Rusty Flathers

“Listen, Sally, you’ve been out of commission for some time. We need to get you back in the limelight.” It was her agent, Ben T. Hook.

Like the Blitz during WWII, Ben’s phone calls to Sally had been bombing for days. But never this early in the morning.

Rusty—returning to his bunkhouse—froze mid-step. Having recognized Ben’s voice, Rusty chose to remain silent just inside the entryway, within earshot of the conversation being held behind the curtain that darkened his bedroom.

“Look, we have phones ringing from Simms, Orvis, AFTCO, and Patagonia. I can only hold these companies off for so long. They want you to wear their gear and do what you do. Kick ass in the outdoors. Not hang out on a remote island in Canada with some no-name-freak fishing camp owner.”

          Rusty was fresh off a win, his beatdown on Biggy Pescatore, and it made him think, “Kick ass? Why don’t you kiss her ass, Ben? Or better yet, I’ll kick your ass. Sally doesn’t need fame to pad her resume—she’s proved herself a thousand times over. And the last time I checked—she still has a fortune. So maybe what she doesn’t need is you!”

Ben continued to ramble, “Trust me… You’re not crazy about jet-setting to Zimbabwe to fish the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament. But you have to say YES to our fashion partners. Plus, it’s a chance to make a statement. Keep being Sally Squatsnfishes. Remind the international outdoor world exactly who she is.”

Rusty announced himself by clearing his throat. He could not make out what Sally had muttered, but he did hear her return the phone to the nightstand.

“Son of a,” he bit his lip without saying it aloud, then swiped the curtain to the side and entered the bedroom. In Flathers fashion, he had topped one cup of Timmy’s to the brim, and now it ran over his knuckles onto the floor.

Between evening bonfires, early morning rise and shine, midday lunch breaks, Rusty and Sally had become inseparable. With an adult rating they shared his twin bed.

“Who was on the phone?” asked Rusty.

          “Um, what?” she replied… Rubbing the beauty from her sleep.

“The phone, Sally. It’s early. Who was it?”

          “It was just Ben… It was nothing…”

To himself, “Hmmm… What I heard wasn’t nothing, Sally. Are we not being truthful with each other?” Then aloud, “So he’s calling you at 5 o’clock in the morning and it’s nothing?”

          “Look, come back to bed,” offered Sally.

Freeze frame and back up five minutes. The Rusty Flathers we had previously known would take a hard pass on a record musky for the opportunity to jump back into bed with Sally Squatsnfishes. But he was finding his own space. And that space was a newfound ability to stand up for himself.

“No, I’m up. I need to get boats ready. Make sure Celine is up. Was he asking you about Africa again?” Rusty pushed.

          “Yes, and look, I know you don’t want me to go. But if you came with me—we could do all this together,” Sally responded.

“Sal… My place is here. We’ve already talked about it a thousand times. I’m not going to Bless the Rains in Africa.”

“Which part of me being committed to this island property does she not understand?” he thought. “I don’t have the privileges of the Squatsnfishes. I didn’t grow up with generational wealth. I can’t just up and leave my own business.”

Then, before she could see the lump beginning to form in his throat… he turned and left the bunkhouse. Sally again reached for her phone. Outside, Rusty repressed tears.

Knock—Knock—Knock. “Celine, are you up? Hey, I got coffee going. Are you awake?” banged Rusty with the smooth side of his fist. Knock—Knock—Knock.

          “Ok. Ok already. I’m up,” she replied, opening the door of her bunkhouse a quarter way on the hinge.

“Good God, Celine! Put some clothes on,” Rusty said while shielding his eyes. “I don’t need to see that!”

          “Sorry, boss. I’m trying to feel at one with nature. My bad. Although, I read the other day that Indigenous peoples of the Lac des Bois region think clothing can be a barrier to the true wilderness experience. So right now… I guess I’m really leaning into that.”

This also explained to Rusty what he presumed was some sort of summer shawl made from monofilament fishing line.  But WAY too see-through.

With his blood pressure red-lined, Rusty made an about-face and headed to the dockhouse. The quiet of the morning, before everyone began to stir, was a blessed hour. Minus seeing his camp chef naked. 

His world inside the dockhouse was still at peace. Link was snoozing away the remainder of early morning hours. No need to bark at the resident geese thatching the lawn. They would not take no for an answer anyway, when it came to pooping anywhere and everywhere on the beach.

“Goddammit,” Rusty thought again. “Why does Sally make me feel like I’m the bad guy?”

“But you know what?” he continued. “Maybe she’s right. Being gone for two weeks doesn’t mean I’m not committed to my business. I have a partner. I have Cos. There’s a work-life balance,” he tried to convince himself.

Just then Minister Nev Thorne appeared out of nowhere. “Hey, Rusty, good morning.”

          “Oh, hey, Nev. Where’d you come from? I didn’t hear you pull in this morning?” he questioned.

“Uhhhh, actually? I was in Celine’s bunkhouse when you knocked. My sincere apologies. I came to the island after dark last night. She was messaging me something about Satan roaming the woods, or something of the sort. Anyway, I’ve got some free time today do you need a hand around here?”

          “Nev, man, you’ve got lipstick all over your dog collar,” said Rusty. “Let me guess… Satan’s fire engine red?”

“Oh, yeah… Hey… Ok… Sorry… How’s that?” he said, wiping frantically with a rag he had found on the workbench.

          “Perfect, you’ve disguised it with lower unit grease,” Rusty answered. “But if you’re serious about lending a hand, what would you say to helping out around here, maybe full time, for a ten-to-twelve-day period?”

“Well, I guess I’m not sure. That sounds like a commitment. And I do have my congregation to tend to. You know—a flock has the potential to roam.”

          “Pretty sure one of them is already roaming your pasture. She also answers doors wearing fishing shawls,” Rusty concluded.

“You may be right, but I will continue to stand with Christ, as most of his Disciples were fishermen,” countered Nev.  

          “Here’s the deal, and I’ll trust that as a man of the cloth, you will keep this betwixt you and I,” stated Rusty.

“Yes, absolutely. What is it?”

          “Sally’s been after me to fish this Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament in Zimbabwe. It’s a big-time, big-bucks event held annually on Lake Kariba. Anyway… Sally’s been more than hinting about me going… But I’ve been making a stand.”

          “And now Nev—at this very moment—I realize how serious I am about her. And I want to say yes to her. And surprise her. And tell her I’ll go on this trip with her—that I will go anywhere with her.”

          “But that’s only if you can fill in, and only if it’s cool with Cosmoid. What do you say?” Rusty asked.

“I say let’s part the seas and get you to Africa,” replied Nev.

Rusty, who forgot his wristwatch on the nightstand, backtracked to the bunkhouse and could hear Sally with her phone on speaker. “Yes, I’m in. But I’ll need you to put together the team. That way Rusty doesn’t think it was me.”

          “How so… I’m not following,” Ben T. Hook continued. “Why does it matter who puts the team together?”

“Because it does. That’s why. And because you’re my agent and I’m the one signing the checks,” Sally huffed.

 “Ben… You remember The Gold Rope Ranch? One of the owners, Ron Heimburg, owes us. Plus, he’s a Jewish financier. Start there.”

          “Are you talking financing, or also as a teammate?” responded Ben.

“For sure the money, but you also need to ask if anyone, someone he knows from the ranch, someone who does a ton of fishing, would be interested in joining my team. Got it?”

          “Sure, Sal… I’ll make the call. Anything else?” added Ben.

“No. Not right now. But if you hear a nuclear blast coming from Northwest Ontario… The mushroom cloud will be Rusty’s head, when I tell him I’m leaving the island without him again.”

Rusty stood in the entryway of the bunkhouse—listening to every word, including the unspoken Jackie Loonsuckle. His nemesis.

–To Be Continued—