text: Hot coffee glugged from the emerald thermos into the two styrofoam cups, the weight of the fluid anchoring the drinks as the boat rocked and dipped. The fisherman handed him a cup and the steam fogged his glasses. “Do you fish out here often?” “From time to time. I fish all over the world.” The coffee was excellent. Hot and not too bitter and not too acidic and bold and earthy. “It’s my first time out here.” “Oh, I know.” “It’s that obvious?” No answer. “Are you a guide?” “I’ve been called that.” The fisherman refilled his coffee. It was quiet except for the splashes on the side of the boat. The fisherman’s line went taut. He reeled in a bass. “What did you use as bait?” “No live bait.” “A lure then?” “Are you hungry for breakfast?” the fisherman asked, releasing the bass back into the lake. He thought for a minute. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Probably last evening. He had cooked steak and a sweet potato foil pack the afternoon before. Before he went out on his boat with a six pack and a second six pack. “Yeah, I guess I am. Thanks.” The fisherman produced two large blue enamelware bowls and plastic spoons. From the thermos, the fisherman served large servings of venison chili. A rare treat for him. “This is really good.” “Do you remember how you got here, Steven?” “I got in Friday night, came in from the north on FF.” “I mean today. Do you remember getting up this morning?” He was confused. The fisherman, took out his thermos and topped off his coffee. “Do you remember last night?” “Not too much too it. Had some beers. Fished a bit. Beefsteak dinner.” “And after that?” He laughed. “I must’ve had a beer too many. Honestly sort of blanking.” His smile slowly vanished. His face a bit white. He coughed a bit. Some chili down the wrong tube. The fisherman gently took back the styrofoam cup, dumping the coffee off the side of the boat. He again furnished the emerald green thermos. It was worn and dented. It looked like it came from the museum of worn, good old stuff. It looked like an artifact from the inaugural fishing trip, from the Bass Pro Shop of Babylon. From its threaded steel mouth, the fisherman decanted cool ice water. “Did I fall from the boat?” “Steven, do you remember when you were eleven at Boy Scout Camp? You and your buddy Nate went fishing with a line and a hook and some hot dogs.” “Yeah, we fished all day at the side of the lake. Near the hydroelectric plant.” “Do you remember what happened?” “We caught one fish. Pan fried it over a camping stove.” “What else?” “We cut off its head, and tried using it as bait because we didn’t have any more hot dogs because we had eaten them with the fish but we were still hungry.” “And then what happened?” “The line, it got snagged on a log. And Nate waded out to try to pull it out, but it was really stuck in that mess.” “And then what happened?” “I pulled hard on the line.” “And then what happened?” “It whiplashed. “And then what happened?” “It caught Nate’s cheek and he screamed and I ran in to help him and then I used my pliers to pull the hook out of his cheek.” “And then what happened?” “What do you mean? And then I got it out. And we went back and he put on a bandaid.” “And then what happened?” “Nothing else happened.” “That was 27 years ago. A lot has happened.” “You mean, what happened between then and now?” “I asked what then happened. Chronologically after then and, unstated, chronologically before now, as was implied by my tense.” The fisherman poured some hot sauce and melted cheese from his thermos onto his chili. “I can’t.” He stood, unstable and uneasy. A large pond. A small lake. The body of water produced a wave of unnatural provenance, tossing the startled man head over shoulders over ass over knees over feet over the aluminum lip of the bow of the bass boat. The fisherman leapt to his feet, and plunged his open palms into the lakewater, guide and scout and harvester.