South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool Page A

laughed our asses off,” Donny howled. “Dipshit spent the rest of the day on the toilet.”
    Up until now, Ed had been staring blankly at his rod tip. Upon hearing this, he smiled and chuckled at the thought.
    â€œI don’t remember that,” laughed Earl.
    â€œYer shittin’ me?!” said Donny. “I thought everybody knew about that. Fuckin’ legendary. We didn’t let him forget about it too soon, neither. Hell no.”
    â€œMaybe I did hear somethin’ about it,” Earl said thoughtfully. “I remember somethin’ about some Pampers?”
    â€œShit yeah. Ol’ Doc the tow truck driver got word of it and left a big box of diapers on Brian’s desk. Bri got all pissed off.”
    Earl pointed toward the rods and interrupted abruptly, “Ed, you’re gettin’ a bite!”
    In a semi-stupor, Ed lunged forward and awkwardly yanked back his pole.
    â€œDamn. Missed ’em,” mused Ed, as he looked up at the pole tip.
    â€œYou’re a little slow on the draw there, Pee Wee,” said Donny with a smirk. He took a toke off his cigarette, washing it back with a swig from his beer. Earl chuckled as Donny went on: “Hell, you been starin’ at the damn thing for the past twenty minutes.”
    Earl folded his arms and sat tall in his seat. “Yep, bro. Gotta kick off some of that rust.” Ed stood to reel in his line, the clickety whir of the reel echoing in his head. The machinery of the mechanism moved smoothly in his hands. He watched the sinker and leader rise to the surface and glide toward the boat, leaving a colorful trail on the water.
    â€œYep,” was the only response Ed could muster.

Chapter 20
    A N IGHT AT THE R ANCHO
    W hen Ed was a kid, time had passed slowly on the boat when the fish weren’t on the bite. But the overall experience of being on the water, especially in good weather, was quite pleasant. There were times, however, when he had wished that his father would let him stay in bed, particularly on days when it was cold and wet. It wasn’t so much the rain that was bothersome as much as the wind that would occasionally kick up. Late fall and early winter on San Pablo Bay was, for the most part, quite calm, but on the random breezy day, the surface of the water would become choppy and make the boat uncomfortable. The rod tips would bounce so much that it was extremely difficult to differentiate fish action from the slapping ripples.
    On this particular day, the only adverse condition that Ed was forced to tolerate was the company of Don Vowdy. The weather, at least, was on his side. With psychedelic eyes, Ed looked out across the vastness of the bay and marveled at the beauty of it all. The entire scene brought him back to the days when all had seemed right with the world, when his love and faith in his family and friends had yet to be corrupted by the realization of their shortcomings.
    Ed looked at Earl and wondered at how his brother could be satisfied with his environment. As far as Ed could discern, Earl had never shown any sign of a desire to escape, either physically or philosophically. Ed both admired and was somewhat perplexed by Earl’s ability to be content.
    Suddenly the quiet bliss of the moment was ripped by a shrill sound that caused Ed to lurch.
    â€œHey, Earl, any action? Come back.”
    Earl leaned far back in his chair and reached over his shoulder for the radio microphone. Speaking into the handheld mouthpiece, Earl replied, “Hey there, Red. Naw, we ain’t seen nothin’ here. Couple bullhead now and then. How ’bout you?”
    â€œNaw, we had a shaker early this morning, but that’s about it. Okay.” Ed recognized the voice. He had always been perplexed by Red’s habit of ending nearly every transmission with “ Okay .”
    â€œTide will be turnin’ around here. Maybe it’ll pick up,” said Earl.
    â€œYeah, maybe. We’ll