Fisherman Mantillo

The man opened his eyes and looked out the window. The sun was just rising and it looked to be a good day for fishing. It wasn't like there was ever a bad day for fishing; the bay was always full of good things to catch.

         He hobbled into the living room. His crutch was broken and he had to use an old piece of driftwood instead. He was starting to get too old for this sort of thing.

         The old man sighed as he walked past the old recliner in the corner. It had belonged to Mary. One day her body decided that it had taken enough abuse and had up and quit. He didn’t want to look at the old chair; it made him much too sad to do anything.

         He turned the knob on the old stove. It took it a few seconds, but it flickered to life. The heat felt nice as it eased the pains of aging. He took an egg out of the fridge and a pan out of the cabinet.

         He was trying to make a sunny side up egg but the yolk broke and it was burnt around the edges. He didn’t care. He had eaten horrors in the navy. He wondered what became of the friends he made back then. They had some good times on that old boat.

         His fishing pole was leaning against the wall where he left it yesterday. With no small amount of difficulty, he got up from the chair and walked across the room to get it. He wrestled his cast net from its tangle with a crab trap and walked outside.

         He was right to think today would be a good day to fish. The tide was just high. The temperature was warm but there was enough breeze to keep him cool. There weren’t too many fishermen on the pier. This was, indeed, a picture-perfect day to fish. He grabbed a cooler from its resting place on the front porch and dragged it down the walkway.

         Once he had his pole set up and his things secured from the children that sometimes snatched his things when he wasn’t looking, he eased himself onto a nearby bench. His back popped as he sat down, but he didn’t mind.

         Fishing every day like this reminded the old man of his youth. He and his scamp of a friend, Rico, went fishing all the time as kids. Rico would sneak into Father Marqueso’s office and borrow his rod when they were supposed to be in school. They would bring in eel longer than Rico was tall and kindle a fire back in the woods. Then they would nab some of Rico’s mother’s chili powder and have themselves an after school snack to end all others.

         The old man was so busy reminiscing that he almost didn’t notice that there was a fish on his hook. It was a decent sized fish by the looks of it. He got so excited that he defied his age and leapt up from his spot on the bench, grabbed his rod, and set the hook. During the fight for the fish, he drew a crowd of about five children. They watched him in suspense, waiting for whatever he hooked into to come into view.

         Out of the corner of his eye, he watched one of them pick up one of his already-made rigs and slip it into his pocket.

         “Ah, no. You don't want that one. That one isn’t for anything that lives around here.” said the old man to the little boy. “Give me a moment, I’ll get you one you can really use."

         He finally pulled the fish over the side of the pier. It was a rather large redfish, sizable enough to fetch a pretty penny at the market. He tossed it into the cooler and knelt beside the quivering little boy.

         “Don’t be afraid now, I forgive you,” said the old man. The boy pulled the rig from his pocket and returned it, visibly ashamed, but relieved that he would not be punished.

         “Now then, see this one?” He held up a rig he had made to catch smaller catfish. “This one’ll catch you a nice tasty fish, alright?” The boy nodded. “Go on, take it, it's yours.”

         The crowd dispersed, and the fisherman got another bite. Nothing major though, probably a whiting or something of the sort. It got off the hook anyway, so it didn’t matter.

         He lugged the redfish slowly to the fish market. He knew the employees well; they always gave him a fair price for whatever he brought in.

         “Mr. Mantillo, what a pleasure!” said the man at the counter upon his arrival. “And to what do I owe your visit on this fine day?”

         “I caught a nice redfish,” He wheezed, “I thought you might like to buy it.”

         He opened the cooler and showed his catch to the clerk. “Oh yes, very nice. I’ll give you forty for it.” Forty would at least get him through until the day after tomorrow. He accepted the offer and went back to his spot on the dock.

         He used the cast net to catch a few dozen shrimp. Most of them were little, but some could be good enough to fry up and eat.

         It took him until dark to clean them, get the clunky old stove started, get the oil out of the highest cabinet, heat it up, and cook the shrimp, but it was worth it. They were better than breakfast, that was for certain.

         By now he was extremely tired and very ready for bed. He didn’t even bother taking off his grubby, fish scented clothes. He just climbed into bed and fell asleep.

         That night, after all the exertion and excitement of the day, the sound of waves carried him to sleep, and the ocean sang dirges as a lullaby.

         

The end