Mick used both oars to turn the raft perpendicular to the current as they came into the sharp river bend, so he could maintain control of the boat and not get caught in the main channel, which flowed up under the overhanging branches on the opposite bank.
“Holy cow. Look at all those fish feeding in that eddy, it looks like a bunch of retired Texans down at the Luby’s.” Jerry was still excited, even after several hours on the river.
“Can we pull in and try casting to ‘em Mick?” Tom pleaded.
Mick pulled hard on the oars, the thick muscles in his shoulders and back straining against the current. He landed the raft on the gravel bar, on the inside bend of the river. “Jerry, can you hop out and pull the boat up on the gravel bar?” Mick said to the sport in the front of the boat.
“Sure.”
Mick jumped out and helped Jerry pull the boat up further, so Tom could get out of the back. Jerry was a few inches shorter than Mick and quite trim. He had close cropped black hair and Mick figured him for ex-military by the way he acted. Tom on the other hand was about five and a half feet tall and nearly as big around as he was tall. He had a large red bulbous nose and talked far too much for Mick’s liking. Mick had learned that Jerry worked for Tom in Dallas and they made a trip together to the Gunnison river every year to go fishing together. They both liked to fly fish but didn’t get much time to practice their craft down in Dallas. Mick generally drift fished out of the boat, because it was easier for the sports to keep their flies in the feeding lanes without worrying about getting the drift right. But it’s hard for fly fishermen not to get excited with that many fish dimpling the surface chasing bugs. Mick knew the eddy well and had stopped many times, he had even given it a name, Buffet Eddy. He also understood how tricky this stretch of river was even for an excellent fly fisherman and these two Texans were a long way from excellence with the long rod. Mick had hooked the largest fish of the summer out of this hole twice, but had never managed to land it.
Multiple currents mingled together where the main channel met the long eddy. The trout seemed to be waiting in line, for the natural conveyor belt to deliver lunch. For a fish, the setup was almost perfect, a long eddy where the river softly curled back on itself and the fish hardly needed to move a fin, laying in wait for the constant stream of flotsam and bugs that were siphoned into the eddy out of the main current. For a fisherman however it was an almost impossible task to put a fly in the feeding lane with a natural drift. The converging currents would pull and tug on the line causing the fly to jerk or skate uncontrollably across the surface of the river, sending the trout scurrying for cover, or laughing at the ineptitude of the angler. Mick only stopped when he had very proficient fisherman on board, but the two Texans were having a good day, catching several fish each and Mick wanted to keep them happy. He could tell by their gear that money wasn’t an issue and he was hoping for a good tip. Mick stood on the gravel bar focusing on the rising trout. He pulled the straw brim of the old cowboy hat a little lower down to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. It was like a dance troupe, the trout had such perfect timing and there were so many Caddis on the river. Mick could almost precisely point to which trout would rise within a few milliseconds of when it actually happened.
The sports were excited to cast to the fish. “Slow down guys, those fish aren’t going anywhere for a while. You don’t want to shotgun ‘em, you need to pick out a specific target and get the timing down. Why don’t you take turns working from the bottom up, so if you spook any, you still have the rest of them to work, at the upper end.”
“That’s a good idea Mick. Here Jerry, I’ll flip you to see who gets to go first,” said Tom.
“That’s alright Tom, you go ahead and go first, I wanna see how the hell you plan on getting a decent presentation to those fish with those crazy currents.”
Mick smiled to himself. Jerry recognized his casting ability and the challenge that presented itself in putting a fly over these fish.
“Well the good news is they’re taking Caddis and quite often they chase after skater’s. You need to try and cast just far enough above the fish that you don’t spook it, but close enough so you can keep a natural drift until the fly gets to the fish. Oh, and you need to time it so the fly gets there at the exact time that the trout is moving up, in its natural feeding rhythm.” Mick smiled.
Tom just shook his head and moved into position in the river, he pulled some line off his reel and made a few false casts to see if he had enough line off the reel and then flicked the Elk Hair Caddis beautifully, four feet above a rising trout. Mick was surprised, it was without a doubt the best cast he had seen Tom make all day. The fly slowly moved towards the spot where the fish was feeding, it looked almost perfect but Mick could see what was about to happen. Just as the fish came up to slurp the fly, the opposing current jerked the Caddis imitation away from the fish. The trout’s head just broke the surface on the rise and Mick noticed the hooked jaw of a large brown trout.
“You got robbed Tom. That current pulled that fly out of there like snatching candy from a baby.” Jerry chuckled.
Tom glared at Jerry, his large nose and cheeks changing to a darker hue of red. “Let’s see you try it, smart-ass.”
“That’s a nice fish.” Mick said.
They watched as the fish went back to feeding, seemingly not spooked in the slightest.
“Mick, maybe you can give me a pointer here, how do you cast into a mess like that and get a decent drift?” Jerry queried.
“You need to placate the river gods with a few of whoop de doos, to keep them busy and give you enough time for the fly to get over the fish.”
“Whoop de doos huh, I guess you need to show me what you mean.”
Mick walked over to the boat and grabbed the little Orvis, slid the two sections together, sighted down through the eyes to make sure it was aligned properly and walked back over to the two sports.
“Are you sure you want me to cast to this fish? I seen him on the rise and that is a really nice fish.”
“Well I don’t have a snowballs chance in hell of putting this fly in front of him and maybe you can teach me something here with this whoop de doo cast.”
“Let me show you something my old grandpa taught me about making a cast into cross currents like this.” Mick reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of nail clippers and snipped the leader. Reaching into his vest, he retrieved a well-used leader wallet and flipped through until he came to a sleeve that had a piece of masking tape that read: 9’ Limp. Mick retrieved the leader from the sleeve and quickly fastened it to the leader butt with an expertly tied blood knot. “The secret my Texas friends is using a limp leader instead of the hard, stiff leader normally required for turning over a hairy dry fly, I want the leader to land in a bunch of whoop de doos, so I get a longer drift with the fly, while the current is having it’s way with the line.”
“That’s the first time anyone ever told me that limp is better than stiff Mick, you’re going to have to convince my wife of that one.” Jerry chuckled.
Mick smiled as he removed his hat and examined the lamb’s wool band that surrounded it, looking for the patterns that he had tied up the previous evening, a Royal Caddis and tied it to the end of the leader.
“Alright, here we go.” Mick waded into the river in just his cutoff shorts and the old Adidas. The water was cold but not too uncomfortable in the late afternoon summer. He pulled about 40 feet of line off the little Pflueger and let it fall in the river around his thighs. He made a few false casts to run the line through the eyes on the rod, he measured the line with his eyes and the pulled another ten feet of line. Another false cast fed the rest of the line through the rod and then Mick changed the direction and flicked it towards the eddy on the forward cast, but stopping short and then quickly dropping the tip of the rod. The fly landed in the eddy three or four feet above where the trout was feeding, but the rest of the leader landed in the main current in a series of big S bends, like an exaggerated sine wave. The two Texans watched in amazement as the mixed currents pulled and pushed the line in different directions, but the fly drifted slowly through the eddy with almost perfect timing, to where the brown was feeding. Mick’s heart started beating faster, thinking he had made the perfect cast on his first try. As if orchestrated the fly disappeared into a miniature whirlpool. Mick stripped the slack line as quickly as he could and then gave a long slow tug on the line feeling the weight of the fish on the other end.
He reeled frantically to put all of the stripped line back on the reel, his heart was racing, this was no ordinary fish. It felt like he had a large log on the end of the line. With smaller fish he could normally feel the head jerking back and forth as the fish tried to throw the hook, but this was more like being hooked to a locomotive, the line just started peeling off the little reel. Mick flicked the clicker on with his finger to help create drag on the fish. The fish ran up through the eddy and headed for the main current. Mick knew that if she went down steam, he could not follow and the weight of the fish and the heavy current were more than the line could handle and he would lose the fish. He reached down and palmed the reel creating as much resistance as possible on the fish, trying to will her upstream. Amazingly as she hit the main current she turned upstream and took off with a burst of speed. Mick let the fish work against the little reel, hoping she would continue in that direction. He backed out of the river and followed the fish upstream on the gravel bar, getting some of the line back on the reel, but the fish was still in control. Beads of sweat were popping out on Mick’s forehead as he concentrated on the end of the line and navigated over the large slippery boulders on the gravel bar. The big brown continued to head upstream and shot up and across a section of shallow riffle water, giving the Texans their first look at the fish.
“Damn, that’s got to be the biggest brown I’ve ever seen,” Jerry exclaimed.
“Yeah, I don’t expect there are many like her in the Gunny.” Mick replied.
He eyed the end of the gravel bar where the river went into the upstream bend, he could not chase after the fish any further and if he could not turn her soon, it would be adios big brown. He put as much weight as he could on the fish and she started back towards him, there was less than 20 feet of backing left on the reel. Mick moved to the end of the bar while the brown moved toward him. The fish was tired and so was Mick, he looked for a shallow spot on the gravel bar to land the fish.
The fish was still unwilling, but tired and Mick eased her into a little pocket in the gravel bar, sort of like putting a sailboat into its slip. The fish was almost two and a half feet long, her big humped back shining like polished bronze in the afternoon sun. Her sides were covered with colorful red and black spots, like little pebbles. Her lower jaw hooked upwards making her look angry about the whole affair.
“Wow, I don’t know if I’ve seen a more beautiful fish in my life,” said Mick.
“It’s huge, she must weigh 10 pounds,” Jerry replied.
Mick reached down and popped the little fly out of the corner of her mouth and gave her a little shove out into the current. She held there for several seconds and then with a few flicks from the large square tail, she disappeared into the green water of the river.
“See you later Ethel,” whispered Mick.
“What the hell are you doing Mick?” Tom screamed. “That’s the biggest damn trout I’ve ever seen on this river and I’ve been coming up here for ten years and you just casually reach down and let her go, are you crazy or what?”.
“Tom, that fish is some of the best wild brood stock in the river, what did you want me to do, knock her on the head with a rock and take her home and eat her?”
“Brood stock my ass, I paid good money for this trip and the fish we catch are mine and I don’t know where the hell you get off with your holier than thou attitude. Let the poor little fish go back to be brood stock. That was my fish anyway, you should have left your rod in the boat, but Jerry here just had to see your whoop de fucking doo cast.”
“Tom, relax man. It was beautiful, the cast was perfect, the battle was inspiring and that big bronzed back monster evaporating into the green current was a sight I’ll never forget.” Jerry said.
“Shut up Jerry, what you’re taking the kid’s side in this? He’s supposed to be a guide. He’s supposed to take us down the river and put us onto the fish, not show us where all the little ones are and then, when he knows there’s a big one catch it himself, thumbing his nose the whole time.”
“Tom, we’ve been coming up here to fish together for the last five years and Mick put us into more fish today than any other trip we’ve been on, he’s a good guide. I asked him to make that cast, so maybe I could learn something. It was my turn, I gave you first go and I asked Mick to use my go to show me how to cast into that type of situation.”
“God damn it Jerry, why are you defending this little snot nosed bastard, I want to hear what he has to say, because I guarantee you that I have some things to say to his boss when I get back to the resort.”
Mick stood up and walked towards the raft that was beached down the gravel bar. He felt sick to his stomach, having been sucked from the adrenaline high of landing the huge brown trout, into a vortex of emotion created by Tom’s unexpected reaction to the release of the trophy trout. Mick had not thought twice about releasing the fish, for him it was as natural as breathing, big trout were meant to stay in the breeding pool. His body was filled with anxiety and fear from the thoughts that were whirling around in his head, the trip had been going perfect and now he might not even get a tip, would he lose the opportunity to run fishing trips for the resort, if Tom complained.
Mick reached the raft, he had removed the reel from his rod and put the rod into its sack and loaded it into the rod tube. He stuck the fly onto the sheep skin hat band and put the reel into an army surplus bag tied to the inside of the raft. His fear was transitioning to anger, he wanted to grab the little pig faced Texan by his Orvis fishing vest and give him a couple good slaps across his jowls and say, “Wake up you dumb son of a bitch, a river system can only handle so much rape, pillage and plunder and then you don’t have any place to take your fishing trip to every year, at least if you want to catch any fish.”
Tom moved in close to Mick, his face red and ruddy. “So what do you have to say, whoop de fucking doo fishing guide, you steal my fish right out from under me and then turn it loose instead of giving it to me and then go deaf and dumb?”
Mick’s anger was changing to sadness, perhaps the rivers didn’t have a chance with guys like this around, thinking that for the price of a river trip that they could take ownership of everything they could pull from the river, some kind of conquest, instead of the pure wonder and joy of being out there in nature. Everything had to be conquered and measured and hung on the fucking wall.
“Tom you’re right, I apologize, I should have never taken my rod out of the boat, it’s your trip and I had no right to catch your fish.”
“You’re god damn right it’s my trip and you’ll be lucky if you still have a job after I talk to Jim up at the resort. I’ve been coming up here for ten years and nobody’s ever turned my fish back to the river unless they were too small. You turn back the biggest trout I’ve ever seen on this river you arrogant little bastard.”
“Shit Tom, you didn’t catch the fish he did, if he wanted to let it go, it was his decision, not yours, lay off, you’re being an asshole, what’s the big deal, it’s a fish.” Jerry pleaded, he was worn out with Tom’s behavior.
“Let’s get the boat back in the water, the take out is less than a quarter mile away and we need to get going if we’re going to beat the shuttle.” Mick just wanted Tom out of his life.
Mick rowed the remaining quarter mile without saying another word. Normally he drifted with the current only using the oars to control the line of the boat, but today he pulled hard on the oars, using the knotted muscles of his back, shoulders and biceps as a conduit to release the tremendous load of emotional energy that was burning in his body. Thoughts tore through his mind; he wanted so much to be able to explain the truth to this little piggish man, his truth. If we continued to selfishly plunder our rivers, there would be no rivers left. How nice it would be to beat the shit out of him, show him that he can’t get away with treating people the way that he did.
Mick pulled hard on the oars and beached the raft at the take out, the shuttle was not there but Cricket and Jimmy’s boats were pulled up on shore. He could see them just down stream at the cleaning table gutting the day’s catch. Their sports were up under the shade of a big cottonwood tree sorting gear into bags, laughing and drinking beer.
“I’ll help you haul your gear up to the loading zone and then clean your fish, we’re a little behind schedule so if I don’t get all of the fish cleaned by the time the shuttle gets here, I’ll deliver them to your cabin when I get back up river.” Mick offered.
“Just don’t let any more of them go”, quipped Tom.
Mick looked down into the little round man’s eyes. “I don’t think there will be any problem, you both caught your limit, when’s the last time that happened?” Mick retorted.
Mick hauled their cooler up to the big cottonwood where the other sports were milling around, Jerry and Tom grabbed the rest of their gear and walked up to the tree. Mick went back to the boat and dumped the fish box into a loosely woven gunnysack that let all of the water through but held the flopping fish. He dug into the surplus pack looking for his fillet knife and the daily newspaper he used for wrapping the fish, listening to the banter from the sports.
“Well how’d you rookies do on the old Gunny this afternoon?” Tom barked to the other sports as he unwrapped a cigar, walking up to the tree. “Me and Jerry here both got our limit, no thanks to our wet behind the ears guide, in fact I expect we taught him a few things, after ten years fishing this river I could probably guide on it myself, maybe I’ll ask Jim if he needs any help for the rest of the summer.” Tom laughed heartily.
“We did pretty good,” one of the sports offered, “but I don’t think any of us limited out.”
Mick shook his head, stuck his fillet knife in his back pocket, grabbed the bag of fish and headed downstream to the cleaning table.
“Hey Cricket, Jimmy, how’d you guys do today.” Mick said as he approached the table.
“Well, I gave the feather flickers to you guys and took the metal slingers with me, we did alright, they both caught 3 or 4 nice keepers and several that were too small,” replied Jimmy.
“The old boys that sported down the river with me were pretty happy with what they put in the bag, they weren’t really big meat hunters so it was pretty easy to keep them happy, I expect they’ll palm over a pretty good gratuity, how’d you do Mick?” Cricket responded.
“Oh, I fucked the dog big time with one of them, things were going great, I put them into a limit pretty early and then they wanted to stop at Buffet eddy when they seen all of the trout gorging on Caddis, so I pulled in and gave ‘em go at it, to keep ‘em happy. I don’t know exactly what happened after that. Jerry talked me into showing them how to throw a heavy mend cast into that maelstrom and the next thing I know, I’m hooked hard and fast into Ethel. Unbelievably I beach her on the bar and cut her loose and the shit hits the fan. Tom goes ballistic accuses me of catching his fish and turning it loose, calls me every name in the book and threatens to tell Jim I’m a worthless piece of shit and shouldn’t be allowed to guide on the river.”
“Jesus Mick, you actually caught Ethel and then turned her loose, are you stupid or what, I’ve been trying to catch that fish for three years and every time I hook her, she takes all my line and disappears with my fly. I expect her lips been pierced a few times, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually getting her into shore. I bow to you oh mighty Mick for that, but you must be some kind of retard to turn her loose, what the hell got into you man?”
“Shit Cricket, I never gave it much thought. I’m not against taking fish home to eat, but I’ve always been taught to treat the fishery with respect. A fish like that goes a long way in keeping a fishery healthy and I always let the good ones I catch go so they’re there to put a sport onto.” said Mick.
“Well, Tom is rich, he inherited some kind of railroad car company in Dallas and he’s a multi-millionaire. He’s been coming up here for a long time and has been bringing Jerry with him for the last several years, I think Jerry runs the company for him. They usually tip pretty well, but if you pissed them off you probably screwed yourself out of a good tip.” Jimmy said.
“Damn Mick, I can’t believe you’re such a dumb-ass, all you had to do was put Ethel in the fish box and you’d probably have been palmed a couple hundred bucks, and instead you’re worried about if you’ll even be able to work for the resort anymore.” Cricket chided.
“Oh well, I had five dollars in my pocket when I got this job and I have 10 dollars in there now, so even without a tip I’m still ahead of the game.” Mick laughed sarcastically.
“Open the bag Mick, we’ll help you clean the fish, maybe we can beat the shuttle.”
Mick opened the bag and dumped the fish out onto the cleaning table. The three guides made fast work of it and they had the entire limit cleaned in a matter of minutes. Mick gathered up all of the fish innards and threw them well out into the river for the crayfish. He rinsed each fish in the river making sure all of the offal was removed from the inside and outside of each fish. He then carefully wrapped the fish in the newspaper, tying them off with some string. Mick headed for the big cottonwood with the package of fish just as the shuttle pulled off the highway. Jimmy and Cricket were already at the tree delivering their fish to the sports and chatting with them.
“Here ya’ go gentlemen. A limit of Gunnison river trout,” Mick said, as he handed the two packages to Jerry and Tom.
Tom stared up at Mick for a long time before saying, “this ain’t the end of it kid, I’m going to talk to Jim about this, I don’t appreciate you stealing my fish like that and then throwing him back. I’ve known Jim for ten years and I’ve been coming up here every summer since 1969 and nobody has treated me like that.” Tom grabbed the package of fish and turned away from Mick and waddled off toward the open air shuttle, a plume of cigar smoke streaming back over the top of his bald head.
Jerry offered Mick his hand after taking his package of fish. “Thanks Mick that was the best day of fishing I’ve had on the river in 5 years. I appreciate how you dealt with Tom, I know you wanted to tell him to wake up and quit being such an asshole. He has just always dreamed of catching a trophy up here and mounting it on the wall back at the office in Dallas and it was just insult to injury after you caught that beautiful trout right after he came within inches of hooking it himself, though I expect he never would have landed it. That was a beautiful piece of fishing son, thanks for the lesson. See you later up at the resort, don’t worry, I’ll have a chat with Jim too.”
“Thank you, Jerry.” Mick said as they shook hands. Mick could feel the bill Jerry passed him in the handshake. Mick stuck the bill in has pocket and walked off to clean up his raft. Mick sighed and walked across the cobbles, checking the bill in his pocket, it was a fifty. Mick was thinking about how much he might have made if he had left the rod in the boat, when Jimmy walked up and said, “how much ya’ get, big Mick.”
“Fifty”
“That’s more than I got from the metal slingers, they both gave me twenty.”
Cricket approached, carrying gear from his boat to the truck. “You guys get a tip from your sports, the old dudes gave me twenty apiece.”
“Yeah, that’s what I got too, but Mick got fifty from his sports, so it looks like the beers are on him.”
“Shit Mick, you completely blow it with Tom and still get a bigger score than either of us. Just think if you had made it through the run without an idiot moment.”
“You would have done the same thing Cricket, you’ve hooked Ethel before. That fish was beautiful and she belongs in the river, not on the wall.”
“C’mon Mick, don’t give me that tree hugger, catch and release shit. Little Tom’s a rich little bowling ball with an ego problem and a real fishing Jones. I would have gift wrapped that fat old brown for him if I had caught it, and then I would have told all his buddies that he caught it, if that’s what he wanted. You still don’t get it dude, he doesn’t want you to teach him how to fish and he damn sure doesn’t want your opinion on fishing ethics. This is a service business my friend, the customer is always right, it’s simple, give ‘em what they want and take the money.”
“You’re right about one thing Cricket, I don’t get it.”
“That reminds me of a parable. You can give a Texas millionaire a mythological fish and he’ll palm you a couple Franklins, mount her on the wall and make up a nice story for his buddies about how he is a master of the long rod, or you can teach a Texas millionaire to fish and he’ll tell you to go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut and get you fired.” Jimmy quipped. “But you’re still going to buy the beer, right?”
“Yeah Jimmy, I’m still buying the beer.”
“Cool.”
The three guides loaded the rafts onto a trailer behind the truck and strapped them down. Jimmy fired up the truck and Cricket and Mick jumped in and they were off to town.
“Alright Cricket, I’ve had a chance to mellow out now and reflect on the events a little bit, perhaps you can enlighten me about Tom’s response when I let Ethel go. The dude went ballistic, changing three shades of red, I mean the guy is ready to get me fired from the resort, just because I let a fucking fish go.”
“It’s all about the ego bro’, you know, the most money, the fastest car, the biggest house, the biggest tit’s. Guys like Tom can buy most of these things, but they can’t buy skills like yours, when it comes to fishing, that takes real work, dedication and passion. He’s jealous dude. He’s been coming up here for years dreaming of catching a fish like that and then he sees Ethel, is inches from catching her and then you waltz in and catch the damn thing like there is nothing to it. He has no idea that your whole life has been fishing, that when you’re not fishing, you’re tying flies and dreaming about fishing. He has no idea what a sick bastard you actually are Mick. The only thing he sees is you had something he wanted really bad and you just let it go. His personal reality is a long way from yours. His daddy was rich and he’s rich and he’s used to getting what he wants, or buying what he wants if you will. He wanted that fish really bad and you didn’t even take a picture of the fucking thing, just reached down and let it go like you catch two or three of them every day. Your lucky the fat little bastard didn’t bash you in the head with a rock, probably would have if Jerry hadn’t been there”.
“C’mon Cricket, bash me in the head over a fish, what kind of bullshit is that”.
“Mick, you’re not fucking listening here, it’s not a fish we’re talking about man. It’s ego. Don’t you get it, you hit him right where it hurts. You’re a kid, barely old enough to buy beer and you catch a giant, mythological fish that he’s been trying to catch for years. Then you let it go like it’s no big deal. It’s like a dagger in the heart of his ego man and the ego doesn’t give up easily. The truth is somewhere in his mind he knows he is probably not a very good fisherman but his ego doesn’t recognize the fact, so all of his emotional energy wells up from the conflict created by you letting his fish go. If you would have just given him the damn fish and told him he probably would have caught it, if you had done your job and told him how to mend his cast in the eddy, his ego would have convinced him that he actually caught the fish by the time you made it to the landing. He would have been smiling like an orangutan and filling your pockets with money, bragging to all the other sports and espousing to everyone at the resort what an incredible guide you are, but you fucked it all up Mick. Hell, that rich little bowling ball may just buy the resort from Jim just to make sure your fired.”
“Damn Cricket, where do you come up with that shit, all Mick did was turn a fish loose and you’ve got Tom murdering him with a rock or buying the resort just to take vengeance and you call Mick a sick bastard, you’ve obviously got a few screws lose yourself.”
“Jimmy, you know Tom is crazier than a loon, that’s why you gave the run to Mick in the first place, because you didn’t want to spend all day on the river with him, even though it could have been the largest single tip you would get all summer. If I were you Mick I’d stay over there on the other side of the river until that crazy bastard goes back to Dallas.”
“You guys could’ve at least warned me about his volcanic personality before the run, I might have been able to avoid the whole episode.”
“It is what it is Mick, no use getting tied in knots by, coulda, shoulda, woulda’s. Everything happens for a reason and it’s all connected. You just have to ask yourself, what can I learn from this.” Cricket laughed.
Jimmy pulled into the parking lot at Gunnison Liquor, pulling across three or four spaces in the front. He didn’t want to have to back up with the trailer and the lot was pretty much empty anyway.
“There ya go Mick, it’s beer thirty. Hey you got anymore of the sweet, gold bud?”
Mick reached behind the seat and grabbed the little grey army surplus bag and pulled out a film canister and a pack of rolling papers and handed them to Jimmy. “You better make it a big one!” He said, before heading off to buy the beer.