Bluegill
◊ Like most suburban kids, I knew how to fish. My dad had taken me out to the percolation ponds a couple of times with a couple of fishing rods that only worked half the time and some pork fat to use as bait and he'd spend an afternoon teaching me the intricacies of fastening hooks and casting lines and avoiding the fat, clamoring mobs of ducks that quacked and paddled across the water. WE caught not a goddamn thing.
Then one summer my parents mentioned a fishing trip with another family. The lake, they promised, had fish that practically threw themselves out of the water and flopped at the feet of fishermen and fisherboys and young fishergirls like myself, mouthing "Cook me, cook me." I was enthralled with the prospect of days spent lazily plopping hooks into the water and catching fish that were wild and free and untainted by mercury and gutter run-off.
The first day out, within a couple of hours, I got a bite. I yanked the rod upward to set the hook and started slowly reeling in the line. The fish put up a fight but I was patient and strong and after a couple of minutes spent squealing "I've got one! I've got one! Dad! Dad! I caught one!" I almost had the fish.
I yanked a sleek, dripping bluegill out of the water. It thrashed madly, incredibly strong for such a tiny fish, dangling by its lip from the barbed hook I'd threaded onto the line. It was fighting for a life that wasn't going to last much longer.
I didn't know what to do. My vision of man and fish locked in a battle of wills dissolved, replaced by a small, beautiful fish gasping its life out on the pine needles.
I was terrified. I wanted to end its misery but I was afraid of touching it, afraid of hurting it, afraid I wouldn't be able to pull the hook from its lip or chop off its head, whatever it took make it stop. I ran awkwardly to the picnic table where my dad was talking with my mom as the fish flailed on the end of the line. My dad scooped up the fish and deftly pulled the hook from its mouth. He pinned it to the bench with one hand, snatched a small hatchet off the top of the table, and neatly lopped off the fish's head.
I dropped the fishing rod. Tears and snot ran down my face. I hadn't even known I'd been crying. My dad kneeled down and gathered me up in his strong arms. I buried my face in his wide shoulders and bawled, trying to explain about the fish and the hook and the end of one small, vibrant life. He stroked my back and crooned to me. "Honey," he said, "honey, I promise, this'll never happen to you again if you're an A&E co-editor with Owen for your community college newspaper in spring 2004."
(Yes, I really turned this in as my editor application.)