Catch & Release (19 page)

My coiled-up poison is gone.

 

“We are doomed,” says Odd. It's the first thing Odd says when we meet up back at D'Elegance. His good mood was short-lived. I guess he didn't catch anything, but bad fishing is not equal to doom. What now? I don't want to ask. I was feeling pretty good there for a few minutes, and I don't want to lose it because Odd wants to share some sour owl-shit philosophy about how we are all assholes. I just need to redirect his attention. “Hey, I can't think of any monsters that start with E. I'm drawing a blank . . .”

“We are fuckin' doomed,” says Odd.

“What you mean? Did we take the wrong turn or something?” I might as well give up and ask. If I don't ask all I'm going to hear for miles will be “doom, doom, doom, doomity, doom, doomed,” like a sleepwalking drummer in a marching band. Let's just skip the halftime and get on with the game.

“Something is going to get us,” says Odd.

Has he been self-medicating again? With what? Prescription pot isn't supposed to be paranoia-inducing, and what he shared seemed pretty sweet. Maybe catching no fish just gave him too much time to think and work up a mood. A mood of doom.

“We could just crash here for a while and take a nap until you feel better,” I say. Naps are golden problem solvers. I learned that at Kid-O-Korral.

“Yeah. Let's just sleep and pretend it's not going to get us.”

“Look Odd, we are totally safe. It's a nice day. Nothing is going to get us. Serial killers are really rare and that parasite . . . just avoid cat boxes. No problem.”

“No. Not just us. All of us. Humans are doomed. We are all gonna die.”

“You got another headache? I'll buy you some sunglasses and aspirin . . . and coffee and pie. Coffee's good for headaches. It's the caffeine.”

“Is caffeine gonna slow down the fucking apocalypse?”

I'm kind of over this conversation. We're all gonna die—blah-blah-blah—what's the point? There is no point—blah-blah-blah. So I try again, “Let's just stop and get some coffee and some pie.”

“It's that kind of thinking that makes us doomed.”

“Thinking about coffee and pie? How's that deadly?”

“Because it's herd thinking. We all just want to be together and chew pie together and breathe the same air together. It's got to stop.”

I agree. Stopping would be good. If we can't stop for coffee and pie, I'd at least like to stop this talking.

“We are all doomed. That is, unless we stay away from the herd and shoot strangers on sight.”

“Really, Odd? Shoot strangers on sight? You know that we—you and me—are strangers?”

“If somebody shoots us, it'll serve us right.”

It's the last word. He jerks open the car door and slams it after him. He doesn't even wait for me to get in before he starts the engine. I'm useless to him. Conversation over. He leans forward and turns on the radio.

I recognize the song. It's about a little girl with cancer who lost her hair from chemo. I hate that song. I fucking hate the radio. Fuck the rules. I push the scan button.

“This is a fallen world. We live in a fallen world,” says the radio.

I push the button again and the radio says, “. . . one of the cars to rupture and leak hydrochloric acid and asphalt into the creek. It is estimated that the three miles below the spill are a dead zone.” I imagine the stretch of river I was fishing this morning changed to acid and asphalt, because somewhere that's what happened. I push the button.

“. . . more gun violence after all, lefties. Look at Mexico, right? Mexico has gun control. Ciudad Juarez and Culiacan are paradise now! No cartels running around and leaving dead bodies in the middle of the road, right?” I think about the gun at the bottom of the sleeping bag and how useful it would be for killing strangers. Does Odd know where I put it? I hope not.

 

I have my tiny pair of lucky scissors in my fishing vest. They aren't ordinary fishing scissors meant for tying flies. They are embroidery scissors shaped like a long-beaked bird, a fishing bird. I swiped them out of my mom's jewelry box when I was eleven. They looked lucky and magical, and I figured fishing takes luck so I put them in the pocket of my vest. As far as fishing mojo goes, they do OK. Better than marshmallow hearts and clovers.

Odd is still giving me the silent treatment. He's even turned off the radio.

I dig the little scissors out and start sawing through the mat of hair at the back of my neck. When the hair is in my hand, it's a relief. Less itchy. Less hot. It's an improvement. I could tie a lot of flies, maybe, with a pile of hair like this. I toss the wad of hair out the window. A bird can make a nest out of it, or somebody will mistake it for a chunk of yeti fur. I hack off the hair over my left ear and eye. Then I stop. I leave the tangle on the other side to help hide my ruined cheek.

 

“Lemme see,” says Odd, so I turn toward him. He glances a couple of times, quick, because we are starting up the pass and the road needs attention. “It'll grow back.”

It's a start.

 

 

“E is for Extras,

Like some monsters got,

Some teeth, mouths, and eyeballs

Where usually there's not.”

 

Odd gives me a bright, full-on smile after he finishes reciting. “There, I did the hard one for you, Polly. Is F for Frankenstein? Or is he too humany for you? One thing you oughta think about is you can break all the rules you want as long as you don't get caught—and nobody's gonna catch
you
because nobody even knows that no-humanymonsters rule except me and you.”

“I'll think about that. I'll think about F. Thanks, Odd,” I say. He's like my own damn weather: I got to live with it, sometimes it sucks, and it changes every five minutes. Right now the sun is shining on the silky mirror of Lake Coeur d'Alene and there is no wind. There are no clouds in the sky.

 

“Gotta meditate. You?” says Odd.

“I'm good,” I say.

“This'll do then,” and he pulls onto an off-ramp to nowhere. He parks D'Elegance in the middle of the road, gets out, walks around the front of the car and starts peeing on the pavement. Because he can, I guess.

When he climbs back in, he's still peeking out of his pants.

“Odd, that's not appropriate. Peeing in public, peeing
on
stuff, not zipping your fly . . .”

He grins and grabs himself, but instead of stuffing himself out of sight, he starts swiveling his penis around like a rubber flashlight. “
Appropriate?
” he says in his Darth Vader voice, “I am the one-eyed god. Who are you, tiny mortal, to tell the one-eyed god what's appropriate? ”

“From where I'm sitting, you're the tiny mortal.”

He shrugs and the puppet show is over.

“Look,” says Odd, “Thor Street. It's a sign from god. Thor is Troutzilla's right-fin man. We take the next exit.”

On a hot day, cold and sweet is very appealing. I'm going to order the hugest drink and suck it down so fast my teeth will ache. This project would have been easier if Odd had just gone to a drive-through, but no, he pulls into a little mall and parks where the signage promises food.

“Need a little change of orientation, body-wise,” he says. “Get me a spicy chicken, fries, and Coke.” Then he heads toward some little cafe tables that crowd the sidewalk between the street and a coffee house. Lucky me. I get to go in and order. If I weren't so in love with the idea of cold and sweet, I'd just drop the seat back, put my hat over my face, and check out. But I want cold and sweet. I've talked myself into it. I can't live without it.

I put on the granny-Chihuahua sunglasses and pull the brim of my hat down on one side. Then I look in the visor mirror. Krikey. Bad idea, mate. Turns out I can actually make myself look worse. Well, maybe not worse, but more obvious. Obvious isn't good. Shit. I'm a person. I can buy lunch in public. I toss the sunglasses in the back seat and restore dignity to my hat. Then I walk into a place that promises fast, fresh, Mexican food. They don't have a spicy chicken sandwich or fries on the menu. That is just fine with me.