©2002jgoldberg

                                                     The Fly Fisherman

                                                                   by

                                                           judi goldberg

She called him late in the evening from work.  "We need to talk.  Will you be awake when I come home?"

"Yeah sure.  Of course."

"Good."  Her voice softened, "I'll see you then.  Bye."

When she got home, their two storey house was dark.   She called his name.  He was upstairs, in his studio.  She had the funny thought, that maybe he had some other woman up there.  She started a whole argument in her head, and remembering the phone call, realized it couldn't possibly matter.

"...I'm home."

"Up here Honeybuns."  She thought of the first time he called her that, and how sweet it was.

She took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet.  She put her car keys on the hook where they kept all their keys and laid her purse in its spot on the entry-way hutch.  She took off her shoes and put them in the basket under the hutch.  She thought about getting herself a drink, and one for him, and decided against it.  She walked upstairs and knocked on his door.

"Come on in," he said.

She opened the door and stood in the doorway.

"I think we need to separate," she said, in the same cadence she might have said the car is making a funny noise.  Stepping into the room just enough to close the door, she waited for him to start telling her what she really wanted.

"I knew you were going to say that," he said, intent on whip-finishing the head of the fly he was tying.  He didn't look up.

"Damn!  Could have fooled me!"  In spite of herself, the fly in the vise intrigued her.  She had no idea what it was.  But she saw right away it broke his cardinal rule of design; a discernible unity riding herd on variety.  The body was tinsel chenille, like a Muddler of some sort, but he'd used bits of orange foam and Mylar glow-in-the-dark flash, as if it were a wasp or an ant or a misguided beetle.  

"Guess I did, too, " he threw in, now that she was thoroughly distracted.

"...uh," she looked up quickly, "...and that's it?"

"Would it have made a difference?"  He dabbed the head of the fly with cement.

"How come you acted like everything was okay?"

"As far as I'm concerned..." he took the fly out of the vise, "...everything is okay, Honeybuns." He inspected it carefully making sure the cement was dry, ruffled the hackle gently, and laid it on the table.  Then he folded the lamp down toward the floor and swivelled the chair to face her.   "What now?"

"I don't get it!  You have nothing to say?"

"Not for me to say."

"Well that's just great!  How can you just...sit there?"

"Not up to me, Babe."

"Don't you even care?!"

"Of course.  Same as I always have.  Love at first sight for me."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"What do you want?"

"...you know more about your damn flies...than me!"

"Well I sure as hell know their barb isn't as sharp as yours."

"Only because you cut the damn thing off!"

She walked over to the end of the drawing table where the tackle box sat close to the edge.

Not sure how angry she was, or what exactly she wanted, he wondered whether she would knock it off the table.    He grimaced at the thought of having to sort the flies; there were probably more than a hundred of the buggers.   The real aggravation for him was by now there didn't seem to be one way that was any better than another to organize them.  At first, he had done it by name, then by size, then by color, then just Wet or Dry.  And now, they were so familiar to him, he wasn't sure it was necessary or worth his time to sort them at all.    He'd just find the one he wanted when he was out there.  Or not.

She picked out a nymph, remembering all the banter when they were first married, and thought about the one he had designed for their first anniversary celebration.  They had named it Blushing Bride.  It had a red hackle, a soft brown body, gold wings and going against the strict fly tying protocol of the time, he had added glitter to its head--just like the tiara she hadn't worn at their wedding.   She smiled.

"...there's still one in there," he said, "if you want to see it."

"I want to go dancing."

"You can."

"Take me out for a drink!"

"No, thanks."

"Why?"

"I thought you wanted to separate."

"...would you even notice?"

"Yes."

He lowered the seat of his desk chair and walked toward the cabinet where he kept his collection of fly-rods.

"...where the hell are you going?"

He opened the doors and picked out the short light-weight bamboo rod his grandfather had made him for his 10th birthday.  Taking it out of the chammy bag, he assembled it, oiling the ferrules in the crook of his nose before joining the two pieces.   He took the reel out of its pouch and attached it to the rod.  Next, he patiently threaded the line through the guides and tied on a short leader.   He propped the rod up against the cabinet and turned toward her.

"Fishing.  I'm going fishing."

"It's the middle of the night for Chrissakes!"

She sat down on his chair, without a second thought, and raised the seat.  In spite of herself she picked up the fly.  "This by far has got to be the ugliest-ass fly I've ever seen.  What the hell is it?"

"There's a new hatch."

"Of  what?!"

"It's a...Harpy Tamer, Honeybuns.  And for your information, it only works in the middle of the night.  Now, hand it over." 

As she jumped off the seat to throw the damn thing at him, the tackle box fell off the table.

 

"Shit!"

"Careful now."

"Ouch!  These goddamn things...I've got one in my foot!"

"Here, let me see."  Carefully he moved the scattered flies aside so they could sit on the floor.  "Sit down.  Give me your foot."  He took her foot into his lap.  "Mmhm, sure enough you got hooked..."

"Get it out!"

  "Let me look a minute."  He turned her foot from side to side.  He started to laugh.

"What's so damn funny?" she jerked her foot away.

"Well..."

"Well what?"

"Ok ok...come on, give me your foot."

"I'm glad you find this so amusing!"

"Well, MylittleNell...it's a...a fine kettle of fish and you being the poet in the family will appreciate the justice...It's a Royal Wulff.   And since the Wulff is one of your favorites, I know you remember the way old Ross Purnell describes it, "...the Wulff," he cleared his throat, "is a killer dry-fly..."

"...pattern, it's a killer dry-fly pattern..."

"...and especially," he quoted almost verbatim, "for fish that have rolled on other patterns but not actually taken the fly..."

"Very funny."

"And my little SweetPea, since you tied it..."

"Oh Christ!"

"It's a fact. You tied it so the barb..."

"What about the damn barb?"

"Well MyLittleTrout, leaving the barb on the hook, like you do, makes catch and release almost impossible."

With special thanks to Ross Purnell and The Virtual Fly Shop