For this one you’ll need a gaff, not a hook
by
Kipras Kaukenas ︎︎︎“Through years of regression, we saw each other coming to the beginning of an end. Here I was alone, young, deranged, and partially sweet; a global citizen paving incipient steps in life destitute of belief in the American dream; an American who shall proudly call himself a Jew, if not for the concept of ressentiment and historical facts—the exodus of Jews that coincided with their carnage… If not for Palestine. I was within an ace to… to do things I would regret doing but also things that would prevent me from regretting indefinitely ever after, if you know what I mean. They say elision is but a poet’s word…
I truly hoped that some alcoholic sitting on the curb with his tongue’s perennial sharpness would have brought me back to my senses. I hoped to have saved some Air Miles before the final flight; find an answer to the cosmohistorical question by prodding around places that wafted of shit and piss. Neither a lily in the field, nor a bird in the sky gave me solace. I hoped for a meteorite to come crashing, but it was I who had crashed like a meteorite that became tired of revolving around its orbit. But the moments of crisis pass, or?”
“Say, Josh, good to be outside from the city, get some fresh air.”
“Sure thing,” Doug said, brushing through his tousled gray hair before putting his cap back on.
“It’s been a while since we took your boat on a fishing trip. This winter was freezing cold, I thought spring would never come. I got so tired of fishing on ice. Praying to God every single time, asking him to protect me from frostbite.” Josh said, looking at the sky as if trying to count his wintry experiences.
“Doug, do you think smallmouth basses live around this area? I reckon this current is strong enough to attract them? I don’t remember us crossing this delta before.”
“I think they do. Why look at those reedbeds running along the bank. There must be tons of food for them.” Josh said.
Doug manoeuvred the boat closer to the bank with the intention to find a sweet fishing spot.
“What’s that, floating there?” Doug said.
“No,” Josh said, leaning over the bow.
“What?” Doug said, stuck by the rudder.
“Is that a person?” Josh said.
“Jeepers.” Doug stroked his hair backward once more and put the cap back on as they came closer to the flotsam.
“Heavens to Betsy, what has happened here?” Josh said. His face was hijacked of all its color.
“It looks as if he’s been here for a while,” Doug remarked. Josh crossed himself trice.
“What’s that floating bottle attached to him? It has some paper rolled up inside,” Josh said.
Doug took a knife and cut a wattle rope tied to the drowned man’s wrist.
“Should I open it?” Doug asked.
“He’s dead anyway, it was certainly meant to be read, don’t you think?” Josh said and glanced at the floating body once more, “For this one you’ll need a gaff, not a hook.”
Doug brushed through his tousled gray hair before putting his cap back on, uncorked the bottle, took out the piece of paper, and started reading out loud: