Cold Front (Short (really short) story)

“Doesn’t look like it’s going to let up anytime soon.”

The rain drew concentric patterns on the surface of the creek which wound its way laboriously through the brush. Beads of water catching the last fleeting embers of daylight shone on the pair of rods that leaned against a knotted oak.

“No it does not.”

Individual drops beat upon the weather-worn tarp under which the two men rested. The young man fought back a shiver. He stood with his hands buried inside the pockets of the slick rain jacket. His waders, now nearly dry, save the right boot where his foot soaked mournfully in the damp sock, were still clasped over his shoulders. The older man sat in a metal folding chair, one leg placed deliberately over the other despite the weight of the heavy boot. He puffed slowly on a dun-colored cigar, the smoke of which drifted lazily in the breezeless twilight.

The young man watched furtively the slow eddies swirling above the stony creek bed.

“The fishing used to be a lot better, the older man began. The last ten or fifteen years they come in here and cut back the brush. He pointed toward the opposing bank where a swift riffle disturbed the pristine water. It made the fishing a hell of a lot easier; easier to cast, but it cut out a lot of the good cover. Used to be you’d be able to get a 10 or a 12 inch brookie out. Now you’re lucky if you get a 5. There’s still lots of fish--- all small though, all small. Still a good run though. Good dark water before that bend there.”

He tapped off the cigar. The ashes fell on the outstretched fronds of bracken like the remains of distant fires.

The young man opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

The old man’s eyes scanned the far bank where a few spinners hung precipitously over the water’s surface unable to resist the tantalizing allure, unable to resist pure biological imperative of the rippling water.

“It’s be a good night for a ballgame. Too bad they played early.”

There was a pause, the elder uncrossed and recrossed his legs and continued.

“Sale was pitching. The Tige’s had just tied it up when you went out. Victor hit a single. He’s a hell of a pitcher, Sale. They can’t count on a lot today.”

“No they can’t.”

The dull gurgle of the water over time-worn, algae-covered stones enveloped all.

“What’d you say you got? Six? Seven?”

“Six. I lost a few---probably the biggest one, just flipped off as I was bringing it in. About four feet away.”

“Need to set the hook sooner,” the older man stated as if reading the weather.

“K.”

“Where’d you hook him?”

“Just around the bend from camp, above that downed log. I was almost back when it started raining. I just came up to grab a raincoat.”

“Doesn’t look good. He sucked greedily at the cigar. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were a warm rain, but cold, cold’ll chill you real quick. Doesn’t need to be too cold to get hypothermia.”

The young man slid silently to the open tailgate of the pickup flicking off small puddles that had formed there with his palm. Hoisting himself up he sat and unclasped the elastic suspenders of the waiters and shimmied himself out, letting the discolored and patched equipment fall to the ground.

A woodpecker ceremoniously alighted on a nearby tree with a jarring call not unlike a catbird and began drumming away against the hollow trunk.

Without fear or shame the young man removed his shorts and pulled on the pair of dirtied jeans which lay in a heap in the truck’s bed.

He returned barefoot to the covered awing under which the old man sat smoking, staring absently out across the water. He relished the way the carpet of pine needles felt beneath his pruned toes, like a newborn awakened to the world.

He sidled beside, beside, not in front of, the old man. The elder never broke his gaze--- a transfixed stare searching, searching. Joining him, the young man too watched anxiously.

“Sometimes I come up in early May, the elder said. It’ll be nice during the day. You go to bed, 9, 10. You wake up and it drops down to 40 at night. You don’t want to get out of your sleeping bag in the morning but you look out and there’s this fine mist out over the water. This is good too though. They’re saying it will clear up tomorrow. Only scattered showers. We’ll get one last go. The fishing will be crap though. Trout don’t like the cold fronts. It’s the pressure I guess. They hunker down. You might pull em with a streamer if you run it right up against the bank where it’s undercut. Yeah we’ll l get one last go.”

The young man proceeded twenty paces and approached the edge of the creek through sodden grasses and beleaguered stems. He stood and looked out across the water. Still the rain fell. Still the creek ran. He stared unmoving, unconcerned with the old man’s eyes upon his back.