Rowdy Randy: The Fishchercism
What a bright face and smile the boy had. My son and I were in the middle of a “two for one operation” picking worms for fishing while digging potatoes from the garden. Nick was holding up a worm in one hand and a potato in another, proudly displaying each with equal appreciation. The boy’s grandfather was in town and had promised to take him fishing. I don’t know how it happened, but my boy loves to fish. He loves it all the more with his “Pa Pa”, so as we gathered bait and he thought of the fishing to come, his eyes were as big and bright as locomotive headlights. As I watched the three foot tall bundle of happiness hop through the garden I thought, “He’s come along way since he possessed that body of a demon.”
You see the promise of fishing can cause as much angst as happiness when you’re four. Last year, around this time, we were packing for vacation. When Nick saw the rods and tackle come out, this idea of a vacation became a lot more interesting to him. He got that gleam in his eye as he asked when and where the blessed event of fishing would take place. I stated, “When we get out West, we will fish.” The way Nick had it figured; one step on a 270 degree azimuth was “West” so break out the gear. I explained to him that we had to drive west. As we carefully stowed the gear into the van, he tried to understand. The problem was that it made sense to him that once we started driving we were on vacation and headed west. So, each time we saw a body of water, it seemed reasonable to him that we ought to stop and throw lines. Do you know how many bodies of water you can see by van from Pennsylvania to South Dakota? I do now. Nick does. And he made sure anyone else who happened to be on Route 80/90 West and East over the period of those three days of driving knew. Every time we crossed a bridge. Nick would announce that it looked like a perfectly good spot to spend vacation fishing. The more water ways we passed, the more emphatically he informed us of our vacation misgivings. By the time we hit Minnesota, the boy had turned into a quivering mess of fishing withdrawal. There was a certain twitch in his eye as we crossed the Mississippi River into somewhere in the Eastern side of South Dakota. I think some poor demon became possessed by a fishing deprived four year old boy. I was getting desperate for help.
Finally we saw salvation. In the Black Hills, a road sign triumphed, “Rowdy Randy’s public fee fishing ahead!” Nick saw the sign, too. I thought we were safe since demons can’t read. Between all the fighting against the restraints of his car seat, as luck would have it the boy noticed a picture of a kid on the billboard holding up a fish. He knew what the sign meant. The seatbelt started ripping as the van shook from the contained desire to cast. To make matters worse, Rowdy Randy wasn’t from the school of one billboard advertising. There was another sign every so often announcing that we were getting close and counting down the distance. Each sign made Nick turn another weird color as he screeched that there was fishing around here somewhere. (Unfortunately, he couldn’t read ONLY 3 MILES AHEAD). Rowdy Randy was like an oasis in the Sahara. It was Saturday morning, still tourist season. The day was beautiful; certainly we had this in the bag. Finally, at 1/10th of a mile to go we announced that after only 20 more signs we would be at the fishing place. Instead of relaxing some as I had hoped, the boy seemed even more excited. There were strange sounds, ripping noises and flashes of light coming from the back of the van. I felt bad for the demon. I swung into the parking lot like Starsky and Hutch on a donut raid. Before the dust cleared, we were out of the van, unpacking fishing gear. Nick was hollering, “C’mon Dad, C’mon.” As I desperately tried to untangle fishing line, which over 2000 miles of bouncing became fused into on hideous gob like a Gideon knot, Nick, who could no longer control himself, was hopping all over the place. Sweat was pouring off him, ashen and gray pleading with me to get going and then it happened…his head did two 360 degree spins and he started spitting pea soup. Okay, I’m exaggerating some (Nick would never eat pea soup) but my boy was quite a spectacle.
Finally, the rods were free and we sprinted (Nick triple-lutzed his way) for Rowdy Randy’s pay office where we found a simple “closed” sign hanging in the door. (Thank goodness boy/demons can only read pictures). However there was hope! Standing out by the water were a couple of guys fly fishing. I went back to inquire as to exactly how “closed” Randy really was. As I approached the one angler he turned to me and said, “Dude, I don’t know what kind of weird pet you have but that thing needs to be leashed.” I had no time to explain so I just blurted, “That’s my son.” (I decided not to talk about what he did to his leash when we drove by the Wisconsin Dells). The angler replied, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought…how long does he have?” I looked down as I said, “Until, I tell him to pack his rod back up.” The second angler asked, “Does anyone smell pea soup?” After I explained what demonic bile was, they took mercy on me and gave me the scoop. Rowdy Randy was home and a friend of theirs. He lived in a house overlooking the creek. The store was closed for the season and the place was fished out so he didn’t mind if folks just pulled in and fished. I said that was fine, the fish demon didn’t care what he caught.
Within moments we learned that “fished out” in the Black Hills means “huge rainbows on every cast.” After awhile, I started to wonder about the credibility of Rowdy Randy’s friends. Just about then, another van swung in Rowdy Randy’s dirt lot, kicking up dust. I heard another boy screeching, “C’mon, Dad!” The Dad ran down with a desperate look in his eye, looking for help. I pointed out Randy’s “friends” then we quietly packed up. I slipped forty bucks with a note under Randy’s office door and we continued west. As far as Nick was concerned, vacation was slow to start but a success. He let what was left of the demon go.