Words: Franklin Tate 2016-12-16 14:34:13
Cutshaw, again. Always at dawn and always the AMC wagon with its ruined exhaust, rust eating through like a moth through cashmere. He is steering with his knee and rolling a smoke, descending the two-track along Spillcorn Creek. Cutshaw at work, vise so very prominent on the Formica of a Dunkin Donuts four-top, his tying materials fanned out like some cock-a-doodle supernova. One fly, two fly…. The counter girl has a tattoo of a C-note on her forearm. He slips her a stimulator, his mouth hanging open as she finds a vacancy among her piercings. Two Cutshaws—one in the mortal world and one trapped deep within the polished linoleum of the Walmart floor. He strolls through plastic vistas toward sporting goods. He is setting up a distraction for the security camera then slipping two packs of Dead Eye pellets in his pocket. Into a forest of sweetgum and tulip poplar, blackjack oak and pignut hickory, passing through standing dead hemlock, austere and skeletal, Cutshaw is a-hum with “White House Blues”. His fingers play homage to Charlie Poole, claw-hammering the stock of the little rifle. Yonder comes the train, she’s coming down the line, blowing in every station. Mr. McKinley’s a-dying. Cutshaw has heard the tap-a-tap telltale, the wicka-wicka song. He freezes under the canopy of branches, cast like some dramatic character against this palimpsest of verdancy and first light. Up comes the .177 to his shoulder, his eye seeking the scope. Dead to rights, the yallerhammer is a-flutter and into view. Plink. He has four of the flickers in his satchel. He holds their dead weight, necks lolling, useless. Their golden primary feathers hold his gaze. Then he is up and moving, into deeper shadows of rhododendron and laurel, his boots finding the old bear trails up on Gravy Knob. There are mysteries afoot in the mountains, they say, though he can’t quite bring himself to believe such. There were once buffalo here, red wolves—groves of chestnuts as regal as any redwood or sequoia. Now, far below him, Spillcorn Creek troubles the freestone remnants of once-upon-a-time ancient peaks. Most of what came before is gone, he thinks. Cutshaw by the dumpster, the angry AMC idling nearby. The alley behind the fly shop is quiet. Mr. Double Haul strolls out to have a smoke or send a text or look at Tumblr for the fortieth time that morning. DH is unbelievably fuchsia and tan, all global polyester and nylon, the latest and greatest flyfishing fashion our Chinese brothers can stitch. Cutshaw brings out the goods: three cans of Bugler Gold up in smoke via late-night sessions at the vise and early mornings in the Dunkin parking lot. Cutshaw peels back the lids to show each can is filled to the brim. One can per hook size: eight, 10, and 12—dozens upon dozens of flies. DH is wordless at the sight of such mythical bounty. Then he does his best cartel boss impersonation as he checks quality, the Yallerhammer precious and legendary there in his fat palm. To a fly, they are perfect, beautiful, illegal. Cutshaw paces a semicircle. “You got my cash, slick?”
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Plink
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