I broke camp. Surely, Mom will understand why I had to sacrifice my expensive jacket. (But she didn’t!)

       Strutting alongside the road to the VFW, I proudly held out the stringer with my prize catfish dangling. I strained to hold him away from me to keep from being speared by the sharp dorsal fin, and more importantly to show off my trophy to all the passing cars. A couple of drivers honked, puffing my pride.

       I was the star among the old fishermen that morning. However, my thoughts lingered elsewhere.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Nearly half a century later, and on the sunny side of countless failed attempts, I would ultimately set aside alcohol and become that valiant prince for a gorgeous, deserving princess.