Author’s note: True story here. The subject of this piece, David, passed away about a year after this was written. I have the newspaper clipping announcing his death in my scrapbook.

__________________________

Sometimes we really lose our sense of place in this world. I’ll join the already too long list of people that have said we take for granted the things we enjoy. Wading a cold mountain stream in early spring. Being on top of the ridge when the old boss gobbler sounds off at dawn. Slipping into an unearthly still bass pond and casting that first bug towards the reeds back in the cove. Sitting around a campfire at night having a drink or two, laughing with our buddies, talking about old fishing times. Line up all the cliches. But for the first time in my life, I think I really get it.

Today I met David. He’s very close to my age, a young buck in the woods, relatively speaking. When David spoke of his fishing trip to Alaska with his cousin, his eyes lit up like I wish mine would just one more time in my life. He said they hauled in halibut to beat the band, and he’s already got his next trip planned. But when David plans a trip, it takes a little more than flight plans or packing the truck. It involves special arrangements for wheelchair access and all the little things accompanying the situation; things I’ll probably never have a clue about. A little over a year ago, David was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Prior to that, he was a strapping young firefighter for the city of Austin, Texas. My wife manages the apartment community where he lives, and she had told me about him many times; how he’d walked in and signed his lease for a second floor apartment just like everyone else, not knowing that a year later he wouldn’t even be able to climb the stairs to that apartment. She watched his condition deteriorate at an absolutely astonishing pace, and she would occasionally report his condition over supper. I listened to her recount his predicament with what I ashamedly admit is my usual indifference.

I had a doctor’s appointment to check out a bum knee that was giving me a bit of trouble, and I stopped by her office to visit, get some sympathy, and to see her co-worker’s new puppy. I was down on the floor making a fool of myself with the dog when David wheeled in under power of his electric wheelchair. I immediately knew who he was. His speech was extremely slurred, his handshake was shaky, but still firm, and his muscles defied him to some extent. But he sat up straight, had a proud look about him, wore a smile, and he had a gleam in his eye. I liked him instantly.

To understand his speech required effort, but we talked about his new apartment (he’s had to move a couple times to accommodate his new requirements), the puppy, his Alaska trip, and of course the girls out at the pool. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of this young man a year ago, wearing his uniform trousers and a navy blue fire department tee shirt and ball cap, even though I’d never seen him before today. Now here he sat, to some extent dependent upon the kindness of others, but not showing one trace of self pity. Here he was, smiling and talking about fishing and girls.

I was still holding the puppy, a six week old Cocker Spaniel, and he mentioned that he’d once had a black one. The four of us were chatting, and when I hoped the moment was right, I stood up and excused myself to visit the men’s room. As I did, I put the puppy in David’s lap without asking and walked out of the room. I didn’t really have to go the men’s room, but I took David for a dog man, and as we all know, a puppy has unrestricted access to a dog man’s soul. When I returned, the puppy was climbing his chest, trying to lick his chin. I detected a noticeable grin on David’s face. Puppies are childhood revisited. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I hope that for just a moment the little pup took David back to when things were different.

When the time came to leave, I shook David’s hand again and told him that it was very nice to have finally met him, and I meant it. On the drive home through the country, the radio annoyed me and interrupted my thoughts, so I shut it off. Utter nonsense anyway. I suddenly felt a very real urge for a very strong bourbon and water. I didn’t remember my knee hurting anymore. I forgot whatever it was that had me stressed out that morning on the way to work. I pictured David on the stern of an Alaskan fishing boat, decked out in foul weather gear, wheelchair locked down tight, hooked up to an enormous halibut with his cousin right by his side. I pictured myself easing into a bass pond up to my waist, with the water as warm as a morning bath, casting deer hair poppers to the cattails along the shore, feeling the rod load and the wet line slip through my fingers. Then I tried to picture myself in David’s shoes, hoping someone would stop by and ask me to go fishing, knowing full well that the endeavor would be far more work than fishing for them. That man has more heart and soul than I could ever wish for. It’s not sympathy I have for David, it’s admiration.

Sometimes I think things aren’t so good. This or that is getting in the way of my hunting or fishing, bills have to be paid, how can I afford than new fly rod or shotgun, the grass needs mowing, my knee hurts, my vision is going, I’m thirty years old, blah, blah, blah.

Bullshit.

My next fish is for David. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because if it were him, he’d be catching the hell out of them.