Speaker 1: The Breakout by Scott Hendricks. I met Chief in my
tenth year, when I finally mustered the courage to me
interrupt to his barn on a cool June afternoon, interrupting
him as he split a calm of bamboo. You need something,
he asked, not sounding friendly. What are you doing? I said,
genuinely interested. Who are you? He said, sounding annoyed, Henry Mason,
I answered, walking into his barn, uninvited and mesmerized by
the museum inside. You like to fish, he asked, seeming
to accept the intrusion into his rustic sanctuary. In the
cracking from the splitting bamboo, stop and Chief stood with
an insulted frown. Now you've never been fishing ever, Chief asked,
unbelieving that any young boy could reach the tender age
of ten never catch a fish. I ain't, never had
nobody take me. You be back here early in the
morning before the sun rises, and wool fish you hear?
My eyes got big, and I agreed. The next morning,
I was waiting in the dark before the two large
barn doors. He smiled slightly as he found me sitting
Indian style, legs crossed, waiting for him. How long you
been here boy, about thirty minutes, I said, as I
watched the smile broaden across Chief's face, A thin stream
of brown juice thrust from his lips. Under his direction,
we lowered one of the canoes using his elaborate pulley system,
and each took an end and walked it down to
the edge to the lake. He returned to the barn
and retrieved a fly rod from the wall, and soon
we both stood along the edge of the lake, and
for an hour. Chief instructed me on the proper way
to hold and cast a fly rod. He kept time
rhythmically clapping his hands, and soon my casts were in
time with his clapping. He was able to rein in
my knee to use my entire arm as if I
were throwing a baseball, and focus that energy into the
flick of my wrist. I practiced with a fly rod
daily until I could place a popping bug into a
mason jar lid. Satisfied that I was ready, we climbed
into the canoe and Chief sculled the paddle smoothly, moving
the canoe into the center of the lake. We quietly
anchored both ends and situated ourselves perpendicular to a branch
that grew from the water in a ragged, arthritic form.
You smell that, Chief asked, as he inhaled long and deeply,
but quietly through his nose. I closed my eyes and
mimicked him, unsure what I was supposed to be smelling.
I smelled stink, I said, as I opened my eyes.
Must end riding stink. Well, that's it. What's it? You smell?
Bedding bluegill? Chief said, his eyes coming alive and jumping around,
surveying the oily water before him. See Chief said, as
he pointed with the tip of his fly rod, See
them yonder, breaking the surface and rolling. And I did
see the rolling forms churned the water as if it
were boiling in a pot. Suddenly Chief lost fifty years,
and he and I were the same age. Anticipation grew
as he hastily tied on a yellow and orange popping bug,
white rubbery legs protruding from its sides, black dots covering
the whole of the bug. As instructed, I held fly
rod in my hand and watch Chief rhythmically extend the
line forward and backward, lightly, placing the bug in the
middle of the boiling water in front of us. As
soon as it hit the water, the soft rolls turned
into a small explosion, and I heard what would become
the familiar plot. The fight was on chiefs rod bent
and the tip following the direction of a spastic escape.
And when you hook them, you want to be sure
to try and ease them away from the bed so
that they don't disturb the other fish, he said, as
he lifted the rod above his head, pulling the line
toward his lap. He brought the fish to the side
of the canoe and into his hand, raising it flat
as if he were offering me something to eat. The
bluegill glistened in the morning sun. Flashes of purples and
rusts and greens shone on the fish as it flexed
and flopped back into the murky black water. Your turn,
Remember what I told you, Chief said, as he quietly
kept rhythm with his hands. My heart was beating wildly
as I began to work the rod. I soon landed
my bug close to the same spot where Chief hooked
his fish, and the water erupted again. Excitedly, I jerked
my line, peeling the bug behind me clear into the
next zip code. Now you have to hesitate one Mississippi
lifts smoothly. Don't jerk it, Chief counted patiently. I immediately put
the bug back into action, and as soon as it
hit the water, there was a slight break on the surface,
followed by a kerplot one Mississippi, and the fish was on.
A feeling of euphoria enveloped my entire being, and adrenaline
pushed through my body. After several seconds, the bluegill was
pulled into the canoe, and now in my hand. I
surveyed it like a rare treasure, marveling at the coloring.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I took it off the hook and pulled in several more,
just like it before. I noticed that Chief was no
longer fishing, but just watching and guiding and patiently teaching me.
And by the end of the morning, I was a
brim fisherman. I was hooked Chief and I fished every
chance we got For several years. After that, I went
away to college and finally came home for spring break
during my second year. Beforegoing a trip to one of
Florida's beaches, all I had on my mind was spending
the entire week with Chief. My first stop was the barn,
which was closed up tight and cobwebs extended in spots
on the doors, creating a bridge between them. I went
up to Chief's house and tried his back door. It
was locked and there were no lights on inside. As
I walked to the front of the house, Chief's neighbor,
Missus Livingston, was in his yard cutting tulips. He's in
the nursing home, she said, almost proud that he was,
and she wasn't. She never looked up and kept cutting twulips,
unfazed that she was trespassing and caught doing so well,
Which one I asked, hollering so she could hear the
one connected to the hospital. She said, a decibel higher
than my own voice, mocking me as if she could
hear just fine, and there was no need for me
to speak so loudly. Thank you, I said even louder.
You're welcome, she screamed, winning the vocal battle. I stood
impatiently at the nurse's station, waiting for his room number
when I spotted him. He was standing before a large
picture window, cane in hand, staring over a small pond.
You think there's any fish in there? I asked, He
slowly turned his whole body to see me. Boy, he said.
His eyes danced as he brought a shaking hand to
my cheek, cupping it before slowly moving in to hug me.
How did you know I was here, he asked, your
neighbor I went by your house that old nag. Was
she stealing my tulips? He asked, his voice sounding stronger,
almost defiant. We visited for an hour. I told him
about my trip to Montana. He wanted to know every cast,
every change of fly, and every toug on the line.
He was anxious to know what it felt like to
catch a wild rainbow trout. He asked if I had
fished dry flies only not lie, and I told him
I had. I showed him photos of me holding a
trout in one hand and a fly rod that he
and I built in the other. I wish now I
had taken him so we could share those memories. I
wish I could have been with you, he said, with
a mixture of pride and sadness. I missfishing with you. Boy.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. He
had me follow him to his room. We walked slowly.
He sat in his recliner and instructed me to pull
a box from under his bed, and as he prompted
me to open it, I saw a frame photo of
Chief and me. We stood beside each other, each holding
the end of a stringer full of bluegill and chinkapins.
I hand made rough hewn frame. Surrounded the photo. Carved
into the bottom were two words for Henry. Often wondered
if he remembered my real name because he only called
me boy, but he did know. I imagine he called
me boy because he never had one of his own.
I was his boy, Chief. I asked, what is the
one thing you want to do before you become one
day older? You mean before I die, he said, as
a sly smile tilted one corner of his mouth stained
with red man tobacco juice. He quickly answered, saving me
from having to reply, go fishing with you, boy, his
voice breaking, we sat in silence, both unable to speak.
His crooked finger rubbed his top lip was trying to
stop the tears. I stood and immediately went to the
nurses station. I told the nurse I wanted to take
Chief outside for some sun. She soon arrived with a
wheelchair and walked us to the door She punched in
the code and opened the front doors into the warm
spring day. You smell that, Chief asked, slightly, turning toward
the small pond. Those bastards are bedding up. After sitting
a short while, I told Chief to stay put. Where
are you going? He asked. I bent down and whispered
in his ear. Get ready to leave this When I
pull up, We're going fishing. A smile flooded his face
as he set the brake on the wheelchair and folded
up the foot rest, preparing for his escape. I pulled
the car in front of him and slung open the door,
and with the help of his cane, Chief stood and
fell into my car's front seat. Let's go, he screamed.
His twelve year old Bobby mac Spencer rode, shotgun pounding
on my dash. From sheer excitement, the joy of breaking
out of prison and the prospect of holding a fly
rod again had the old man giddy. Is anyone following us?
I asked, as adrenaline pushed through me. I don't see anybody,
he said, without looking, unable to twist his body to
look behind us. We arrived at his house and immediately
drove through the backyard to his barn and bouncing across
the rolls of his neglected and overgrown garden. There she is,
he said, proudly, smiling. Before I could fully stop the car,
Chief opened the door as if he thought he could
jump out. The door swung open with a four so
strong it swung back toward Chief, and he stopped its
momentum with the tip of his cane, swinging his legs out. Simultaneously.
I met him and helped him stand, and we both
felt above the barn door, eventually finding the key. Except
for dust and cobwebs, everything was as he left it.
No family was available to pilfer. No one else knew
what treasures lay hidden within the rustic walls. There were
two fly rods on the rack that once held a
dozen at a time. I left these two here because
I hoped we'd go fishing together one more day, he said.
I moved the canoe to the lake's edge and set
Chief up in the back. After replacing his leader, I
rigged up his favorite orange and yellow popping bug and
placed the rod in his weak, shaking hand. I watched
as his grip tightened on the supple court. I sculled
the canoe into the center of the lake. We quietly
anchored both ends, situating ourselves horizontally to the same ragged,
arthritic branch that grew from the water. I watched as
he moved a shaking thumb to his mouth, sticking his
tongue out and placing moisture on the end of it.
He robed the grime off the bamboo rod, cleaning his
handwritten label Chiefs Rods, Bluegills. Special pride shone across his
face as he read it, and this familiar crooked smile returned.
You smell that, he asked again, as he cast his
line before him. The bug was quickly and softly sucked
into the black depths, the rooster tail of water trail
from his line as he raised his rod. The rod
immediately bent and the fight was on once again. Okay,
let me tell you a little bit about this story.
The author, Scott Hendricks, is the author of three. He
has three novels out at the moment. One is called
The Garden Spot, the other is called The Resting Spot,
and his latest novel is called Justine, which I'm reading
right now and it's excellent. It's really good book. This story,
the breakout was entered in the Saturday Evening Post Great
American Fiction Contest, and he one runner up in the
twenty twenty five Great American Fiction Contest with this short story.
I've had the pleasure of talking to Scott over the phone.
He's a super nice guy. I actually bought these books
directly from him, with his autograph on them. I really
appreciate Scott. He's a good writer. He's got a great imagination.
He's a Southern writer. He's from Mississippi. I'm going to
put his Amazon and the description right there at the top,
and if you guys are interested in reading some good books,
click on that link and take a look at The
Garden Spot, The Resting Spot, and Just Dean both excellent.
All three excellent novels. Scott, thank you for allowing me
to read your short story. I loved it. It brought
back so many memories with me and some of the
older guys I fished with, and it just hit home
for me and it was like I was there with
Chief the whole time. It is a great story and
I know why you got runner up, probably should have
won it. Thank you, Scott for your permission to read
this story. Okay, that's gonna wind this podcast up a
non monster podcast. I'd like to do these every once
in a while because these stories are just really good.
So I hope you all enjoyed it, and we'll see
you on the next podcast.