by Les Claypool
“Eh, I’m still looking for the bitch with the flat head so I can have a place to set my beer while she’s slurpin’ my peter,” roared Donny.
Ed continued to shake his head, not really knowing how much of what he heard was truth or even if he had heard it correctly. “Wow, I really admire your great respect for women, Don.”
“Well, we can’t all be as sensitive as you, Pee Wee.”
“Yeah, well at least you could try and be a little more original with your dipshit commentary. That flathead beer joke went around when I was in the fifth grade.”
“You don’t mess with the classics, Ed,” rebounded Donny with a smirk.
“You’re gettin’ a bite, Don!” snapped Earl, slapping Donny’s chest.
“Shee-it!” Donny yanked back on his pole, looking up at the tip. “Missed that fucker!”
Don reeled in, his cigarette dangling out of his mouth. He stopped mid-reel, took a big drag from his cigarette, then flicked the butt into the water.
Chapter 21
CRABMAN AND STING
The sun peered randomly through the marine layer. Fair weather was all well and good, but Earl was irritated by the lack of action. He was a patient man, however, sitting stoically, arms crossed, staring outward, as he watched the pole tips for any signs of life.
Ed sat reclined as far back as his seat would allow and propped his feet up on the top of the transom. He scanned the horizon, marveling at the lack of definition between the sky and water. It looked like a huge, seamless piece of shimmering fabric, the colors shifting from warm tints of orange to silver to cool baby-blue. The surface of the water pulsated as huge, bulbous globules rose from the liquid like salmon-colored spheres of gelatin drifting up into the haze of scattered clouds. Some of the shapes were more irregular than others, resembling, though they were much bigger, the bright fish-row sacks that his father would cure for use on the rivers for steelhead fishing. As he watched the magnificent random vessels drift away, Ed grinned. He had reached a familiar place, the heart of a psychedelic mushroom trip. He felt content as the winter sun caressed his face. He had always enjoyed being out in nature when he took hallucinogens, and he was happy that he was tripping now.
Looking to his right hand, Ed stared at the large can of beer that he’d been nursing. He had been holding it so long that the tin no longer felt cool. He admired the graphic design on the blue, gold, and white can. How clever, he thought, being an artist himself, and he liked how simply yet effectively the text FOSTERS was splayed out across the face of the can. As he gazed, he noticed that his hand was taking on an orange hue, similar to the morning sky, only blotchy and less consistent. It reminded him of the faux sponge-painted walls that had recently become trendy in the cafés and restaurants around Berkeley. The shape of his hand was altered as well. It had swelled to magnificent proportions, and his four fingers had morphed into a single jagged appendage opposed by one similar replacing his thumb. His hand now resembled a large crab claw. A Dungeness crab, he thought, remembering the ones he had seen while tending traps with his father in the old days. He waved it back and forth in front of his face, watching the color trails it left before his eyes.
Donny cocked his head back and watched Ed, who at this point had decided to test the strength of his crustaceous limb by crushing the Fosters can, spewing its remaining contents over himself and his brother.
Lurching back, Earl blurted out, “Damn, Ed. What the hell ya doin’?”
“Sorry.”
Ed returned to observing his claw in silence. Donny chuckled at the curiousness of it all. Earl, relatively undaunted, crossed his arms and returned to mindfully watching the poles. Donny gulped down the rest of his beer and threw the bottle into the five-gallon bucket that held the other empties. He let loose a loud, exaggerated belch that caused Ed’s brow to furrow.
“So what was with all that Pee Wee Herman shit anyway?” asked Donny, reaching for the cooler.
Ed noticed that his hand had suddenly returned back to its natural state. He stared at it disappointedly. Perhaps it was Donny’s god-awful guttural belch that knocked him back to reality. Perhaps it was just the recognition of the voice that had, in his youth, represented adolescent torment and oppression. Whatever the reason, Ed heard the question and realized that Donny was going to try to wind him up.
“It wasn’t Pee Wee Herman,” Ed answered flatly.
“You used to dress like Pee Wee Herman and ride all around on that scooter of yours. Don’t fuckin’ deny it.”
“I was a mod.”
“Mod?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you ever see Quadrophenia?”
“Quatro what?” drawled Donny.
QUAD-RO-PHENIA,” repeated Ed, enunciating as “if he were speaking to a five-year-old. “You know, The Who?”
Donny pondered a moment, then responded, “I don’t remember The Who being dressed like Pee Wee Herman.”
“It was a movie. With music by The Who,” Ed explained. “Sting was in it.”
“Oh, well, Sting. That guy’s gotta be queer,” observed
Donny, settling back in his seat.
“Why’s Sting got to be queer?”
“Ah man, he did that song back when we were in high school.” Donny sang mockingly, “Do-Do-Do, Da-Da-Da. Fuckin’ stupid as hell.”
“Just because you’re not into something doesn’t make it queer,” Ed answered, chuckling at the absurdity of the conversation.
“Hey, Skynyrd would never do a song like that,” Donny stated defiantly. Earl couldn’t help but laugh.
“Whatever, dude.” Ed shook his head and snickered.
Donny cracked his new beer, took a deep swig, and continued mockingly, “Yep, whatever, dude.” He flipped his bottle cap into the water, where it floated on the surface for a moment before sinking into the murk.
The water was not very deep and the visibility was about twelve inches at best. As the cap fluttered down toward the bottom, it grazed the back of a huge and magnificent sturgeon. The fish gave one pump of its massive tail and gracefully moved forward.
Chapter 22
PHILOSOPHY
Few things in life were more frustrating to Earl than coming back from a trip without any fish. He had been speaking in dead earnest when he complained to Red about the skunk on his boat. Denise had experienced his annoyance firsthand on many occasions. If he returned from a fishing trip with an upbeat stride, she knew that the action had been good on the water that day and there would be fresh fish for dinner. If, however, Earl entered the house muttering to himself, she knew that there had been no fish that day and that the evening could potentially be unpleasant. More than just the wasted expense of a fishless trip, it was a matter of pride with Earl. As did most anglers, he considered the measure of a good fisherman to be gauged not so much by the size but the consistency of the angler’s catch. Earl had long proven himself to be a skillful fisherman, but in his own eyes his luck had turned of late, and he was starting to feel a bit desperate. Donny’s taunting didn’t help matters. More than anything, Earl wanted to see his younger brother, once again after these many years away, battle a mighty sturgeon, and this only added to his desperation. Earl tended the poles with great focus, watching the tips, keeping the bait fresh, and reminding his cohorts to do the same. But with Donny’s slapdash approach and Ed’s apparent mystification with his surroundings, he found himself doing most of the work.
Earl cast out a freshly baited pole. Ed was lying back in his chair, spacing out, while Donny rooted through his pockets.
“Pee boy, looks like you could use a little pick-me-up,” Donny observed, digging out a key-load of white powder from a small plastic zip bag. He put the key to his nose—SNORT!—then gestured the key toward Ed.
“No thanks.”
“Earl?”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do.” Earl took a blast from a full key up his nose. He turned to Ed, “Special occasion, bro. Special occasion.”
“Is that coke or crank?”
“Who the hell’s got money for coke?” barked Donny. “Pure meth, boy. It lasts longer. I got a buddy that cooks it up right in his garage.”
“Man, I don’t see how you guys can snort that shit. I don’t see how anyone could want to snort that shit.”
“Sheee-it. Snort, hell. Everybody’s smokin’ it these days,” laughed Donny.
“You’re kidding me,” responded Ed. “Fuck that.”
“Hell yeah, right off the foil.” Donny winked at Earl.
“Man, that’s sooo bad for you. You may as well be smoking a plastic bag.”
“Well, you gotta die of somethin’.”
“Aw, man. No thanks.”
“I can see you now, Pee boy,” laughed Donny, “bored, lonely old fucker cuz you out-lived all your friends. You’ll be in the old folks home eatin’ your bean sprouts and tofu shit. Me, I’ll be long gone. If my heart explodes while I’m pumpin’ away at some fat-assed El Sob girly, that’d be okay by me. I’d go out a-grinnin’ like a bastard.” He laughed, along with Earl.
“I’m sure that’s an honorable event most women could do without,” Ed said snidely.
“You’d be surprised,” insisted Donny, taking a pull from his beer. “You look like the type of guy that parties every now and then, Ed. What you talkin’ shit for?”
“Nothin’ wrong with some green bud once in a while. Drop a little acid, ’shrooms, maybe some X.”
“X?” repeated Donny with a puzzled look.
“Ecstasy.”
“Ah, man, I heard that shit’s for fags.”
Ed shook his head and leaned back again in his seat. The three sat in silence for a long moment before Donny spoke up. “How ’bout it there, Ed? I’ll be honest. I always figured you a queer.” He paused again, looked Ed directly in the eye, and asked, “You ever been with a woman?”
“I’m married.”
“To a woman?”
“Yes!”
“Well, fuck, I don’t know. These days. Fuckin’ California. Guys gettin’ married to guys. Chicks marryin’ chicks. Adoptin’ babies. Weird shit.” Donny took another swig from his beer and reached for a cigarette from his breast pocket.
“There’s nothing wrong with gay couples adopting children.” As soon as the words left his lips, Ed regretted saying anything. Why couldn’t he just sit with his mouth shut? Trying to have a debate with a fellow like Donny Vowdy was a pointless endeavor.
“Oh, fuck you, Ed,” barked Donny. “You hear this, Earl?”
“Keep me out of it.” Earl got up to check his bait again.
“Well, fuck you, Ed.”
“Hey, fuck you, Don. Tell me what’s wrong with it then.” Ed had pushed a button, and it felt good to be on the offensive with Donny.
“It ain’t right.”
“Why?”
“It ain’t fuckin’ right!” repeated Donny. “Think about that poor kid.”
“Poor kid?” Ed dug in. “Why is it poor kid?”
“How’d you like to go to school and tell everyone your parents are a couple of fags?” blasted Donny with a glint of fire in his eye. “I’ll tell you what, if you did that in my school, you’d have gotten your ass kicked every day.”
“There are plenty of open-minded, liberal environments where people don’t think twice about things like that.”
“Yeah, where?”
“Berkeley, San Francisco—”
“Fuckin’ freak central,” Donny interrupted.
“There’s nothing wrong with two loving parents raising a child together. It doesn’t matter whether they’re gay or hetero. There are loads of kids who would love to have a house of any kind where there’s some sort of stability.”
“Stability? Listen to the fancy college boy. STABILITY.”
“Most gay couples, or most gays in general, tend to be well educated, kind, giving people, from my experience.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re experienced,” Donny sneered. “Look, it just ain’t right.” He turned to Earl for support, but Ed’s older brother was doing his best to avoid the entire conversation. Realizing that he was on his own, Donny made his boldest statement on the matter. “What about the AIDS?”
“What about it?”
“Shit, the kids get it from the parents, and then they take it to school and give it to the other kids.”
“Dude, stop. Just stop. You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Yeah?” countered Donny.
“Don’t even try going there, man. You’re just showing your ignorance now.” Ed realized that his brother and his friends weren’t the worldliest fellows on the planet, but Donny’s current line of thought still surprised him.
“Yeah?” Donny repeated stubbornly.
“Yeah, just stop.”
After a long silence, Donny added, “Well, it ain’t right. Says so in the Bible.”
“The Bible! Where?”
“Eh, it’s in there somewhere.”
Ed stared at Donny for a moment and then shook his head with a smile. “Whatever you say there, Donny.”
Both Ed and Earl held back sniggers.
Donny noticed that the two brothers were smiling and was irritated by the thought that they were amused at his expense. “Shee-it. Fuck you, Ed.” He took a big swig of his beer and stared off into the distance.
The long silence that followed made Earl feel uneasy. There had certainly been tense moments between Ed and Donny when they were young, but Ed could have never held his ground back then. In those days, whoever was mightier physically was the one who prevailed, no matter what the issue of debate. And being older and bigger, Donny had always been the dominant of the two.
But now Earl noticed, and not without some element of pride, that his younger brother could hold his own. Earl had never felt intimidated by Donny. They had always been pretty evenly matched as boys. On one occasion, Donny had pushed an issue just a bit too far, and Earl had gone berserk. He had actually knocked Donny to the ground, bloodying his nose. From that point on, there had been an unspoken understanding between the two friends that, if necessary, Earl could take Donny down. That didn’t stop Donny from tormenting Earl with his smart-ass attitude from time to time, but it did establish a boundary that Donny knew not to cross.
The situation between Donny and Ed was now becoming a little too tense for comfort. Earl decided that it was time to change the subject.
“Hey, Eddy boy, remember that time Pops caught the hundred-pounder?”
Ed’s mind quickly flashed to an old photo of himself, Earl, and his father standing before a long sturgeon hanging from a hook attached to a scale, with a reading of just above a hundred pounds.
“Yep, that was a hell of a day,” he muttered.
“Yep,” said Earl, now addressing Donny. “It was Derby Day at the club.”
Donny shot Earl a curious look. “What club?”
“Pops used to belong to the San Pablo Sportsman’s Club down there toward Point Richmond. They tore it all out around ’84. Howard Hughes used to have some seaplanes stored out there right next to the old Ford plant.”
“Yeah, I remember that!” Ed exclaimed. “I was thinking of that when we left the marina this morning. Whatever happened to those planes?”
“I don’t know. They got scrapped out or somethin’. Santa Fe owned that land. When the lease ran out, they shut down the club. That’s where they got the new marina now. Anyways, it was Derby Day, and Pops won first prize with that sturgeon. Got him a new Penn spool reel.”
“I just remember it taking forever to get that fish in.”
“Well, he always used pretty light gear.”
“Twenty-pound test,” recalled Ed.
“Eighteen-pound test, bro. Eighteen.”
“Bullshit!” shouted Donny in disbelief.
“Whatcha mean, bullshit? Hell, that’s what’s on that pole right there,” said Earl, pointing to his rod.
“Yeah? Well, fuck, I’m glad I’m not using your gear then. Yo
u ain’t gonna land shit with that.”
“Hundred-pounder, bud.”
“Yeah, you guys tell some pretty tall fuckin’ stories. Like that 300-pounder you say your uncle caught.”
“Biggest fish I’ve ever seen. I remember goin’ over to Uncle Pete’s. The whole family was there. Shit, the whole neighborhood was there! I was pretty young.” Earl looked at Ed for a moment and then added, “Hell, you were little, bro. I remember Dad carrying you on his shoulders.”
“Yeah, I remember that. I thought it was a whale.”
“Shee-it! Fuckin’ whale,” Donny laughed as he rose to check his bait.
“Yep. I remember the tailgate was down and that sturgeon’s head was on the edge. Its tail ran all the way up the back of the cab.” Earl stared at Donny to make his point. “And that was in the late ’60s, when they made real pickups. Not these midsized, econo-bullshit Japanese trucks.”
“Three hundred pounds?” Donny asked skeptically.
“It was over 290. He was on the news.”
“What’s the record for sturgeon?” asked Ed.
“I think it’s 500 pounds or somethin’ like that. Caught over in Crockett. Right under the Carquinez Bridge. They got it on display there in town at the museum.”
“No shit?”
Donny was now fiddling with his hooks, preparing them for bait. “I seen it,” he interjected. “Looks like a big slug. Sturgeon’s an ugly fuckin’ fish.”
“I don’t know. I think they’re kinda cool lookin’. Like an alligator crossed with a catfish or somethin’,” mused Ed.
Baiting his hook, Don grunted, “Ugly fuckers.”
“Anyways, that’s the big fish of our family,” said Earl. “Can’t keep ’em that big anymore.”
“Hell, I would,” insisted Donny.
“Eh, something that big’s gotta be so old I’d feel bad about killin’ it,” replied Earl. “I’d love to fight one of them big-ass bastards, though. One of these days, I’m gonna lock into one. Got my video camera all set to go.”
Donny finished baiting his hooks and prepared to cast out. “You ain’t gonna lock into shit usin’ them grass shrimp.”