Catch & Release (21 page)

“UFO,” says Odd.

“What?”

“UFO. Un-i-fucking-dentified flying object. Right there, coming up,” says Odd. And it is. There is a rusty flying saucer on top of a little hill. How do three cows end up in a boat? I'm pretty sure the answer is related to the thought, “I'm gonna weld me up a flying saucer and put it on the hill.”

“My leg hurts so fucking much,” says Odd. He reaches over and wipes his hand on my clean shirt like I'm a napkin. Then he reaches toward his robot leg. Toward the place where nothing should hurt anymore, but it does.

 

The trees thin out, then they disappear. Knobs of rotten black rock jut out of the hills. Basalt, like in Yellowstone, decaying into ragged teeth. It's hard country, but there's water. There are people fishing.

“Pull over.”

“No, it's a cardigan, but thanks for noticing.”

“Just take the next exit, Odd.”

“The lady needs to pee again? What are you? A camel?”

“The lady needs to fish.”

“Alrighty then.”

 

I'm about to leave Odd behind on the bank and go to the next good place when he gets lucky on his first cast. That's something. I figure I'll stick around to watch the fun, maybe help with the net, because this one looks like it's big enough to require that sort of thing.

At that moment, there is a buzz. A distinctive and unwelcome buzz. And then WHAM! A snake hits Odd right in the robot leg. Odd reacts, BAM! And lashes out with the rod in his hand—because that's what is in his hand. It's a bad idea. The rod shatters. The snake recoils. Odd just flings himself off the bank. It was probably meant to be a jump, but it's more of a collapse. But the next strike falls short, so that's mission accomplished. And the snake disappears. It doesn't want be involved in this, either.

“You OK?”

“Fuckin' snake bit me. It bit me.”

I worry I saw wrong. Maybe it didn't just hit metal then. Maybe it hit meat.

“Come on. We'll get you to the car. We'll get you help. Does it hurt?”

“No. It doesn't hurt. The fuckin' thing doesn't hurt at all now,” says Odd, and he whacks his robot leg with what's left of his rod. “I. Can't. Feel. A. Fuckin'. Thing.” Each word is another slash with the butt of the broken rod. Then he chucks the ruined handle and reel out into the lake. He picks up a rock.

“No! Stop!” I grab his hand and put my other arm over the robot leg. If he starts pounding on it with the rock, he could do some damage. He lets go of the rock. He lets me take it. He's not angry. He's not scared. He's not even sad.

“Do you want me to try to find your reel? I can probably just follow the line.”

“Don't. I don't need it. I don't want it. What's the point? I can't catch nothing but the MRSA.”

He opens up the passenger side, gets in, and slams the door.

I break down my rod and get everything in order. Then I just sort of wait for Odd to move into the driver's seat. He needs to get over being rattled.

Then he leans over and pops the driver's-side door open. Maybe he needs to talk. So I walk over and get in the car. I feel like a little kid sitting there. The seat is too far back.

I remember playing in Dad's truck, kneeling on the seat so I could see out. “Never touch the gearshift, Polly,” says Dad. And of course I did. And of course the truck started rolling down the slope into the herd of cattle my dad had come to take care of—until the front tires slipped into a little ditch. My mouth banged hard on the steering wheel and my teeth cut through my lip. I'd only just started crying when Dad jerked the door open. He was mad for a moment, and then he scooped me up and said, “Don't cry, Polly. It's OK. It's OK. It's just a little blood. It won't leave a scar.”

“Hey, it's OK,” I start the conversation.

“Shut up and drive,” says Odd.

“You're OK, aren't you? The snake didn't really bite you, right? There's no emergency. When you are ready to go, we'll go.”

“Gimme a break. Just drive.”

I don't say anything. I just point at the lump of blind scar.

“Bullshit,” says Odd, “You can see fine out of your left eye. Just drive, you pussy.”

 

So I'm creeping down the blacktop slowly, so slowly, slow as a little old man wearing a hat, and we all know how slow they drive. I hate it. I hate driving. I hate being half blind. I hate Odd. I hate big two-fisted trout that won't be caught. I hate Bridger, too, a lot, as long as I'm at it.

I hate everything so much that I turn around after a while and find my way back to the interstate. I wait at the top of the merging ramp until I can't see another car or truck in any direction, and then I'm driving toward Portland by way of Kennewick. The green sign says so. I'm not going fast, but I'm driving. And, honestly, I might be a better driver than that pie-scarfing emo-coaster Odd Estes.

 

On a straight stretch I reach out and turn on the radio, because the driver calls the tune, and, hey! It's me, the driver.

 

I keep driving, but I wonder: Who gets to decide what's decent and indecent? Who gets to decide? Why does my face need to be naked but my boobs need to be not? Why is Odd's one-eyed trout puppet way out of line? Would an eye patch make me a pirate? Would a baggy dress make me a terrorist?

“Hey, that sign says gas next right,” says Odd. So I take the off-ramp, but wherever we are going, wherever the gas is, isn't here. Not right here. The question is, do I trust what I see, which is vast tracts of nothing, or what the sign promised? Either way we are going to be out of gas pretty soon. There's a whole lot of the world I can't see. So I keep driving down the two-lane and pretty soon I do see something. Not a town, but a lot of busted-up machinery, rusted combines and snowplows and caterpillar tractors. It looks like I've found a place where those things go to die.