Episode 4 – Crawlers
HAYWARD
EPISODE 4
‘CRAWLERS
“Sport fishing, or, “trophy fishing” as the local guides have Christened it (though we have yet to see bronze or gilded gold upon any gills!) has long been one of the chief past times of the Greater Hayward Recreational Area. Bass, Pike (referred to by true Wisconsinites simply as “Northerns”), Walleye, and the almighty Muskellunge (or, “Muskie”) will give even the most skilled angler a run (or swim) for their hard earned vacation money.”
–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 1999
“And Jonah and that whale, you can bet they had a ball
some bait you make go limp, and some bait you make crawl”
–Warehouse Tapes, Americana Legend Society
“Gonna wet a line or two friend?” called out Murray, his friendliest tone ringing off the clear coated floors of the Safe Haven. It was more than halfway through his shift, the time when real fishermen came looking for refreshments…and bait.
“Well, we’re gonna try buddy!” came the reply. The customer was laughing too hard, was clearly drunk. He had on a floppy fishing hat, replete with hand tied flies set in it for decoration. The man’s large nose was rooting down into the shelves of a refrigerated case, looking for beer.
“Afraid there’s no bait down there sir,” said Murray, having a good idea of what was going to follow.
“Ain’t lookin’ for no bait…buddy,” the customer replied, rather brusquely. And Murray had caught it, the accent. The customer was speaking with that which he and Lowell (how he missed him!) referred to as The Stupid Accent. It was, of course, the accent of stupid people, from whence they came, Murray knew not, though he did know, (and it stood to reason) mostly they came from Minnesota.
“All right friend, if it’s something else you’re looking for, I certainly am willing to help.” Murray was calm and becalming. He was hoping not to have to call Leets or Leets Junior.
Lord in Heaven, he knew he didn’t want to call Farmer Hank.
The customer, from the northern suburbs of the Twin Cities in Minnesota, flung his head up in semi anger, hitting it on a shelf in the opened store cooler. “Oww! Damn! Just point me in the direction of where ya keep the beer…pal.” Removing his head from the opened cooler, the man stood up, his belly tight in a Minnesota Vikings shirt. His boots, untied, flopped around yellow striped tubesocks which clung to his hairy, milk white legs. His tourist shorts, a little too snug for comfort, hugged his rear, flogged his front.
“Well, you see,” said Murray, not reluctantly, not aggressively, just evenly, “I’m afraid we’ve a bit of a sticky wicket. Our beer isn’t currently available for purchase at this time of day.”
“Not available?” asked the man from Minnesota, incredulous. “I thought this was Wisconsin–the land of ten thousand cheeseheads and a billion beers!” Finding himself very clever, he laughed.
“Twelve thousand lakes friend, and ten billion beers,” Murray corrected him. “The lakes are open, if you have a fishing license. The beer, I’m afraid, is not currently available, least not here, not in Hayward.” He said it informatively, with the slightest hint of bemusement. Trying not to look at the fisherman’s awful shorts with their awful bulges spewing out of both the top and bottom, Murray sipped his tea.
“Well, buddy, when is beer sales open then?” The man rubbed, through his hat, the bump forming, like a small cartoon volcano, on his head.
“Not until eight a.m., I’m afraid.” Murray was nominally delighted to report this fact to his rude guest. But, only nominally.
“So where’s can we get it earlier?” The man knew Murray had been asked this before and so, would know the answer.
“Closer to highway eight friend,” said Murray. His tea cup was now empty.
“Highway eight? Highway eight!” The man, his torso twisting in his red shorts, his rolls rolling and churgling, was ready to stroke out with disbelief.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Murray, examining the bare bottom of his Safe Haven mug. “They’re a little looser in those parts. In many ways.” And this was true. If the Greater Hayward Recreational Area was the Dark Side of the Moon, Highway eight was the Twilight Zone.
“Well we didn’t drive all the way up here just so’s to turn around and drive all the way back there!” shouted the man, his drunkenness spitting out from his mouth. “And I suppose you never make exceptions–Mr. Night Shift Buddy? Never? Never sold a stray case of beer to a pal?” The Minnesotan lurched towards the service counter, displaying his belly in a bull rush of sorts, meaning to intimidate Murray with his suburban girth.
Dispassionately, Murray stood. Blinking, he said, “I don’t think so.” He paused, truly thinking it through, his blue eyes shining under the counter lights. “No, I’ve never sold beer or any liquor during off hours.” The shadow of a smile came to Murray’s lips as he added, “Not to anyone from Minn-ah-SO-ta.”
The Mad Fisherman was now not only thirsty and in pain from his bumped head, he was also being taunted by a night clerk…a night clerk in Wisconsin! It was too much to bare, too much for his Minnesota mind, and he snapped. Stampeding the counter with a wolf like howl, he slammed his chubby palms down on the counter in front of Murray. “Goddamn! You people just don’t know a thing about customer service do you?”
“And ‘you people’ don’t know a damn thing about being polite guests do you?” Murray shot back. He was not yet quite as patient a man as he would become in the following decades. Summoning up all of his six foot four frame, Murray was not to be cowed by this drunk.
The Thirsty Fisherman made one final attempt. He smiled his own smile now and said, with the quietness of a real threat, “How about I go out to my truck, get my buddies, and come back in here. How about we get ourselves some cases of beer, and how about we walk out of here, with or without paying for it? How about that mister buddy pal friend?” He leered, his head still thumping, his belly quivering with anger.
Now it was Murray who slammed his empty palm and his Safe Haven mug down on the counter, his patience evaporated. “Go ahead pal. Do it. And while your getting your suburban neophyte mud duck gang, I’ll be pressing the little red button under my counter. The local police, the county police, and the state patrol, will all be here in minutes. They won’t ask questions. They won’t bother listening to your stupid protestations of feigned ignorance–friend. They’ll just take one look at the license plate on your piece of trash truck and haul your ass to jail where you’ll spend a week waiting to go before a judge, a week spent with Wisconsin’s finest country boys, sobering up.” Every Safe Haven in the state provided all police all the coffee and doughnuts they wanted, free of charge. Accordingly, the police were always more than eager to demonstrate their gratitude–with zeal.
Defeated, humbled, and truly afraid (who wanted to spend a week in a Wisconsin jail?), the fisherman backed away from the counter, his shoulders slumping, his eyes turned downward in submission saying, “Okay, okay mister. No need for all of that. Guess I’m just tired, just a bit cranky is all. Sorry. Sorry pal.” Murray noted, that this time, the man really had meant it, really had been sincere in addressing him as his pal.
“No harm done,” said Murray, with great forgiveness, the matter resolved, diplomatic relations between the neighbor states restored. He spread his smile broadly, and said, “Now, is there anything I can get for you my friend?”
The man, embarrassed enough to be meek with his request, shyly said, “Guess I just need some bait. Got any good minnows or night crawlers here buddy?” Again, he had meant it.
Murray looked into the top of his eyelids and grinned. “I’m afraid we’ve no minnows here–too much of a smell for a place selling hot food. We’ve got some worms but they’re just those factory packaged ones, the kind you see everywhere. Not very fresh, if I’m being honest. And I am.” He blinked and added, “mostly.”
“They’ll have to do mister, we’re hitting the water at the break of early dawn.” Having failed in his mission for beer, the man hoped to salvage it with worms.
Murray, being a true son of Wisconsin, said, “I know a shop, close by, they open at 4 a.m. All the locals know about it. They have ‘crawlers like you’ve never seen.”
“Thanks buddy, I ‘ppreciate it. Sorry for being such an ass.”
“Not at all friend, not at all–in fact, I’ll call ahead,” Murray cooed, his grin now sly. “They’ll be expecting you.”
CLATTER CLATTER, HOOK AND LADDER
Spealburg, Wisconsin is located to the west and north of Hayward. Like other “towns” of its size in Wisconsin, it isn’t really a town at all. More of a place or community residing chiefly within the minds and hearts of those who grew up (or currently reside) there, Spealburg consists of a bar, a softball field, and a bait shop. There are a few houses grouped randomly together “within” Spealburg, more dotting the woods and the hills around it. Its official, unofficial population was less than one hundred adults.
Butting up against the north western edges of Siren Lake, the bait shop was popular with everyone except the locals.
The moon, tired from her night’s work of inspiring local idiots to romp around like crazed sex fiends, violent ax wielders, or worse–upright wolves, went to bed. The sun’s first rays were thinking about touching the horizon, but had made no firm commitment. A yellow and purple truck (mostly purple) came bouncing down the hill which led into the tranquil honey pot of Spealburg. As most of the locals had just recently gone to bed, drunker than your local priest, nary a light was on. Spealburg was too small, too unorganized to have street lights. If the bait shop had not already turned its lights on for the day, the yellow and purple truck might have driven right on through, might have missed Spealburg completely.
“We would have driven right past this fucking place,” mumbled Bobby Shaw, tears streaming through his red eyes. Crying now, he repeated himself, “We would have driven right past this goddamn, fucking, goddamnmotherfucking godforfuckingsaken place…” Tears were gushing out his eyes like his curse words. Feeling a two foot hook impale his right shoulder, Bobby Shaw stopped swearing, stopped crying, and started screaming.
“I’m not gonna tell you again boy–we don’t much like blue language in these here parts. You wanna fish in Spealburg boy, you wanna catch the big one? Then you’d best! Watch! Your! Language!” And with each enunciated word, the bait shop owner (or was it a local guide?) thrust the 2 foot hook impaled in Bobby Shaw’s right shoulder further and further through his body until Bobby saw the barbed end come out, right through his upper chest. Neatly placed between his collarbone and heart, it matched the one going through his left shoulder. Not wanting to swear anymore and risk a third hook, Bobby Shaw did the sensible thing and passed out.
But just before his chin sunk into his chest, Bobby couldn’t help but think that, just an hour or two earlier, he’d been in a Safe Haven in Hayward, trying to buy beer. And worms. He should have just bought the factory produced, lousy worms. His world turning black, he muttered, “Crawlers…fucking crawlers…”
The bait shop owner grabbed a six inch hook, and ripped off Bobby’s lip. Fuming, the owner growled, “No fucking swearing!”
NEXT:CALL ME ISHMAEL or U CAN TUNE A PIANO BUT U CAN’T TUNE A DOLPHIN