Lost Hemingway Fishing Stories: The Old Man And The Lake

Tomas had once been his village's greatest bluegill fisherman, but now even the sight of the fish in the Roberto SquarePants show made him sad.

by Alan Jones

March 1, 2005

It was a sadness that started at the brim of his lucky New Orleans Saints cap and ended at the toe of his Red Ball waders that leaked in the way that waders leak when they are neither good nor bad.

"Hola," said the boy who entered his hut without knocking like he did everyday. Tomas had always meant to tell him to knock first, but it seemed like closing the bullpen after the bulls were in the ring late in the afternoon when the sun lit the dust in the air, so he didn't. He would someday, but that day was not today. "You seem sad even though you are watching the great SpongeBob, why Tomas?" "You know." "I don't" "If you thought hard, you would know." "Know what?" "Yes, you would know what." "What?" "Yes, what." "I am confused." "That is because you are a boy who is not yet a man." "I brought you a carton of General Tso's chicken from the Wok 'n' Roll with the brown rice you love because it reminds you of that girl in Barcelona whose skin was the color of brown rice," said the boy. "I have no money, since the last great bluegill I landed was not a short time ago," said Tomas. "The Chinaman said you can pay him when you land your next fish," the boy lied. "That is good," said Tomas, being careful not to let the boy know he knew that he was lying, because to accuse someone of lying in this village could only be avenged by a fight to the death, and he did not wish to kill the boy even though he never knocked and because there were more shows on the great Cartoon Network he wished to watch in case the boy got lucky and killed him like the squirrel in the road in front of his hut whose luck had suddenly run out, like his. The generalissimo's chicken was good, and Tomas cracked open his fortune cookie in the way that people do when they try to seek their future within a tasteless baked good of little nutritional value. "Go," it said. "Go fish." So he did. The bluegill fishing grounds were in the shallows near shore, but these fish had challenged his manhood, so he rowed past those fish without honor toward the middle of the lake where only rich gringos went to play their gringo games in their fancy gringo boats. He cast his hand line and waited. Nada. Nada y mas nada. Then he felt a twitch that was not related to the third cup of java libre he had drunk at the AAMCO waiting room where he waited for a transmission job estimate on a car he did not have. A fish. Surely a great bluegill. Tomas drove the size 12 hook deep into his honorable adversary's jaw. When the fish sounded, Tomas cried out in agony as the line reopened an old paper-cut wound he suffered when he rapidomente tore open a letter from the great Ed McMahon who said he had won millions of gringo dollars. Liar. But Tomas was shamed when he thought of the great receiver Andre Davis who bore the pain of turf toe with great honor. Even though he did not know what turf toe was, it sounded bad. Hour after hour he gained and lost line to the fish and when he thought he was defeated, the bluegill began to yield. Then they began to circle. Mosquitoes. With great sadness, Tomas realized he was without his loyal can of Deep Woods Off, an honest spray that stings your eyes, but in a good way. Each time he took a hand off the line to slap, the fish would run. Then it happened. Two mosquitoes, possibly brothers or maybe even lovers, buzzed in each ear. Tomas swatted with both hands and cried out, not for the ruined eardrums, but the fish. It was gone. Great.