Del Monte

I know I’ve made it because my hands smell like corn, and by my feet is a can that says Del Monte. Bent over, clutching my fishing rod with my legs, holding my knife in my mouth, trying to thread my fancy braided line through a hook, I hear in a thick, vaguely European accent. 

“Move your things.” 

There is always bread in the water at this spot, and the fish like the bread, which is why I wrote Shalev’s spot on the bench in green. My friend says a crazy lady throws it in, and she won’t let you talk to her, and will call the cops on you. 

I drag my backpack about five feet, lean my fishing rod against the bench, and don't respond. She has one of those bikes with the basket in the front. The basket is too full, and a trash bag is tied to the bike frame. She throws her bike against the fence and unties the trash bag. She takes a kitchen knife with a blue plastic handle and starts aggressively slicing bagels and bread heels from the bag, then throwing them into the water.

I stay quiet because I don't like to fight. I wait, and when the fish come, I ask her for a slice of bread. 

“Don’t talk to me,” she grumbles without looking at me.

She tosses more bread in the water. The pumpernickel crust is thick and floats well, so I know it would sit well on the hook. She makes high-pitched sounds like how she imagines a bird sounds.  

The access point to the water is around fifteen feet wide. She is off to one side, and I am off to the other. It takes her half an hour to throw in all the bread. I use my net to try to fish out a slice, but it disintegrates when I pull it out of the water. I look over my shoulder and see she is out of bread. She calls out to the birds once more and sits against a fence, unwraps and eats a block of cheese she had been keeping in her pocket.

The geese arrive. They eat and fight and shriek. The lady watches intently. I feel taps on my fishing rod, so I pull it in to check. Nothing. I recast, careful of the birds. The geese flinch as usual and return to whatever goose business they were engaged in.

The lady awakens from her trance.

“You fucking scumbag shit,” she yells without looking away from the birds.

I remember my friend telling me she once tried to take his fishing rod, so I kept my composure.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I say in a cautious, airy monotone.

She doesn't respond. 

I don’t repeat myself. The geese finish the bread, and the lady begins to pack up her bike. 

“Where is your fishing license?” she asks

“I don’t need one for this lake,” I say calmly

“You cannot fish here, you shit head.”

“This is perfectly legal, madam.”

“Fuck you, shithead,” she yells without looking at me

She bikes away, and I collect all the bread she left behind.

She returns five minutes later and adds;

“I’m calling the cops, scumbag.”

“Ok”