said object

They bring the bait, we bring the beer and we’re all happy that sunny afternoon down by the creek until Sal shows up and brings a cloud of hazy doom. We had caught ten fish by then, Meg kept running her lacquered rose nails over their scales and Harold stared at his knees all day. Sal brought a container of vodka and wanted to make martinis but I said martinis don’t gel with fish and grass and a rough and ready afternoons like this. That’s a crock, he exclaimed and dove into the creek, he came back up two minutes later a catfish in his meaty hands. Its the vodka, they love it! I’m particular about scenery and the way people settle within it and Sal was just messing up the equilibrium. His shirt was the wrong color, too red and his hair too wild for the confines of the pines and smooth pebbles on the shore. I moved him over near Harold out of my range and they struck up a conversation about attics and what you should store in them. This worked for awhile then Sal drank too much vodka and passed out. We covered his arms and legs with fish and drank more beer.