Bob, or Man on Boat

I am not the first fisherman to follow Bob around the river to find out how and where Bob fishes.

But the thing with Bob is this:

You can be fishing the same water as Bob and you won’t catch a single fish.

That’s because Bob is fishing up from the river all of the fish that you can’t catch.

It’s got nothing to do with luck.

It’s got nothing to do with the kind of bait that Bob is fishing with.

It’s got everything to do with Bob and with who Bob is and the fact that Bob does not just live on the river.

Bob lives in the river.

Yes, just like a fish.

It’s true that I’ve seen Bob fish a fish out of the river with just his bare Bob hands.

Sometimes it’s more than just one fish that Bob fishes with his hands out of the river.

It’s true, too, that I have heard Bob sing the fish up into his boat.

It’s not a song that you and I can hear just because we have ears.

But the fish can hear it.

The fish listen to Bob sing when Bob opens up his mouth and sings to them, Fish, oh fish, come here.

I’ve seen fish walk across water to get to where Bob is singing to them this song.

I’ve seen fish leap up at Bob and up into Bob’s boat like fish looking to be kissed.

One day I get home from the river.

What my wife says to me when I come in from the river is, I didn’t marry a fisherman.

She says, Remember, you have a son too.

Ever since you bought that boat, she says.

She does not finish this sentence.

She goes over to where the sink is and she turns on the faucet.

Hot water hisses against two dirty plates.

I am late again for supper.

I see my son sitting in front of the TV.

He is in his underwear.

He’s six.

He is watching a TV show that I do not know the name of.

Hey, buddy boy, I say.

He does not turn toward the sound of his daddy’s voice.

What’s going on, little man? I say.

He doesn’t say anything to this.

Guess what I saw out on the river today?

On the TV there is a clown made out of clay.

I saw this really big ship, I say.

My son looks up at me, away from the TV.

What? he says, though I don’t think he’s heard what I’ve said.

A big ship that sailed here all the way from China.

His eyes widen though I wonder if he knows what and where is China.

What about Bob? my son then says.

I wonder what and how much he knows about Bob.

What about Bob? I say.

Was Bob on the China ship?

No, I say.

I say, Bob was on Bob’s boat.

Then he says, Is Bob going to go to China?

I guess he does know what China is.

I don’t think so, I tell him.

On the TV the clay clown is juggling three clay fish.

Did you catch any fish? he asks.

A couple, I say. Want to see them? One’s got some pretty big teeth on him.

Maybe later, he says.

He turns back to face the TV.

Some nights it’s hard to get my own son to bite.

In bed, that night, my wife says it again.

I didn’t marry a fisherman.

She turns over onto her side.

Her back is to my belly.

Like that, she reaches over and turns out the light.

That night, I have a dream with Bob fishing in it.

In this dream, I am fishing with Bob.

I am fishing in Bob’s boat.

Bob is teaching me how to fish.

He is pointing to places in the river where, he says, there are always more than just one fish for a man to fish up.

Then Bob says to me, Hold out your hands.

So I hold out my hands.

He takes my hands into his own.

He looks down at my hands.

I can tell that he is looking.

I look down at his.

His hands are scaled and webbed.

His hands are fins.

I pull my hands away from Bob.

What’s the matter? Bob asks me. Haven’t you ever shaken hands with a fish?

I shake my head no.

That’s your problem, Bob tells me.

Bob turns, then, and just like that, Bob jumps out of his boat.

Into the river.

Bob swims away.

And I’m left alone, then, floating down the river, here in Bob’s boat.

In the morning, I boat my boat over to Bob’s boat.

Bob is not in it.

I look around for Bob.

Mornings, Bob usually spends cleaning fish.

The sun is on the river.

The sun makes a mist on the top of the river.

Bob, I call out.

My voice is a stone that skips across the river.

I ask a man in a fishing boat if he has seen Bob.

He shakes his head nope.

I go home.

Home, I pick up the phone.

I don’t know what or who I should call. Or what I would say if I had to say it.

That Bob is not in his boat?

That in my dream Bob had become a fish?

That afternoon, I get in my truck and go down the road that goes down to the river.

Down to the river where Bob lives.

I want to see if Bob is back home in his boat.

He is.

Bob’s boat is back to being Bob’s boat.

Bob’s boat, when Bob is not on it, it goes back to being just another boat on the river.

I see Bob hunched over, sitting on a turned-over bucket, gutting the guts out of his fish.

The guts of the fish, Bob throws the guts back into the river.

Bob believes that the guts of the fish, when you give them back to the river, the guts turn back into fish.

There are boats on the river with people on them who do not fish.

The river, to these people on board these boats, it is just a place for them to swim in, it is a place for them to cool down during the heat that is the summer.