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When boredom strikes the fisherman’s wife...
By Reavis Z. Wortham
Contributor
Published October 29, 2009
I made a long cast toward the bank as our rented johnboat floated downstream on an Arkansas river. It was a fruitless cast in a succession of futile attempts to hook at least one trout to make the weekend a success.
In the middle seat behind me, the War Department leaned back against the gunwale with her face turned toward the sun. She’d long ago given up on fishing, preferring to absorb as much Vitamin D as possible before the afternoon clouds rolled in.
In the stern, manning the outboard motor, sat Woodrow. He’d been dragging worms and piloting the boat for much of the day without result. The only things keeping him awake were his duties as captain, and the cooler at his feet.
Our routine was to motor upstream for a mile or so, then drift with the current, casting toward likely looking holes and cuts in the bank. Unfortunately, every trout in the river was apparently suffering from lockjaw…
…and that’s when trouble struck. I could tell it was coming, because the War Department began grumbling about the lack of strikes. We’d just piloted upstream to begin another drift, when I heard a rustle behind me. Thinking the War Department had finally decided to fish again, I expected to hear the sounds of her line splashing into the water.
Instead, she said, “Be still.”
“OWWW. That hurts.”
“Quit whining. We do it all the time.”
Hummm. I reeled and cast again. The drag anchor in the bow kept the boat pointed upstream, so I spent most of my time staring away from my companions. After a period of piteous moans, there was another rustle.
“Just sit still.”
I glanced around and saw her sitting on Woodrow’s cooler, facing him.
“Let’s try this,” she said. Woodrow gazed back with freshly plucked eyebrows and what appeared to be mascara on his eyes. He seemed perfectly oblivious to what was happening to his face.
Something tugged at my line, so I returned to fishing, half-listening to what was behind me. Virtually all the conversation came from the War Department, and it was mostly orders.
“Close your eyes.”
“Do this.”
“Shut up.”
“Be still.”
“What difference does it make?”
A light tap on my line indicated a strike, so I turned my attention to fishing while the bank continued to drift past. The sounds of a minor struggle caused me to turn again.
“This isn’t your shade, but it’ll do.”
“Look up.”
She applied eyeliner as Woodrow sat immobile.
“Uh, is there something I’m supposed to know about you Woodrow?” I asked.
“Can I move?” he asked.
“A little,” she said. “Pooch out your lips.”
“We got bored,” he answered after she applied lipstick.
“I’ve never seen this side of you,” I said, calmly in light of the developing situation. Then my rod bowed again. This time it was truly a fish and I turned my attention back to the job at hand. After a short struggle, the trout threw the lure and I was fishless.
When I turned again, the War Department had finished with his eyes and was blending makeup into the lines in his face above his gray beard. “This fills the wrinkles,” she said.
“You look like Papa Hemingway in drag,” I said. “Is that the idea?”
People have often said Woodrow looks like Hemingway, but I figured the old man was turning over in his grave at that point.
Before I knew it, I heard the familiar click of the War Department’s cosmetic bag closing.
“Finished.”
We were almost at our takeout point. The dock and facilities was only a hundred yards away. The War Department returned to her middle seat and gave Woodrow an appraising look.
“Not bad.”
“Frightening,” I said. “Those earrings might be a bit much.”
He pursed his lips in my direction. Pouty.
“I have to go to the restroom,” he said, firing up the motor and heading us into the dock slip.
I reeled in my line and settled down on the front bench seat.
“You’re going up there to the marina restroom like that?”
“Why not?” he asked, lifting a plucked eyebrow. “It’s almost Halloween anyway.”
“This is Arkansas. We’re out in the country. You’re completely made up and I think you’re really straight.”
“So?”
We gently bumped the dock and one of the employees took the bow line and froze, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the apparition in the company boat.
I closed my tackle box.
“So I can’t wait to see which bathroom you’re intending to use.”
We climbed out of the boat, hurried up the bank to the restroom and I watched him choose between the men’s room and the ladies room.
Of course it was the appropriate choice, but the look on the face of a little old lady as he emerged later was priceless. Which one did he choose?
You figure it out. It was, after all, Halloween.
Reavis Wortham is an award-winning outdoor writer with Lamar County ties.
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