Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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You should always try to protect your Baja fishing gear
House on a Finger
I can’t talk to Cecil, my cousin. Can’t talk to my Mom anymore. She’s sitting there in that little wornout farmhouse in Iowa and I know damn well she
doesn’t even know where Phoenix is, couldn’t find it on a map. So how the hell can I communicate with her about what I’m facing here?
I end up talking to myself. I talk things out, try to pin down where the problems are, where I’m headed, how to get there, how to get around the
chitload of obstacles. Don’t even know if it does any good. Right now I’ve got to stay on Cecil’s good side, his old lady’s too, so I can crash a
little longer here in his garage.
I got somehow snatched out of that nice little pad on Harvey street with Cindy and plunked down in this musty old sleeping bag on a cot in a garage
with no heat, faster than you can blink. She didn’t catch me slippin’ around, she got the itch in a bad place and that was that. I like to have a
choice when I move – I come home, all my chit is on the lawn. Anybody could have stole my stuff, anybody. And it’s cold now, really cold for Phoenix I
think.
I almost have to laugh when I think about those rich pricks with money to throw at problems like mine. Just give em’ the Kobe solution, a rock on the
finger worth more than a mansion and you can do all the slippin’ and slidin’ that’s out there to be had. I’ve got $800 I’m holding on to – I don’t
know if that would be enough to cool Cindy down but I’m not taking a chance. I’ll try it this way, stay here at least until next payday.
I keep putting that cream on a couple times a day and I think my itching is going away. Good thing too because there are two young honeys in my night
real estate class I would like to try on. It’s a good gosh darnned thing the school made good on the guarantee – the tests are all screwed up and I
failed the first time. Arizona is making me take the school again, before I can test again. Only two more tries. Who cares? Why should I sit there,
week after week, going over the same boring chit? For what? In this market? Now I decide it’s a good idea to go into real estate?
I gotta get out of the supermarket, the produce thing. It’s boring, they pay nothing, always somebody watching you, pushing you, stupid, clumsy
shoppers knocking everything over. What they don’t ruin with the squeezing, they muck up with their filthy hands. Who knows what they have on their
hands? Maybe I should have told Cindy I got the itch at work, from the fruit, from the filthy shoppers.
That’s another problem; my clothes. Patty Ann won’t let me use her iron. She told Cecil I could use the guest bathroom off the garage but she doesn’t
really want me in the house. So I end up taking my stuff to the Lavamatic but I’m not going to pay them to iron, not at those prices. My shirts for
work, for school, for the bars, are clean but they have these creases that mark me as some kind of loser or street creep. Sweaters hide the problem
but I only have two and they make things worse, not better. Cindy used the softener, put the good iron on my stuff and I looked pretty Joe Preppy with
my best wind breaker and clean boots. Got me lots of almost free rockin’ and rollin’ with the ladies.
Out of nowhere, a chance at a little score. Patty Ann and Cecil went out for the evening, hired a baby sitter for Jenean since they don’t want me in
the house and don’t trust me. I looked around the garage for some old things maybe Cecil wouldn’t miss that I could sell or pawn. The garage roof is
open rafters and there were some things wrapped in tarps up there. I grabbed the ladder, stepped up to investigate. Old skis and sticks. Too old. Then
I gently unwrapped a tarp, then a blanket, then a sheet to discover a gold mine. Fishing stuff, big gold reels and custom rods, four of em. He never
uses this stuff and probably won’t discover it’s missing for a long assed time. I’ll sell em to the Mormon at work. He’ll be lookin’ for a bargain.
The next day at work I waited for the Mormon at his first doughnut run of the day, waited until he got back to his office door and asked if I could
talk to him in private. We went into his small office.
“Mr. Charleston, my dad in Iowa is dying of leukemia. He doesn’t have insurance and he needs money for bone marrow transplants. I want to help him but
I’m a little short right now so I have to sell the things he gave me when I came out here to Phoenix. He was a world class fisherman and he gave me
some special equipment I’ve hardly used. I’d like to bring the rods and reels in tomorrow, store em in dock produce, the rods won’t fit in the cab of
my truck, so you can see if you’re interested.”
“Greg, is it Greg? I haven’t been fishing in a very long time but it won’t hurt to look. Bring them in and come get me when they’re here. And Greg, I
like your fruits but you need to work on the vegetables – you’ve got romaine in the bok choy, spinach in the chard. Go online or visit the library.
Study the orientals.”
Just like that. How in the hell did he ever get to be store manager? I went to school with some Mormons. When they get married in the temple they get
set up to stay together after they die! I mean, come on. First you stay hitched for forty or fifty years, the old lady maybe started out with silky
skin, big ta taas, nice smile but after fifty years? Then she dies, you’re rid of her, livin’ large and then you die. Bam, you’re back with her but
this time it’s for ever, for ev-er. What if you both die young? You can bet the farm there won’t be any slick sheister lawyers up there to save your
ass if you get caught sleeping around. No hot diamond merchants either.
I fixed the tarp-blanket roll to look like the gear was still there, snuck the stuff out to the store the next morning. After I dusted them off, laid
them out just so, they looked great. Now, how much to charge? There’s four of them – would a hundred apiece be too much. I think I’ll start with that,
throw in the reel covers if the Morman goes for it. If not, we can begin to haggle some.
“Well, Greg, I’m impressed. Your father had some nice equipment. My only problem is the time, getting the time off to use these.”
He picked up each one, one at a time, looked them over good, turned the handles, pulled on the strings, checked for dings, the works. He was
interested.
Finally, “Well, what do you want for them?”
“I was thinking a hundred, each. Four hundred for the lot.”
“Four hundred? Four hundred dollars?”
“For that you also get the reel covers. They’re right over here. Here. Like new. My daddy kept them on all the time, never removed them when they were
stored. They’re all in tip top shape, don’t you think?”
“This your daddy? C. Garvey? Inlaid on the rods?”
“Yessir, Clarence Garvey, that’s my poor old dad. You’d be saving his life, Mr. Charleston.”
“Well, Greg, I don’t know you and I don’t know your father. But right now he’s in need and I think it’s admirable you want to help any way you can.
I’ll take them. Four hundred. Just come up to the office and I’ll write you a check….”
“Uh, cash. Please. I need cash. I don’t bank. I don’t use banks, never did. So if you don’t mind sir.”
Just like that I had enough money to get my own pad including the deposit. Nothing fancy but at least I’ll have a bed, my own fridge, my own bathroom.
Two days later I was stacking oranges in produce when along came my loving cousin Cecil.
“Greg, Greg, where’s my flocking fishing rods and reels?. Don’t give me any wise ass bullchit. I know you took em’. Where are they? Now, tell me right
now, or you’re gonna be fruit pulp, right here in front of your fellow employees.”
“Okay, Okay, I was in a jackpot with the police, needed some ‘get out of jail’ money. Okay, I sold em to the store manager. I can buy em back. I just
figured you weren’t using them, wouldn’t be needing them, why not use them to stay out of jail? I planned on getting them back anyway, buying them
back from the guy once I got free, outside, to make some scores, get some money back in my pockets, pay you back for letting me crash at your place.”
“I don’t give a chit about your excuses. You’re a lowlife Greg. Not just a street criminal but a stupid one. I think you want to get caught. I think
you want to suffer. Why else would you leave the flocking ladder where you did?, Huh? Never mind. You still have the money I hope. The money to buy
them back. How much, how much did the guy pay you?”
“Four hundred.”
“Four hundred dollars? For those four rods and reels? Four hundred dollars? Is this a joke? What the flock are you saying? Four hundred dollars? Greg
is this another way out scam of yours? Those are $250 dollar custom rods and $500 dollar reels. They’re like brand new. Brand new, four years ago I
paid, I don’t know. maybe close to $4,000 dollars including the reel covers. Are you nuts? Come on, let’s go see the manager. Where’s his office.”
Off we went, him pulling, me dragging, all the way to the office.
I explained the problem to Charleston, Cecil explained his end, the manager said his part and it was agreed that I would give Cecil $500 dollars, he
would give it to Charleston, we would all drive to Charleston’s house and get the fishing stuff. It was agreed that there was, at this time, no need
to call the police for any kind of report about a private matter. We followed Charleston’s tan Buick in Cecil’s van to the house and made the deal.
“Greg, under the circumstances I think you will not be too surprised to learn that you are fired for cause as of this moment. If I learn you have
applied for unemployment compensation under our number I will be forced to make a formal police report of the whole matter and will fight your
application accordingly. If you suppose we will file criminal charges, you would be correct.”
Cecil dropped me back at the store and there’s no reason to go into what he had to say. He never, never used that fishing gear. He wouldn’t admit that
part probably even now. What about that?
Here’s a short range plan that might work. If my truck had a camper I could put a little cot in the bed, some kind of soft mattress and be protected
from the elements until I could get set up again. The RV places put those little camper tops way in the back by the fences and nobody has any money
anymore for security. I’ll drive around until I find some likely ones. Should be no big deal to get through most chain link things with bolt cutters,
pull one out, drag it aways out of sight and push/pull it on top. Then, maybe Cindy’s itch has subsided enough for me to employ some trinket, lay some
shiny, empty gesture on her that’s just enough to get me back in. Won’t even be a garage on a finger but it might be enough for awhile…..
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Udo
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6364
Registered: 4-26-2008
Location: Black Hills, SD/Ensenada/San Felipe
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Mood: TEQUILA!
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Now I now what you do when not fishing, Jorge!
Great short story, and good imagination. Your fiction works overtime during stormy days, huh?
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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toneart
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4901
Registered: 7-23-2006
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Mood: Skeptical
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I enjoyed this story very much. Thank you!
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Iflyfish
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3747
Registered: 10-17-2006
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Like reading Elmore Leonard, disgusting character but written so well I want to find out what happens. You are a pro amigo.
Iflyfish
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monoloco
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6667
Registered: 7-13-2009
Location: Pescadero BCS
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Good work!
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Pescador
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3587
Registered: 10-17-2002
Location: Baja California Sur
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Okay, Jorge, you done crossed the line this time. It is against my religion to swipe fishing rods and to sell them is the ultimate blasphemy, but
darn it, I still loved the story even if I did hate the main character, but I guess that was what you intended anyway.
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Martyman
Super Nomad
Posts: 1904
Registered: 9-10-2004
Member Is Offline
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I'se been looking for some a them gold reels...
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