Fishing for something

Well, I guess this blog has a ways to go before it is more popular than the Super Bowl. So, in the spirit of the evening, the fiction department has this offering:

My good friend in Miami thinks fishing is just super. Bowling doesn't excite him, and he'l just go running back home if you even mention shooting trap. Play your cards right, though, and you'll be heading down to Miami and then off to a well guarded spot in the center of the everglades. He'll even supply the tackle.

The man has money. In his investments, he gets every quarter back on his principle and his return on investment takes every last nickel. Defense of assets are often a concern for him. However, he has found that in that field, goals can be easily met. He owns pieces of a large building in Chicago and a little piece of a racetrack somewhere near Indianapolis. He has a farm that raises colts in Maryland, somwhere north of Baltimore. And in the stock market, he has hedged his bets so that the bears don't bother him. He still has his first quarter in a frame over his desk.

I tried to make conversation. "Do you think we'll catch any dolphins?"

"Stadium sports you know," my friend fired back, "but you are obviously a fishing moron."

My friend's hook was the first down in the water. It took me much longer to get my line up and out of the boat, and I had to ask him to take time out of his fishing twice to untangle my line.

"Sorry about that dolphin comment back there. I didn't mean for you to take offense." I felt my enthusiasm flag as I realized the water was not where I wanted to be. I felt artificial. Turf is my natural environment. Not catching anything in the first spot, we decided to move forward.

"Pass the pepto," I exclaimed, as the boat ride was starting to get to me. However, since the throttle had been opened up wide, receiver did not get the message.

"I don't feel so good," I gulped, realizing now how often a spot this tight ends up badly. "Could you bring the speed a touch down!" I yelled, but to no avail. The tachometer reached the red zone and I thought my friend had fumbled his controls. Unmindful of safety, blitzing through the waterways, he brought me back to the dock. He said no amount of coin tossed his way would convince him to take me fishing again.