Read Online Our Love Will Go the Way of the Salmon by Cameron Pierce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cameron Pierce
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from here. He’d jumped on his bike on Tuesday, driven straight through except for gas and bathroom breaks. He drank nothing but water. He never much cared for coffee or soda. Never even cracked the tab on an energy drink. Iced tea was alright, unsweetened.
Somewhere along the way, he acquired a five pound bag of beef jerky. Somewhere along the way, he reached into the bag and found it empty. He’d eaten five pounds of beef jerky and one banana since Tuesday. What day was it anyway?
The Trail Blazers clung to a narrow lead with less than three minutes remaining in the fourth. How would they let him down this time?
The bartender leaned against the serving window, staring at him, sucking on a drink spiked with something. The chemical sweetness of her Diet Coke did nothing to mask the scent of cheap liquor.
“Hey,” he said.
“You need somethin’, hon?”
“I think I’ll have a beer after all.”
“What’d you like?”
“What would you recommend?”
She filled a taster glass with a copper-colored beer and slid it in front of him. He threw back the taster like a shot. Citrus and bitterness crackled on his tongue.
“You keep it up like that, we might end up sleeping together,” the bartender said. She laughed while she said it, but she was already pouring him a pint of the same beer.
“What is it?” he said.
“Bitter Bitch,” she said. “Like me.”
He’d already traveled two-thousand miles to escape love. Somehow, it had followed him.
V. Shark Fishing in Hell
Frank Decker was three-fourths shit-faced when he launched his boat out of the East End Mooring Basin. Sea lions barked at the moon. The cargo ships anchored in the river were brightly lit but quiet, rocking back and forth on the waves, like slumbering giants. Frank swigged from a flask and gunned the boat out of the marina, out into the roiling current.
The lights of Astoria passed on his left in a blur. He crossed under the Astoria-Megler Bridge. A sandbar in the middle of the river had wrecked many ships, especially at night, so he kept to the shipping channel. The boat skidded over the chop and went airborne every couple seconds before crashing down again. The incoming tide would push baitfish into the Columbia River estuary. At certain times of the year, blue sharks schooled at the river mouth and followed prey upriver. Every year or so, a sturgeon or salmon fisherman reported hooking into something big that would saw through their braided leaders in seconds. These were usually blue sharks. Great whites, threshers, and salmon sharks also patrolled the Oregon coast, occasionally pursuing seals and schools of fish inland and close to shore. Predators did unpredictable things, which is why Frank identified so much with them. Nobody targeted them, but from time to time, when Frank was feeling especially lost or extremely drunk, he went out on the river at night to fish for sharks.
He eased up on the throttle as he approached Buoy 10. He anchored up and threaded a red label herring onto a large octopus hook. He lowered the bait into the water, pulling out on the line until the line counter notched fifty feet. He set the rod in the holder and sat back with the flask. He’d hardly begun to admire the chaos of the stars when the rod buckled over. He swiped it out of the rod holder and set the hook. The fish on the other end thrashed its head from side to side and took off, surging upriver. Frank released the anchor rope and buoy.
The way the fish pulled the boat like a sled, Frank felt convinced he’d hooked into an oversize sturgeon, probably an eight to ten footer. But when he finally fought the fish in and brought it alongside the boat, he discovered something else entirely. Not a shark, not a sturgeon, but something equally prehistoric. He found himself face to face with a dagger-mouthed fish with human hands. The fish had the bluest eyes Frank had ever seen, and as he gazed into those eyes, he was filled with a sense of
Somewhere along the way, he acquired a five pound bag of beef jerky. Somewhere along the way, he reached into the bag and found it empty. He’d eaten five pounds of beef jerky and one banana since Tuesday. What day was it anyway?
The Trail Blazers clung to a narrow lead with less than three minutes remaining in the fourth. How would they let him down this time?
The bartender leaned against the serving window, staring at him, sucking on a drink spiked with something. The chemical sweetness of her Diet Coke did nothing to mask the scent of cheap liquor.
“Hey,” he said.
“You need somethin’, hon?”
“I think I’ll have a beer after all.”
“What’d you like?”
“What would you recommend?”
She filled a taster glass with a copper-colored beer and slid it in front of him. He threw back the taster like a shot. Citrus and bitterness crackled on his tongue.
“You keep it up like that, we might end up sleeping together,” the bartender said. She laughed while she said it, but she was already pouring him a pint of the same beer.
“What is it?” he said.
“Bitter Bitch,” she said. “Like me.”
He’d already traveled two-thousand miles to escape love. Somehow, it had followed him.
V. Shark Fishing in Hell
Frank Decker was three-fourths shit-faced when he launched his boat out of the East End Mooring Basin. Sea lions barked at the moon. The cargo ships anchored in the river were brightly lit but quiet, rocking back and forth on the waves, like slumbering giants. Frank swigged from a flask and gunned the boat out of the marina, out into the roiling current.
The lights of Astoria passed on his left in a blur. He crossed under the Astoria-Megler Bridge. A sandbar in the middle of the river had wrecked many ships, especially at night, so he kept to the shipping channel. The boat skidded over the chop and went airborne every couple seconds before crashing down again. The incoming tide would push baitfish into the Columbia River estuary. At certain times of the year, blue sharks schooled at the river mouth and followed prey upriver. Every year or so, a sturgeon or salmon fisherman reported hooking into something big that would saw through their braided leaders in seconds. These were usually blue sharks. Great whites, threshers, and salmon sharks also patrolled the Oregon coast, occasionally pursuing seals and schools of fish inland and close to shore. Predators did unpredictable things, which is why Frank identified so much with them. Nobody targeted them, but from time to time, when Frank was feeling especially lost or extremely drunk, he went out on the river at night to fish for sharks.
He eased up on the throttle as he approached Buoy 10. He anchored up and threaded a red label herring onto a large octopus hook. He lowered the bait into the water, pulling out on the line until the line counter notched fifty feet. He set the rod in the holder and sat back with the flask. He’d hardly begun to admire the chaos of the stars when the rod buckled over. He swiped it out of the rod holder and set the hook. The fish on the other end thrashed its head from side to side and took off, surging upriver. Frank released the anchor rope and buoy.
The way the fish pulled the boat like a sled, Frank felt convinced he’d hooked into an oversize sturgeon, probably an eight to ten footer. But when he finally fought the fish in and brought it alongside the boat, he discovered something else entirely. Not a shark, not a sturgeon, but something equally prehistoric. He found himself face to face with a dagger-mouthed fish with human hands. The fish had the bluest eyes Frank had ever seen, and as he gazed into those eyes, he was filled with a sense of
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