I've done some editing, take it for what it's worth; just an opinion from a guy who may or may not know what he is doing.
I know what it means to put your heart into a piece so please do not take this as negative criticism. You have written a nice pirce about the bond between a father and son that is found in their special experience of fishing on Saturday.
SO other than the edit, here are some observations.
I find it's best in dialogue to avoid the "he said and just set the dialogue apart in quotes.
I believe it's best to keep sentences short unless there is descriptive details that need to be conveyed. So, see what you think of my editing.
It was a nice piece and conveyed a good sense the bond of a special time between dad and son.
the edited version is below.
The helicopter’s searchlight filled my room with light, its heavy engines filled the night. Sleep was not an option, so I awoke reluctantly and swung my legs from the bed resting my bare feet on the carpet floor and got ready for my Saturday fishing trip with my brother and Dad.
My father had many jobs in his life. He did drove delivery trucks, painted houses. I once found an old McDonald’s name tag in his drawer.
The job he held for the longest, and what he enjoyed most, was the job that kept him away on most Saturdays, as short order chef at a downtown hotel.
My brother’s bedroom door was closed but I could see blue light that escaped below the threshold and hear the electronic music of his video games. I barged in in spite of his desire for privacy. “Hey. You have to get ready. We are going fishing.”
“I’m not going fishing.”
“What? Quit playing. We have to go load up our gear. Dad wants to leave by six o’clock.”
I watched him in silence for a few minutes before shrugging my shoulders and leaving his room. The door slammed behind me.
My father was already dressed in his favorite brown denim jacket and waders when I found him slaving away over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
He took the same care with my lunch as he did when making those high class meals for his hotel guests.
“Good morning, son. Are your ready to catch a ton of fish?” His voice was a cheerful whisper; he didn’t want to wake my mother.
“How many do you think we will catch?” I asked.
I stood next to him and helped prepare sandwiches.
“I found some of the best worms ever this morning. Those fish better watch out because we might just catch every last one of them in that lake.”
He brushed a playful fist against my cheek.
“Dad, why doesn’t Tony want to go fishing with us?”
My father raised a finger to his lips, scratched his chin and said, “I guess he just isn’t cool enough; I will finish up these sandwiches, You go ahead and get your gear into the truck.”
It didn’t take long to find my fishing rod and tackle box in the garage. It was a red white and blue pole with stars and stripes decorating the length. I remember the day we went to WalMart and bought it.
As the sun rose over the mountains to the east, there was a chill in the air and I decided to fetch my jacket.
I propped myself up into the truck bed and placed my gear next to my father’s poles and tackle box.
He came from the house and handed me a toolbox full of sandwiches and jumped behind the wheel.
Dad turned the ignition three times before the engine roared to life. I was sure the noise woke the whole neighborhood. He headed up the street with a fog of black smoke in our wake.
We passed few other cars on the drive. Mr. Wilson’s BMW passed us heading west. He was sipping coffee from Starbucks and speaking into a headset. There was also a city bus with a few passengers that we had to pass because it was going too slow.
After a while I saw a brown sign; Public Fishing, my father turned right and the truck bounced down a short dirt road before we found a spot at the front of an empty parking lot.
I smiled.
“Looks like we are the first ones here,” Dad said. “The good spot is ours.”
“Yes,” I pumped my fist in the air.
A short walk along a worn path took us through trees and underbrush. I made sure to stay away from the poison oak. Dad pointed them out.
The lake was stunning. The sun reflected like a vision and the skyscrapers of the city simmered on the water.
Three crows chased an eagle before the raptor soared high into the sky above its tormentors.
The path we followed crossed an fallen tree covered with moss. I jumped on it with my arms stretched out, to keep my balance, and inched my way to its end, and jumped off a few feet from the lake’s edge, and started to prepare my fishing rod. Dad joined me and within minutes our lines were in the water with red and white bobbers drifting on the surface.
The first hour gave us nothing more than bobbers floating aimlessly across the water. But it was fun; it was just Dad and me; we talked about school and work and made fun of my lazy brother.
Dad took the top off of a thermos and poured a bit of orange juice into the cup. He handed it to me and asked if I was ready for a sandwich. I nodded and took a sip. He placed his pole on a stand made of two sticks and went into the toolbox to find the food. I heard a loud plop come from the lake and looked to find Dad’s bobber was gone. “Here we go!” He said.
Dad fought for a minute; he let the fish play with the line to tire him out, and then he landed a nice little perch. “What do you think, son?”
“Cool!”
“I bet he tastes good too.” He laughed.
“Hey, look out now! Looks like you got one too!”
My bobber was gone! I fought my urge to reel him in as fast as I could. Instead, I did as Dad had done and reeled slowly before letting the fish play with the line. The fish was strong and I thought my line would break, but I got him onto the bank.
It was another perch, twice as big as the other. Dad rubbed his strong hand across my head and “great job.” I nodded and got to work setting the fish on a stringer.
“Well what do we have here,” said a voice. A woman was standing on the downed tree slowly making her way toward the bank. “Looks like I found a couple of handsome fisherman.”
When she jumped off of the log and walked toward us, I stood still. Her boots were big and covered with mud, like she had been hiking in the woods for hours. Her jeans were damp and dirty with mud and grass stains. She looked a bit older than my sister, who was off at her first year in college, and her pale skin was littered with goose bumps and scratches. Her red hair was a wet mess and lay down to her shoulders. “You guys having any luck?”
“Good luck so far,” said Dad. He held up his fish and pointed to mine.
She smiled a mouth full of straight white teeth, bent her knees and put her green eyes within inches of mine “Did you catch that big one all by yourself?”
I simply nodded.
“Wow! You are a strong and handsome little boy.” She placed her hand on my head and messed my hair. Other than two teachers and a kid I got in a fight with, I had never been touched by a white person. “Well you two have good luck the rest of the day.” And with that, she jumped back on to the downed tree and disappeared.
Dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders and we set back to fishing. We stayed at the lake for another two hours and landed four more fish between us and had one of the best times on the lake ever.
As we walked back to the truck I thought about the woman with her fiery red hair, dirty clothing and breathe that smelled like bitter cigarettes and potato chips. I half hoped to come across her again on the trail. But we didn’t see her.
My father dropped his gear and stood as still as a statue when we got back to the parking lot. The lot was full of cars, but his truck was gone. Stolen. He did his best to smile at me and talk about the awesome day of fishing in order to distract me from the stolen truck and my tearful eyes.
I don’t know how long the walk home took but when we got there my feet were sore and I imagined my father’s back was sore from carrying me and all of the gear the last mile or so. I jumped into my mother’s waiting arms. She was excited over the fish we caught and didn’t complete her question about the truck when my father slowly shook his head.
That night with the kitchen smelling of fried fish and potatoes, we sat around the table and enjoyed the day’s catch. My brother stabbed at the biggest fish, but Dad told him that I caught it and it was mine to eat. I stuck my tongue out at my older brother and he kicked me under the table.
As the news came on the television, my brother picked up the remote and tried to change the channel. But my father placed a hand on his and held the remote in place.
On the screen there was a newsman and a lot of policemen, all of them standing near Dad’s truck! One of the police officers had his arm around a handcuffed red haired woman. The newsman explained that the suspect, the very same woman that we had met at the lake, had stabbed and killed her fiancé the night before in a neighboring county. The authorities had spent all night chasing her with helicopters and boots on the ground before losing her trail. She was caught running a red light on the north side of town in an old truck that had been reported stolen early in the day.
I looked at my father with wide eyes and put my hand on my head, right where she touched me. Dad looked back at me, and laughed.
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