Friday - One From the Vault

The following is something I wrote about 4 years ago (since I'm too lazy today to come up with a new post).

There he was on Ellerbe Road about 2 miles north of "the crossroads." He didn't belong in the middle of the road with the glaring afternoon sun beating down on him and searing hot asphalt on his skin. Yet as I passed him I noticed that he was still glistening wet, as if he had simply gone out for a short stroll or maybe to talk to the cows swimming in the other pond. Perhaps he wanted a paper or a change of scenery. Maybe he did belong I thought. Maybe he'd been hoisted from his home by a tasty nightcrawler with a barbed metal spine. Or maybe it was a crankbait. I don't know much about fishing.

I knew he was dead but I almost expected him to speak to me or perhaps dance around like that cartoon catfish with the cane and top hat that I used to see - I can't remember where. That catfish looked suspiciously like Mr. Peanut. This one didn't. His mouth gaped open as if he'd died trying to relay some message, like a fallen war hero in a Hollywood movie. I have heard catfish talk before; they're generally quite disagreeable. He stared at me with that one fishy eye as I cranked passed in wonder, and for a moment we connected. I could see a bit of his innards and I couldn't help but wonder what he would see if he looked through my sweat-soaked body and into my innards. I avoided his glassy, unforgiving stare on my way back. As I passed his pitiful body I reminded myself about something I'd once heard in a song: "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."