Down the Rabbit Hole

Devonshire

The morning greeted him with bright sunshine and the chirping of Spring birds, punctuated by the staccato burst of battling squirrels above his head. Martin tugged up on his waders and loaded the collection of rods and tackle into the back seat of his battered sedan. He lowered his considerable bulk down into the driver's seat, crushing the collection of old drink cups, candy wrappers and empty Newport boxes scattered around the floor in his quest to find the gas pedal. Martin eased the sedan out onto highway 701, which ran directly past the front door of the ramshackle little house he had inherited from his grandmother a year ago. He fished a fresh box of smokes from the front pocket of his flannel, kicked the car's cigarette lighter in with one knuckle and hummed contentedly while he waited for it to fire up. A few seconds later, following an audible "pop", he lifted the orange coils to the tip of his Newport and inhaled. Martin grinned, escaping smoke snaked through his yellowing teeth. He wiggled the letter opener he'd wedged into the car's radio to make it work and tuned the radio to the only rock station he could get to come in. The scenery, still shaking off the clutches of a hard New England winter, flashed past him as he motored steadily along on rural highway 701. Ten minutes later, he lost reception in the middle of his favorite Creedance song when he turned off 701 and onto the thickly wooded, narrow road that would lead him into the state forest and down to the reservoir and his favorite fishing spot.