Trout on the wave

I wanted to tell you a story. Unfortunately, my finger was so tight on the trigger that when I pulled it, it pushed the bullet, which lodged itself in my head. I know what you're saying: what a shame. And you're right. A terrible shame, because I really wanted to tell you an interesting story, namely MY STORY. However, everything went to hell. You'll never know what it was like;

that it started in childhood, but somehow nothing interesting happened then; The Beatles broke up, Presley died. Then God, through a certain Chapman, invited Lennon to join him, he agreed, and for the next few years there was nothing to listen to. But that's not what this story is about. If I could tell you anything, it would be something truly incredible. I'd like to briefly outline recent events.

One winter day, on the verge of spring, I was sitting fishing, not bothering anyone. Suddenly, I felt something bite. After a few minutes of wrestling with my catch, I pulled it out of the water. It was struggling unbearably. I pulled it straight onto my plate (I was incredibly hungry). Suddenly the fish spoke:

"Don't kill me, my good man," she said, very shaken. Her scales were dark gray, slightly silvered. Her eyes were deep, Latin-like. "I recently found the meaning of life, and I'm on my way.

" "Yes?" I asked. After all, a talking fish immediately arouses suspicion. Not that I deprive anyone of their right to speak, but still. Something was wrong. The fish looked very tired. After a long pause, I followed the trail. "And where are you going?"

"Call me Henryk," the fish addressed me. "I'm going to New York.

" "Why there?" I was very inquisitive.

"Because Dublin took a toll on me a while ago.

" "Mhm," I replied, adjusting my hat. "Listen, if you want, I can give you a ride to New York. It's fairly close.

" "That would be great," Henryk replied. "I'll just grab my backpack," he slung it over his fin.

And so, slung Henryk over his shoulder, we set off for the city that never sleeps. It was 1989, but when he realized he wouldn't make it into the '90s, he simply left. After a few days of marching through our America, during a pumpkin patch, we arrived at a motel on the outskirts of New York. Our room was more run-of-the-mill than the price would suggest and barely smelled of cigarettes. Henry didn't mind; he knew what Mississippi bridges and Wisconsin chicken farms smell like. In the morning, he asked me to find him a fishing bike. It took me a while. I had to check three fishing shops, two sporting goods stores, and one liquor store (none of which was relevant). When I returned with the bike, we headed into town.

In the morning, I showed Henryk a few stores they never let me into. In the afternoon, we went to a Yankees game. Standing in front of the stadium, we bet on the outcome based on the fans' reactions. I won 70 cents and two promotional Coca-Cola bottle caps. That evening, strolling down Broadway, we were chatting away, until suddenly, Henryk, in the blink of an eye, stopped, speechless.

"What happened?" He couldn't understand. "What?!" I repeated.

"She... look," he pointed to a beautiful brunette across the street. A perfect silhouette moved along the neon lights that illuminated her hair like two in the afternoon. The lights changed. She was walking toward us. Her smile was like a moment of rain on a spring day. For a second, I thought it was meant just for me.

"I've never read poetry, and I don't think I'll start today," I said, staring at her as if I'd seen a snowflake in July.

Henryk's lack of a sarcastic remark worried me. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Now, you fool! Kiss her!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "That's the meaning of life!"

I caught up with the girl, attempting a standard, two-armed hug.

"It's not that easy when you have an 8-centimeter hole in your head," I muttered irritably.

Henryk thought for a second, then said,

"Hold on to your hat."

That's what I did. But it was a bit like hammering a nail with a paper hammer. I felt like a fallen firefighter who had been a hero just a month ago.

"It's not always easy," he said.

"With tips like that, you'll sooner cook spaghetti than make a career in show business," I replied, and then headed toward the light.

And that's basically all I'd tell you. It didn't work out this time, but I'll try next time. Maybe not today, but more likely tomorrow than next week.