Breaking Brooklyn by Scott Leopold Read Free Book Online Page A

talked
about. This guy was a catfish worth one hundred fishing
stories.
    Jim balled up a piece of crawdad into a piece
of bread and went at it again. After putting the bait on his hook,
he cast his line. The bobber floated peacefully on the top of the
water like a swan. Jim and I never looked away, never relaxed,
didn’t talk, just waited and waited.
    Suddenly the sinker was pulled under the
surface with such force Jim had to hang onto the pole with all his
strength. Up and down the bank he followed the giant catfish. He
wanted to tire the Old Man out.
    At one point Jim got pulled so near the bank
he lost his footing, his pole slipping out of his hand. He managed
to grab it and kept fighting. He yelled for me to get the net. The
battle raged for nearly half an hour. My palms were sweaty. I felt
like I was going to jump out of my skin. Jim pulled and pulled on
the line until the Old Man was close to the shore, then he yelled
for me to throwing the net over the Old Man.
    As we pulled the net out of the water, the
giant catfish fought like a prizefighter, thrashing to get out of
the net, refusing to accept his fate. Jim and I shared a grin of
victory. Jim figured the catfish to be about eight pounds. I was
pretty sure it was more like sixty.
    Jim carefully cut the line. Then he grabbed
his pliers to get the hook out of the fish’s mouth. That monster
was still fighting. Catfish can cut you like a knife, you know. Jim
put his gloves on and fought to get it to hold still. Removing the
hook, he threw the Old Man in the bucket with the rest of his fish.
It was odd, because a catfish like that deserved to be in his own
bucket, not one filled with inferior fish. I would have thrown the
other fish back in the canal, freeing up the bucket for my
prize.
    Jim had quite a load in that old plastic paint
bucket he found in the dumpster behind the drugstore. It was enough
food to feed him for a week. He looked at me with a huge smile on
his face while we watched our captive flop around in an effort to
escape the crowded bucket of water.
    The satisfied look on Jim’s face was what you
would imagine seeing from someone who just climbed Mount Everest.
Breathing heavily, he looked out over the water. He was the most
content man I ever saw.
    Jim then told me to take the bucket of fish
home. He said I could have the tackle box as well. It didn’t make
any sense; he used that tackle box every day.
    “ Jack, you’re a good friend,” he
said. “One of the best I ever had. I am glad I met you.”
    “ Me too," I told him.
    I felt like I had ants in my pants because I
wanted to show the fish to my friends so bad. I asked Jim again if
he was sure he didn’t want the Old Man for himself.
    “ Nah, you take him”, he said,
“take ‘em all.” Then Jim said, “Stay golden, Ponyboy,” like he was
saying goodbye for a long time.
    I told him thanks, that I’d see him in the
morning. I didn’t think much about what Jim said at the time, but I
would later regret not staying longer with him that day.
    Not thinking about the consequences, I put the
giant catfish in the sink when I got home. I ran through the
neighborhood, yelling to my friends, who all came running in to
catch a glimpse of the legendary catfish. They looked at the
monster in the sink in disbelief. They couldn’t believe their
eyes!
    I did just what Jim had instructed. I told
everyone I caught the Old Man singlehandedly. My friends had no
choice but to believe me. The indisputable proof was right there in
the sink.
    One of my buddy’s grabbed his mother’s
Polaroid camera and took a picture of me holding the legendary
catfish. Everyone made a big deal out of it, which made me feel
really special.
    This had been one great day.
    The next morning was not so great. I woke to
my Grandpa Bob yelling.
    “ What the hell is that smell?” he
screamed.
    I ran down the stairs into the kitchen that
reeked of dead fish. In fact, the stench was so bad I could smell
it upstairs.
    When I told my