Hooked

"Do you have any pictures of R. fishing?" the email said. R.'s colleagues are putting together a collage for his birthday.

"Yes," I replied. "Fishing. Drinking. Yelling at his kids. Weeping. Let me know what you'd like."

"Fishing will be fine," came the reply.

So I sent her a photo from a while ago. R. is alone in it, but just outside the frame are his three boys and my three boys and me.

On the way out, we were looking for moose, which meant slow and careful driving down gravel roads, which meant long and painful complaining from the back seats, which were filled with six boys between the ages of five and eleven.

"Shut up," R. finally told his oldest.

"This is stupid," his oldest replied.

"No, stupid is sitting on the couch playing video games," said R.

"No, stupid is driving around at ten miles per hour looking for an animal that doesn't live here," said his oldest.

"God damn it," said R., turning in his seat and swiping with futility at the children. "I swear to God I'm going to fucking kill you all."

"Oooh," said R.'s son. "Wait until mom hears about this."

"You'll be dead so it won't matter," said R., scrabbling to unbuckle himself so he could have at it.

"Look, a moose," I said, pointing to the animal loping along in front of our car.

"Cool," said the boys.