“Listen Sally, you’ve been out of commission for some time now. We need to get you back in the limelight.”
It was her agent, Ben T. Hook… Quietly reminding Sally that living her entitled lifestyle still required punching the clock and actually doing the work.
“We have phones ringing from Simms, Orvis, AFTCO, and Patagonia,” he continued. “I can only hold these companies off for so long, and then the lines go silent. They want you to wear their gear… Do what you do… Kick ass in the outdoors. Not hang out on some remote island in Canada with some no-name fishing camp owner.”
Sally hated it when Ben talked to her like a teenager, or when he talked down about Rusty. But she also knew her professional outdoor fashion modeling career could end just as quickly as it started. One day you’re on the cover of Simms leading the G3 Guide campaign, and the next you’re stocking aisles with plastic scented worms at some bait shop in Nowhere Ville, USA.
“Trust me… I know you’re not a-hundred percent sold on this idea of jet-setting off to Zimbabwe to fish the KITFT. But this is the perfect opportunity to say YES to our fashion partners. And also, a chance for you to make a statement. You know… Be Sally Squatsnfishes. Remind the international outdoor world exactly who she is.”
Sally then interjected, “Ben, I gotta go. I’ll call ya back, promise.”
Her cell phone barely made it to the nightstand in Rusty’s bunkhouse before he entered the bedroom with a couple cups of Timmy’s. Between the late evening bonfires and early morning hours of rise and shine—let’s get this camp awake and running—their time was being spent together sharing his bed.
Sally was trying to convince him to join her on this African adventure. And she also wanted him to trust that he was her partner, in more ways than one.
“Who was on the phone?” asked Rusty.
“Um, what?” she replied… Rubbing the balance of beauty from her sleep.
“The phone Sally. It’s early. Who was it?
“It was just Ben… It was nothing…”
Rusty continued to press, “So he’s calling you at five o’clock in the morning and it’s nothing?”
“Look, come back to bed,” she said while reaching for his offer of coffee.
“No, I’m up. I need to get boats ready and make sure Celine is up as well. 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 of 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.”
Then he turned and left the bunkhouse. Sally again reached for her phone.
Knock—Knock—Knock. “Celine, are you up? Hey, I got the 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 at a thousand Rusty made an about face and headed toward the dockhouse. The quiet of the morning, before the entirety of the camp began to stir, was always a blessed hour. Minus seeing his camp chef in her full-on nakedness.
“Yeah, Ben… I’m back,” said Sally after hitting the redial on her phone and waiting no less than a half-second for him to pick up. “Always quick when money’s on the line,” she thought.
“Ok, good. Now are we done thinking or are we going to make this Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament happen?” he replied.
“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 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.
The annual tiger fish contest boasted 200 of the world’s top angling teams. Princes from Saudi—Oligarchs representing Russia—the tycoons of China—this tournament was a who’s who in the billionaires’ world of massive wealth.
Knowing that Rusty would not be joining her, left the door wide open for fishing teammates. She had one gentleman, at the top of her list, in mind. Someone whose path they had crossed back in Montana. Someone that Rusty was certainly no fan.
So, to keep a semblance of peace between her and Rusty… She needed the idea of recruiting this person to come from Ben… And she needed to drop a somewhat subtle hint in hopes that he would pick up on her clue.
“If only Rusty would join me on this damn trip,” she thought.
And then spoke out loud, “Ben… Do you remember me telling you about The Gold Rope Ranch? One of the owners, Ron Heimburg, he owes us a favor. Plus, he’s a Jewish financier. Start there.”
“Are you talking strictly financing? Or also as a teammate?” responded Ben.
“For sure the money, but you also need to ask if anyone, maybe someone he knows from the ranch, 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 massive explosion coming from Northwest Ontario… It will be Rusty’s head exploding, when I tell him I’m leaving the island, again.”
She thought wrong… Rusty had forgotten his wristwatch on the nightstand. He returned to his bunkhouse—was standing in the entryway—listening to every word.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 