country whose borders are all most folks ever see, and from where he was, caught up in that dark land’s customs and concerns, what I was worrying over sounded so foreign I might as well have been speaking another language.
If you’d asked me, after my second try at speaking to him, whether I thought Dan would be around when fishing season started that spring, I’d have told you flat-out, “No.” Frank Block had been unceremoniously let go the previous month, escorted from the building by a pair of security goons when he started to yell that this wasn’t right, he deserved better than this. My own manager, a young fellow whose chief qualification for his position must have been his smarminess, since it was the only quality he possessed in abundance—my manager had taken to dropping none-too-subtle hints that the company was offering exceedingly generous severance packages to those who were wise enough to take them. It wasn’t just the night of the long knives. Up and down the corridors of our building, it was days and weeks and months of management given leave to slice down to the bone and keep going. And in the midst of this carnage, here was Dan, laying his head on the chopping block and holding out the axe for anyone who was interested. I’d have been wrong in my prediction, though. Somehow, Dan held onto his job. No matter what shape he was in, Dan was a bright guy—graduated near top of his class at M.I.T.—and I guess he must have contributed enough for it to have been worth more to keep him on board than it was to throw him to the sharks.
I wonder, sometimes, if we’d have gone fishing that spring if Dan and I hadn’t been working together. He hadn’t returned to my house since that night in February. I’d invited him over a few times, but he’d always claimed to be constrained by this or that obligation—though their visits had fallen off from what they had been, both his and Sophie’s families still made sporadic attempts to visit him, which always seemed to coincide with my invitations to him. He never offered to have me over. I was pretty sure he was embarrassed about everything that had happened, yet I couldn’t see a way to tell him he shouldn’t be without stirring those memories up for him and making him uncomfortable all over again. My warnings to him about his job aside, I did my best to respect the distance he demanded.
With some measure of surprise, then, I returned from lunch one day about two weeks from the start of trout season to find Dan waiting in my office, perched on the edge of my desk like a big, skinny gargoyle. “Hi, Abe,” he said.
“Hello, Dan,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“How long is it till trout season starts?”
“Thirteen days,” I said. “If you give me a minute, I can tell you how many hours and minutes on top of that.”
“Are you going?”
“Dan,” I protested, “how could you ask such a question?”
He didn’t smile. “Would you mind some company?”
“I’m counting on it,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t been sure Dan would be joining me this year. Given his embarrassment over February, combined with his general remove from everyone of late, I’d assumed there was a better than likely chance he’d want to do any fishing he had in mind on his own, and so hadn’t raised the subject with him.
“That’s good,” Dan said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Where would I be without my fishing buddy?”
“Can I tell you something?” he asked, shifting forward as he did.
“Sure.”
“I’ve been dreaming about fishing,” he said. “A lot.”
“I dream about it, too,” I said, “although most of my reverie occurs in the middle of meetings.”
Dan’s eyes, which had widened at the news of my dreaming, narrowed at my joke. “Right,” he said, the slightest annoyance curdling his voice. He stood from the desk and asked, “Are you going to the Svartkil?”
I nodded. “It’s where I kick
If you’d asked me, after my second try at speaking to him, whether I thought Dan would be around when fishing season started that spring, I’d have told you flat-out, “No.” Frank Block had been unceremoniously let go the previous month, escorted from the building by a pair of security goons when he started to yell that this wasn’t right, he deserved better than this. My own manager, a young fellow whose chief qualification for his position must have been his smarminess, since it was the only quality he possessed in abundance—my manager had taken to dropping none-too-subtle hints that the company was offering exceedingly generous severance packages to those who were wise enough to take them. It wasn’t just the night of the long knives. Up and down the corridors of our building, it was days and weeks and months of management given leave to slice down to the bone and keep going. And in the midst of this carnage, here was Dan, laying his head on the chopping block and holding out the axe for anyone who was interested. I’d have been wrong in my prediction, though. Somehow, Dan held onto his job. No matter what shape he was in, Dan was a bright guy—graduated near top of his class at M.I.T.—and I guess he must have contributed enough for it to have been worth more to keep him on board than it was to throw him to the sharks.
I wonder, sometimes, if we’d have gone fishing that spring if Dan and I hadn’t been working together. He hadn’t returned to my house since that night in February. I’d invited him over a few times, but he’d always claimed to be constrained by this or that obligation—though their visits had fallen off from what they had been, both his and Sophie’s families still made sporadic attempts to visit him, which always seemed to coincide with my invitations to him. He never offered to have me over. I was pretty sure he was embarrassed about everything that had happened, yet I couldn’t see a way to tell him he shouldn’t be without stirring those memories up for him and making him uncomfortable all over again. My warnings to him about his job aside, I did my best to respect the distance he demanded.
With some measure of surprise, then, I returned from lunch one day about two weeks from the start of trout season to find Dan waiting in my office, perched on the edge of my desk like a big, skinny gargoyle. “Hi, Abe,” he said.
“Hello, Dan,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“How long is it till trout season starts?”
“Thirteen days,” I said. “If you give me a minute, I can tell you how many hours and minutes on top of that.”
“Are you going?”
“Dan,” I protested, “how could you ask such a question?”
He didn’t smile. “Would you mind some company?”
“I’m counting on it,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t been sure Dan would be joining me this year. Given his embarrassment over February, combined with his general remove from everyone of late, I’d assumed there was a better than likely chance he’d want to do any fishing he had in mind on his own, and so hadn’t raised the subject with him.
“That’s good,” Dan said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Where would I be without my fishing buddy?”
“Can I tell you something?” he asked, shifting forward as he did.
“Sure.”
“I’ve been dreaming about fishing,” he said. “A lot.”
“I dream about it, too,” I said, “although most of my reverie occurs in the middle of meetings.”
Dan’s eyes, which had widened at the news of my dreaming, narrowed at my joke. “Right,” he said, the slightest annoyance curdling his voice. He stood from the desk and asked, “Are you going to the Svartkil?”
I nodded. “It’s where I kick
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