BIG LARRY
©Agent_Splage May 2006
My eyes went wide.
Wider than the time my little brother Barry fell off our old horse and broke both collar bones, and wider than the time my father passed gas in church so loud, the bishop forgot his speech. I was staring through the crystal-clear water of Emerson's Creek at the biggest, toughest-looking Trout I'd ever seen.
It was my own stupid fault I let my mind wander. I figure it was right around 9:30 in the morning when I began to drift. That's the problem with creek water, you see. The tiniest ripple can move just right so that it catches your eye, then you don't really have a choice but to follow it until it reaches the bank and dies on the other side. Of course, that leads you to find more ripples, and well, it's downhill from there.
That's how I found Big Larry, by the way.
As I was dangling my feet over the little bridge, I found a ripple in the water surrounding my pant cuffs, but it was too colorful, almost like a rainbow had lost its way in the sky and found its home at Emerson's Creek. Probably the reason ripples distract me so much in the first place is that they look so much like fish. Speaking of which, that's the reason I brought my tackle box and fishing pole because there wasn't much to do in school, and in the same breath, I couldn't just go trotting home expecting my old man to be happy with my hooky. I figured I owed him one or two debts anyway, so I had made up my mind to land me a big one, maybe two if I took my lucky rabbit's foot. A steaming pile of piping-hot Trout under Pop's nose would hopefully make him forget the fact I'd done something objectionable.
But let's not forget what's distracting me.
I started in playing the ripple game, but doggone if the ripple surrounding my ankles just didn't do anything. It just circled around about 5 inches below my sopping-wet pant leg, like a jackal honing in on its kill. You can imagine my shock when this harmless-looking ripple surged up out of the watery depths to get a sample flavor of my big toe. Let me tell you now, it's no barrel of monkeys when you're sitting in a trance as still as a barn cat, and all of a sudden, something decides you're its next meal.
I must've jumped higher than if my Mom had found a dead June bug in her bowl of wheat flakes. Both my feet came flying up out of the water, and the sheer momentum alone nearly carried me right over the other end of the bridge. It's an awful narrow thing, and had I not caught myself in time, I would have gone a** over tea kettle. What it lacks in wideness, though, it more than makes up for in durability. That's saying something seeing as how last autumn, me an' Barney's pals lined ourselves up one after another till we reached eleven kids across.
When I regained some composure, my first feeling was that of rage. I balled my fists, and looked under the bridge, prepared to teach a lesson to the nitwit that attempted to haul me into the water in the first place. If anyone was enough of a gutsy moron to pull a stunt like that, it would most probably be Sampson O'Donnell. You could say Sampson was the new kid on the block, and boy didn't the little bloodsucker like to crow about it. He thinks he's really something special what with all the dirty magazines he swiped from his Uncle, and the hand gun he stole from his Grandfather ( A person should know better than that in the first place). I don't care how long gone my Grandaddy is; if I took one of his prized flint-lock riffles from it's spot in our barn, he'd probably hitch himself outta that grave faster than a hawk after a hare, and it would end with me not being able to sit for a week. I can't imagine what they'd be saying about me when I told my pals I got the snot beat outta me by my dead Grandpa.
The person I saw under the bridge wasn't a person at all, as a matter of fact. That eased my tension a great deal seeing as how I had a hunch ol' Sampson might play hooky the same days I did. What was staring back at me I can only describe as the most spectacular specimen of a fish I'd ever seen. Big Larry, as he eventually came to be called, was a bulbous-eyed Steel-head, a foot and a half long. What really got my goat is when I reached my hand over the water, he didn't scatter like normal fish would. Nope, he just hovered there, body in constant slow motion, eyes eerily staring at me like he was asking me what I was doing away from school.
People are going to think me nuts for this one, but after that, Big Larry and I developed a sort of relationship, if it can be called that. On days when my farm chores were done, and I didn't have to help Barry with any of that homework shenanigans, I'd take my fishing gear and slip away from everybody for an hour or so, and go see my buddy down at the creek. The fishing gear was just a useless aid, so that anyone strolling by the creek wouldn't call me cuckoo for just plain muttering at the water while staring at my reflection. It wasn't such a problem considering the creek is well-hidden, but I wanted to have a scaling knife with me and whatnot incase fly-boy O'Donnell strutted around the corner.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not flat-out against anyone who moves into our neck of the woods. Heck, some of my best buddies come from out of town. Remember how I mentioned a whole gang of us kids used to stand on the small creek bridge for kicks? Not all of them were born and bred holding a pitch fork in their hand. My best friend, Barney Ouelette (that's pronounced 'you-let'), came from 'Up North,' and when I went and asked him what that meant, he said Canada. I don't really know a lot about that place, and I'd be damned if I was going to go to the library to read and research. All he told us is that there's a whole lot of snow 365 days a year, they speak french for the sole purpose of confusing the tourists, and the place has a famous river flowing through it called 'The Seine.' A good number of the kids laughed right out loud when Barns told them about the river part. I chuckled along with everyone else just 'cause I didn't want to look like a simpleton. I asked him about it later in private, but he smiled and simply told me to pay more attention in Social Studies.
I never did understand why they call learning about other parts of the world 'social studies.' I mean, isn't every class in school social, and isn't what they do all the time called studying? Why couldn't they just put signs on all the doors like 'Math Social Studies,' and 'Reading Social Studies.' Nobody asked my opinion, but if it were up to me, there wouldn't be any kind of study, period. I'd just put everyone through recess and lunch.
Speaking of eating, I had recently gotten into the habit of bringing a sandwich or two with me when I went visiting old Larry. One time, I even tossed a chunk of bologna into the water so he could eat, too. It didn't do much for him, though; he darted around, pointing his stubby fish nose at it, then just fidgeted back and forth till something else caught his attention. It had crossed my mind maybe I should dig around for worms, and the best place to do so would be my mother's garden where the soil is especially healthy and rich. Problem is, I don't think my mother would take kindly to me routing around her prized begonias. I think she has enough of them to out and slaughter a whole herd of cattle, but as long as they keep placing high at the county fair, she won't even let Pa touch 'em.
What I figured I'd do since I still had a number of hours to kill before I had to go home, was to run down to Paul's Corner Store and see if he had any crawlers in his freezer. Paul's wasn't the biggest joint in town, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in variety. You could purchase anything wether you wanted butter and eggs to hobby horses to sports magazines. I spent hours in there when I was really young, actually right around the time I started playing hooky, mostly because I could trust old man Paul not to snitch on me for it.
Figuring I needed to catch up on talk anyway, I gulped down the rest of my tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise sandwich, and went to put my scaling knife back in my tackle box. I stopped for a moment just to let myself breath in the fresh smell of the water, and caught a distinctly different aroma coming in off the breeze. I wrinkled my nose in disgust, because there was no mistaking the stench of cigarette smoke. Unless one of the school teachers had taken up that habit, which I honestly doubted, that left another likely possibility flashing through my mind; Sampson O'Donnell.
From the moment he set one dirty little toe in Severn, Maryland that nuisance puffed like a chimney. I don't know where he got the cursed things, and I don't really care, all I know is that old man Paul didn't raffle 'em off to him...leastways, I hope not. If there's one thing I know about cigarettes, it's that Grandpa told me you never could entirely trust people that smoked. That's right around the time that he'd wink at Grandma, then she'd purse her wrinkly lips and give him a funky expression. I had a hunch that when I wasn't looking, she puffed them stogies like a steam engine.
The smell in the air wasn't getting any weaker and even though I don't have any phobia against the stench, my heart had started in thumping. The heebie gibes weren't getting any better as I tried to scramble my way up the opposite banking. I plum-well knew I might run into whoever was heading up the lane, and no matter who it was, my instincts told me to high-tail it. It wasn't exactly the rotten smell that made me scram, but also that fact that if any person with half a conscience saw me now, they'd a known I was hookying .One thing I love about Emerson's Creek is all the nifty hiding places the natural scenery gives you. You could be perched atop a boulder, sitting right up straight like a dear caught in high-beam, and still have the upper hand when it came to camouflage. Still, I didn't want to risk anything, so I just kept struggling along till I could half walk, half tumble down the other side of the banking. I got a mouth full of gravel for my trouble, and I'm pretty sure it found its way to the inside of my overalls, seeing as how when I moved, things that should not have painfully scrapped together did. What ended up happening next was one of the biggest mistakes I'd ever made, almost beating out the time I dumped Mama's clean laundry into the cow pen, right along with our two ton bulls. (I didn't mean nothing by it, just thought the crisp whites against the muddy browns would look neat.)
Come to find out, the smoke I'd smelt was a bonfire the neighbor's had started. I was just lucky enough that the wind favored my direction. Bits of random voices also somehow managed to carry themselves across on that same current, and I accidentally overheard some conversation to do with some juvenile that got into serious trouble with police Saturday night. Hmph, it was most likely that festering maggot O'Donnell! I didn't hear much after that, mainly because I was too focused pulling my gritty clothes off. Anyway you cut it, dirt is not something you want swishing around in your corduroys. Besides, maybe if I cleaned myself off enough, I wouldn't have to suffer through tonight's bath at home. Knowing the water was chilly most anytime of the year didn't bother me any. I preferred the water nice and crisp, and I didn't know for the life of me why my family was so religiously opposed to a cold bath. Ma keeps preaching up a storm about the importance of hot water killing germs, but I never get sick, so I dunno what the use is.
If you thought me nuts for talking to a steel-head, you'd definitely think me bananas for swimming in creek water in May. From the time I was really young, I had some kind of resistance to cold. Not just sniffle-bugs as my brother calls 'em, but weather in general. I was the kid in snowball fights that didn't wear snow pants. I'd pull them off and expose my long johns right in the middle of the battle field, and ma's hand would fly up to her chest in sheer worry that I'd catch my death. I'm sure lucky I didn't have her around yammering about the water.
Now matter how acquainted new each other, Big Larry skedaddled out of sight when I waded further from the shallow part, and I didn't see him for the rest of my swim. It sure was nice, though, just paddling around without a worry or a care on your mind. I even tried to float on my back, like Barney had showed me last summer. The problem with me, he said, is that I had too much meat on my bones and not enough blubber (He called it 'padding', I called it 'blubber'). I tended to sink a little bit, but Barns would bob there like a cork, and I sorta envied him for it.
My time in the cool, pleasant ripples was cut short, as this time I was positive I heard someone coming up the road. Ten to one, it was someone under the age of 14. See, you could always tell just by the sound whether it was an adult or a kid. The latter tended to shuffle their feet in the dirt, while the grown-ups didn't make much noise at all. Part of me kinda wished they did, because it's not too nice when someone sneaks up on you when you're naked as a jay. It wasn't the first time I had to scurry out of the water to save my bare behind, but I was sure hoping it would be my last. This time I chanced hiding in a sort of rocky grove, right behind a monster of a boulder. What I was praying for was some tourist folk just stopping by to check out the scenery; they never stay too long. What I got was a filthy double-crossing.
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Agent_Splage Community Member 
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