Fishing Trip

    “You know son,” I remember Dad telling me, “Fishing is a lot like life. You can cast a hundred times, and there’s no promise you’ll ever land anything. But that one time you do, boy is it sweet. That’s just like life, you see. You can’t just sit around cursing your luck--you have to be keep trying. You have to keep casting.”
    It was our first fishing trip, and, true to Dad’s words, we must have cast a hundred times by the time we caught anything. I remember my arm was sore, my head spinning from the beer, when I felt the slightest tug on the end of my line. “Dad, Dad, I caught something!” I yelled.
    Dad coached me on how to reel it in, and I listened to every word, sweating beneath the falling sun. “Wow,” Dad yelled, “It’s a big one!”
    I could hear the pride in his voice as this monster-fish became just so visible under the murky surface. “I’ll bet it’s a bass,” Dad said. “Or maybe a catfish, those things really fight.”
    Using all my might, I finally reeled it in. Only, what I thought was a fish later turned out to be nothing more than the corpse of that investment banker who had gone missing the week before. I still felt pretty proud as I looked my catch over, his bloated face, his dripping business suit, the boulder secured to his torso with a rope.
    Dad rubbed his eyes in frustration and looked skyward. “Oh,” he yelled sarcastically, pumping his fist in the air, “Thanks a lot, God!”