Gone Fishin'

My friend R.'s family went to his cabin without him this weekend. His wife calls it a respite. He calls it a banishment. Whatever. It makes them both happy.

"You should come over," he said.

"Yes I should," I said.

I told the Lovely Bride I'd be spending the night at R.'s house. He lives on the other side of town.

"Aren't you a little old for a sleepover?" she asked.

"You don't want me to drive after I've been drinking," I replied, reasonably enough.

"You don't have to drink," she responded, unreasonably.

"But his family's gone," I whined.

"Oh fine. Don't forget your toothbrush."

I got there shortly after lunch. His car was already packed with fishing gear. I threw my stuff in the back after first standing in his kitchen for a minute to enjoy the child free atmosphere.

"It's so quiet. It's beautiful," I said.

"I know," said R. "I'm going to cry."

R. lives in a first ring suburb and we're fortunate to have any number of lakes scattered around the metropolitan area. He has a friend who lives close enough to some of them that he can walk to the dock with a small boat and an electric motor. A generous sort, his friend had offered to lend us the boat and after a little small talk we set sail.

Years ago, when we were single and roommates, R. and I used to fish these lakes with some regularity. It's possible to catch a record fish in the shadow of downtown while watching clots of bicyclists, rollerbladers, and joggers. It's also possible to follow a few canals and catch equally big fish on a lake bookended by a nude beach and some of the most expensive homes in the state.

When the Lovely Bride and I were on our honeymoon,W., an Army buddy of mine came from out of town to dog sit for us. R. and another friend took him out fishing on one of these lakes, in a canoe with a folding chair in the middle, the Cleopatra seat. W. hates fishing, so that was the day R. hauled fifteen pounds of teeth and rage into the boat, where he subdued it by hitting it with a folding chair. W. still talks about the "goddamn sea monster" that tried to kill him.

So the fish are out there. As if that means anything. It's also possible to spend three hours puttering around these lakes with nothing to show for it but empty beer cans and full bladders and that's exactly what we did this weekend.

We walked the boat back to his friend and returned to R.'s still blessedly child free home, fishless but comforted by a couple bottles of decent Argentinian wine. R. threw together a more than serviceable chicken tagine and after we ate we watched "Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story" and "Sweeney Todd" and cracked a bottle of bourbon and it turned out to be a good thing I didn't have to drive home after all. In the morning we had eggs and toast and sausage gravy and tomato juice and coffee.

When I walked in the door unshaven and manly, the Lovely Bride, my mother,and my oldest son were at the kitchen table. "You had a sleepover at R.'s?" my mother asked. "Aren't you a little old for that?" She's known R. for thirty years and has only slightly more faith in his judgment than she does in mine.

"He's home alive," said the Lovely Bride.

"Yay," said my son without much enthusiasm.

"Did you have fun?" asked the Lovely Bride in a tone suspiciously like the one she uses with our children after their sleepovers.

"I'm home alive," I said.

"Yay," repeated my son without any more enthusiasm.

"Do you know how much I used to worry about you and R.?" asked my mother.

"No more than I do," said the Lovely Bride.