Fish Bait Soup

OPEN SEASON | by TF&G Humor Editor REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

LISTEN: (6 minutes, 38 seconds)

 

DELBERT P. AXELROD came through the glass door of Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café with a handful of typed pages. “Hey guys! I’m gonna be an investigative reporter for outdoor magazines!”

The Hunting Club Membership was gathered in the large round corner table, trying to decide on when to go goose hunting. It was an ongoing discussion, because we loved shooting snows, but haven’t been in years.

We’d achieved the age in which we still wanted to hunt, but sometimes the planning stage was more fun.

Wrong Willie sighed. “Last year you were going to be a fishing guide on Lake Texoma and took a group out that didn’t catch anything but a cold.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault the fish weren’t biting, and I thought I was over that head cold. I didn’t mean to give it to anybody. Anyway, I was down on the Guadalupe last weekend and saw something I thought I could make into an issue.”

I held up a hand. “Wait a minute. If you’re thinking you want to write nonfiction for some publication, you don’t go in with the idea to create a story. You have to report it.”

“I did.” He brandished the papers at me like a witch doctor shaking a rattle at a possessed person. “I just put this up on my blog this morning.”

Woodrow frowned. “I didn’t know you had a blog.”

“I do now. Just started it today to test the waters.”

I reached out a hand. “Here, let me read what you have.”

Delbert pulled the pages back. “No. I need to read it out loud so you can get the full effect.”

“But people reading your blog won’t get it the same way.” Jerry Wayne waved a hand.

“It’s an audio blog. I recorded myself reading it.”

Fingers inching upward to pull out my hair, I paused. “But you said you wanted to write for outdoor magazines. People still read those, you know.”

“This is like fishing. You know, you cast your lure onto the water and let it sit there while the rings go out and the fish see them and come in to investigate.”

“That’s not how…” I hooked a finger through my coffee cup and leaned back. “Fine, then. Read away, Hunter Thompson.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just read it.”

Standing over our table, Delbert cleared his throat. “Dateline, Fredericksburg, Texas.”

I held up a hand. “I thought you said you were on the Guadalupe.”

He ignored my correction. “Dub and Tamika Rupe confessed to feeding fish bait to their toddler son during a live interview with this reporter who learned the Dupes are less than ethical anglers.”

I started to make a statement. “You’re gonna get sued––”

He cut me off. “The Rupes were waiting for the stocking truck to arrive when this intrepid reporter noticed their son, Arnold, was regularly reaching into what was obviously a bait can. It became apparent that they were feeding the child to keep him quiet so as not to scare the fish.”

“Take out the word, intrepid,” I said.

“What kind of bait was it?” Jerry Wayne asked.

Ignoring us both, Delbert continued. “Interested in the events unfolding before me, I initiated a discussion about trout fishing and then quickly changed the topic in a classic ‘bait and switch’ tactic, and learned of the parents’ shocking disregard for their child.

“The couple admitted without remorse that they often fed the toddler fish bait. ‘Why sure,’ Dub Rupe said. ‘The little son-of-a-gun eats everything he can put in his mouth. He did it on the last fishing trip, too. I wasn’t too thrilled that he ate all the bait, because the fish started biting and all of a sudden, we didn’t have anything to catch them with but a few soggy mushrooms he’d spit out.’”

Delbert looked up. “The mom admitted the kid even ate a dead frog once when they weren’t looking, and it didn’t hurt him none. Just gave him a little gas.”

Woodrow and I exchanged puzzled looks. He waved a hand to get Delbert’s attention. “What kind of bait was it?”

“Whole kernel corn. Trout love it.”

Jerry Wayne looked sad. “I just asked that question and you ignored me.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t a story, you’re just making veiled allegations that aren’t real.”

Delbert shook the page to make us stop talking and continued reading. “When I called a doctor and asked him if it was safe for a kid to eat fish bait, he was concerned. He said he didn’t care how hungry a kid might be, they shouldn’t eat bait.”

Woodrow leaned forward and laced his fingers. “Were you specific when you talked to the doctor?”

“Well, I didn’t want to lead him in any way.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re gonna get in trouble. Delete your blog before it’s too late.”

“No. Listen.” He continued to read. “Local game wardens looked into the incident and consulted college professors with bad hair and pocket protectors, asking the question, ‘if food products can be used as bait, is it all right for humans to consume the same thing fish eat?’”

“No!” I felt my eyes rolling back in my head. “There are so many things wrong with this I don’t know where to start.”

He defended himself by reading even more. “Parks and Wildlife officials argue that if corn and marshmallows are purchased as trout bait, it should be illegal for humans to consume the products as nourishment.”

“No one ever said that.” Wrong Willie rested his head in both hands. 

Delbert gave me an arrogant look I wanted to slap off his face. “I bet they would if someone framed the question right. It’s like voting propositions. They’re so convoluted no one understands them.”

I held up a hand. “This is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Then it’ll get about a million views!” Delbert argued. “I’ll be famous and people will start calling me an influencer.”

The guys looked at me for support and I shrugged. “You know, if people use shrimp down on the coast for fish bait, and then cook up what’s left, they can be accused of doing the same thing.”

Wrong Willie looked aghast. “You’re encouraging him?” 

“My new philosophy this year is, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I waved Doreen over. “Hey is there any corn and shrimp on the menu today?”

She frowned and popped her gum. “Have you ever seen it in here?”

“No, but if you decided to start serving it, add some whitefish, and crawdad tails and call it Fish Bait Soup.”

Delbert plucked a notepad from his pocket. “That gives me another idea to write about. I might decide to be a culinary reporter instead.”

“Go for it,” I said, and held my empty cup for Doreen to fill. “Just coffee. No bait.”

 

Email Reavis Wortham at ContactUs@fishgame.com

 

< PREV Return to CONTENTS Page NEXT >