Switch Pitchers

by Norman German

  Driving north on Ryan Street, Bobby slowed his car as the grade sloped down to the river over six sets of railroad interchange tracks. Picking up speed over the last rail, he saw a black boy on the bank wind up like a big league pitcher and sidearm a white clamshell into the river. It skipped across the unruffled surface seven times.

  Bobby looked to his left at the icehouse. Shirtless black men struggled up and down the loading dock plank, lugging 75-pound blocks of ice in each hand. In the hot August afternoon, rivulets of sweat poured from their arms, ran down the metal tongs, and froze on top of the ice.

  As Bobby approached, the boy slapped on a baseball cap and picked up his cane pole. The red and white cork eddied about in the slow current of a wastewater culvert. Bobby turned left onto the shell of River Road, then backed his boat and trailer into the water. Out of the corner of his eye, as he loaded rods and tackle box into the boat, Bobby watched the boy watching him out of the corner of his eye.

  When he was ready to launch, Bobby turned to the boy, who quickly looked away. “Catching any?”

  The boy kept his eyes on the cork. “Ain’t caught nuttin’ but a stinkin’ pogy and a crick in my neck holding this ol’ nigga pole.” The boy rubbed his neck to confirm the pain.

  Talking in the boy’s language, Bobby asked, “Wanna earn a silver dime?”

  The boy turned to him with bright eyes. “Yas-sir, sho’ would. Wha’ chew want me do?”

  Bobby held out the rope. “Hold this line while I back the boat in.”

  The boy threw his cane pole down and ran to the launch. He whistled in admiration at the neat little rig, an Arkansas Traveler johnboat with a 9-horse Evinrude, silver and green.

  Bobby handed him the rope. “Wha’ chore name, boy?”

  The boy looked up at him and squinted with one eye. “Name Daar-nell.”

  “You a pitcher?”

  The boy, knowing he had been caught, was embarrassed and put his head down.

  “Yas-sir.”

  “Righty or lefty?”

  “Righty.”

  “Throws right, fishes left,” Bobby said.

  Darnell looked up at him. “Huh?”

  Bobby nodded towards the culvert. “You were holding that pole with your left hand.”

  The boy turned and looked at the pole. “That’s the way my mama taught me. Guess I got used to it.”

  “I usually don’t trust a man with my boat till I knowed him at least five years. You have a last name?”

  “Naw-sir,” the boy said. “Naw-sir, it’s jes Daar-nell.” He was catching on to Bobby’s sense of humor. “What about chew, you gotta name?”

  Bobby looked down the river. “My friends call me Rabbit. But you bet’ call me Mr. Troutman.”

  “Okay, Mr. Troutman. You can back ’er up now.”

  Bobby looked at the boy mock severely. “Darnell.”

  “Yas-sir.”

  “Don’t you let go of that rope. I mean, if it drags you in the river, don’t let go for nothing. You understand?”

  The boy saluted. “Yas-sir, Mr. Troutman.”

  Bobby started the car and eased the boat into the water, then braked hard to shoot it off the trailer.

  Darnell whipped the rope out of the water and over the trailer fender. Before the rope came taut, he had wrapped it around his forearm and leaned back to brace himself. The weight of the boat skied him across the shell in his hard-bottomed shoes. He came to a stop ankle-deep in the water.

  Bobby parked the car and trailer. Darnell was smiling when he returned.

  “Mr. Troutman, you don’t fool old Daar-nell none. Naw-sir, not one bit.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You gave this year boat a extra shove jes to drag me into the wotah.”

  Bobby smiled. “Well, I had to test you. It ain’t just any man you let handle your boat. Tell you what.” Bobby gave Darnell a dime and a quarter. “Run get me a twenty-five pound block of ice, I’ll let you go fishing with me.”

  Darnell stared in disbelief at the coins in his hand. “Hot damn,” he said, “you bet,” and he took off running.

  He returned a few minutes later with a pained look on his face. He hugged the large cube against his chest, resting his chin on top. Bobby lifted the lid of the ice chest and Darnell dropped it in. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “That was cold.”

  Bobby started breaking up the ice with his knife. “You thought maybe it was gonna be hot?”

  Darnell watched the ice chip off in large chunks. “You a real card, ain’t cha, Mr. Troutman?”

  Bobby stopped and pointed the knife at him. “Listen, I’m the only one gets to ask smart-ass questions ’round here. Now get in the boat and sit still.”

  Darnell sat in the bottom of the boat, looking up at Mr. Troutman. After the boat planed off, the boy asked his guide, “Where we gone fish?”

  “I know an invisible island in the lake.”

  Darnell’s heart swelled at the sound of it. An invisible island.

  He turned around and looked at the bend downriver. “We gone all the way to the lake?”

  Bobby nodded and pulled a pack of Luckies from his shirt sleeve, then leaned to one side and extracted his lighter from his slacks. Replacing the pack, he looked at Darnell.

  “What grade you in, Darnell?”

  “Supposed to be goin’ to the sixth, but I’mo be in fifth again.”

  Bobby nodded. He shielded the lighter with his hand and stroked the flint wheel. Then he seemed to lose interest, and the breeze from the moving boat blew out the flame. He looked at his fishing partner.

  “You hear me talking like you back there?”

  “Yas-sir, Mr. Troutman, youse a right funny man.”

  “I’ll bet you.” Bobby pointed his lighter at him, the cigarette wagging up and down in his mouth. “I’ll just bet that if I can talk like you, you can talk like me. Am I right?”

  Darnell frowned while Bobby lit his cigarette.

  “Why, yes,” Darnell said, giving it a try. “I believe I could. I can talk like the big screen movie stars. Elegant, you know, old chap.” Darnell laughed at himself.

  Bobby returned the lighter to his pocket, then looked at Darnell and held his cigarette out. “Smoke?”

  Darnell rehearsed the answer in his mind. “What brand do you smoke, sir?”

  “Luckies. It’s the only kind. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.”

  “Why, then, I thank you, Mr. Troutman, but no thanks. I’m a Pall Mall man. Besides, I always use a cigarette holder.” He pretended to hold one to his lips, then blow out a stream of smoke.

  Bobby laughed. “Thas good talk, Daar-nell. Les see how long you can keep dat up.” Bobby made a circular motion with his cigarette. “Now turn around and look for birds.”

  Darnell lifted his legs and swiveled around. He reached with both hands and held onto the gunnels as if he were in a speedboat. A minute later, he spoke over his shoulder. “What kind of birds are we looking for, Mr. Troutman?”

  Bobby smiled at Darnell’s overly careful pronunciation. “Flyin’ kind. You see some divin’, that means they a school of fish feedin’ ’neath ’em.”

  Darnell looked ahead as the boat cut through the water. Between pulls on his cigarette, Bobby whistled one of his favorite songs, repeating the stanzas he knew best.

  Making believe, that I never lost you,

  But my happy hours, I find are so few.

  My plans for the future, will never come true.

  Making believe, what else can I do?

  Cain’t hold you close when you’re not with me.

  You’re somebody’s love, you’ll never be mine.

  Making believe, I’ll spend my lifetime

  Loving you, and making believe.

  When they rounded the first bend, Darnell swiveled around. “Why, Mr. Troutman, that is a lovely tune.” He pronounced it tyoon. “What is the name of it?”

  “Das call ‘Making Believe,’ by Miss Kitty Wells.”

 
Darnell turned around and Bobby popped the latch on his red tackle box and pulled out a half pint of Old Crow. He took a quick swig and returned it to the box.

  An osprey at the top of a dead cypress scanned the river. He spotted something below and looked at it with great intent. A kingfisher on a lower limb nose-dived and pitched himself into the water. When he came up with a small shad, the osprey looked off in the distance as if disgusted he had even thought about diving.

  Addressing the osprey, Bobby thought, Well, at least he got something for his pitching.

  Darnell pointed at the tree. “That what chew talkin’ ’bout, Mr. Troutman?”

  Bobby raised an eyebrow at his pupil.

  “I mean, Is that what you are talking about, Mr. Troutman?”

  “Naw,” Bobby said. “Dat ain’t nuttin’ but a old kingfisher. We’s lookin’ for seagulls divin’.”

  Darnell nodded and turned around. Bobby had fished the next bend in the river many times. The fresh and salt water ran together there and he often returned with an ice chest full of redfish and speckled trout mixed with bass and white perch. Bobby scanned the area as the boat swept westward around the curve. Straightening the boat out, he began whistling another song.

  I let my heart fall into careless hands,

  Careless hands that broke my heart in two.

  You held my dreams like worthless grains of sand.

  Careless hands don’t care when dreams slip through.

  Darnell turned halfway around.

  “My, my,” he said. “Now that really is a lovely song. It’s very sweet and—. What is the word I am looking for, Mr. Troutman?”

  Bobby thought about the mood of the song. “Wistful.”

  Misunderstanding, Darnell said, “Exactly right, old boy. Why do you like such wishful tunes?”

  Bobby looked down the river and into his past. “Because,” he said, “wishful tunes are the most beautiful kind.”

  As they turned south at the bend near Ripley’s dock, the Calcasieu River Bridge swung into view. Bobby searched the horizon for birds. In a few minutes, the boat passed under the trestle running parallel to the bridge. Darnell ducked despite the roomy clearance between his head and the I-beams. Bobby throttled down to half speed under the bridge. Darnell turned his face skyward, gawking open-mouthed as if the shiny steel trelliswork were something rising from the land of Oz.

  A hundred yards further, Bobby cut the motor and drifted. Darnell looked around, puzzled.

  “I thought chew said we’s gone fish ’round a island.”

  Carefully moving to the front of the boat, Bobby playfully whacked Darnell on the button of his cap.

  “Ow!” The boy took off his cap and rubbed his head.

  “This is it,” Bobby said. “It’s only an island at the lowest tides. That’s why it’s a secret island. People pass right over it and think it’s open water, but there’s fish all around.”

  Darnell leaned over and looked in the water. Two feet down, he saw a blue crab side-scuttling across the sandy bottom. Bobby dropped the anchor and the boat swung around in the breeze.

  “I’ll stay up here,” Bobby instructed. “You move to the back seat by the motor.”

  When Darnell was settled, Bobby said, “Now, listen.” He took one of the rods and unhooked a silver spoon from an eyelet. “Keep pressure on the spool with your thumb before you cast. When the bait’s in the air, keep a lighter pressure on the spool to let the line spin out. Right before the bait hits, push hard on the spool to stop it from spinning. If you don’t, the line gets all knotted up like a bird nest. Okay?”

  Darnell nodded.

  “Now, watch.” Bobby cast the spoon twenty yards downwind and retrieved it. Darnell watched the spoon wobble by him in the water. “Got that?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

  “Now you try it.”

  Darnell’s eyes widened. Somehow, he didn’t think he would actually be casting with the fishing rods in the boat. He took the blue fiberglass rod from Bobby and admired it. He put his thumb on the spool and practiced swinging the rod back and forth.

  “Go ahead,” Bobby said. “Just remember to let off a bit with your thumb when you cast.”

  Darnell swept the rod behind him and flung the spoon out tentatively. It hit the water ten feet away.

  “Good. Now whip the rod a little harder this time. Don’t throw so much with your arm. Let the fiberglass fling the bait out.”

  Darnell swung harder but lifted his thumb off the spool and the line knotted up when the spoon hit the water ten yards away.

  Bobby laughed. “Here,” he said. “Bring it here.”

  Darnell kept one hand on the gunnel and wobble-walked down the length of the boat. Bobby took the rod and worked the backlash out of the reel.

  “That’s pretty good for a first-timer,” he said, reeling in the spoon. “Sit in that middle seat and watch me throw a few times.” Darnell sat and Bobby cast out and reeled in. “The secret to doing it right,” Bobby explained, “is to act like you know what you’re doing.” He looked at Darnell and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then cast the spoon thirty yards. “See? Nothing to it. It’s all feel.”

  Darnell took the rod to the back of the boat. Bobby picked up a larger rod rigged with an artificial shrimp, silver glitter embedded in its bright orange plastic. He cast towards the channel of the river and worked the bait up and down.

  Darnell gave Mr. Troutman a worried look.

  “Go ahead,” Bobby said. “Just don’t forget to squeeze down before it hits the water.”

  Darnell made a short, successful cast.

  “Good. Now keep practicing and get it down before the fish arrive.”

  Darnell cast half a dozen more times, improving a bit with each throw.

  “There’s one,” Bobby said. He reeled in a small speckled trout and held it up for Darnell. Bobby pointed. “Cast out this way.”

  Excited, Darnell cast and got a backlash. He brought the rod to Mr. Troutman.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay. Just—.” Bobby worked the tangle out of the reel. “Just swing back and let the weight of the spoon bend the rod. Then whip it forward and let the tip do the casting.”

  Darnell returned to the back seat. He looked at Mr. Troutman and Mr. Troutman nodded a go-ahead. Darnell made his best cast.

  “Good,” Bobby said. “But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “You’re still holding back, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid to backlash.”

  “Don’t be. The more afraid you are, the more likely you are to get a bird nest.” Darnell finished reeling in and prepared to cast. “Just like you’re pitching,” Bobby said. “Rock back and fire, right? Rock and fire.” Bobby cast confidently to show him how once more.

  Darnell made a nice smooth cast for a beginner.

  “Great,” Bobby said. “Now, just keep at it. Rock and fire, rock and fire.”

  Darnell cast several more times and was clearly getting the hang of it. After he felt comfortable casting, he started thinking about the fish.

  “I thought you said this was a secret island with lots of fish,” Darnell teased.

  “It is. The tide’s about to start moving. When it does, the fish’ll move too.”

  Five minutes later, Bobby landed the second trout. Ten casts later, he boated two in a row and kept the largest. Then Darnell hooked up. The smaller rod doubled over and the reel handle spun against his knuckles until he got control of it.

  “He’s not jumping,” Bobby said. “That’s probably a red.”

  Darnell struggled with the fish, hollering with excitement. “A redfish?”

  “Looks like it.”

  A few minutes later, the redfish came alongside the boat. Bobby reached for the line and pulled the fish’s head above water, then slid his hand under the belly and hoisted the copper fish into the boat.

 
“Four pounds or better,” Bobby said. Darnell beamed and chattered in his own language until the fish was in the ice chest and he was ready to cast again.

  After catching several more keepers, Darnell boated a silver fish with a purple back.

  “Look at this, Mr. Troutman. He ain’t got no dots.”

  “That’s because you set the hook so hard you knocked his specks right off.”