The Tale of Red Jack the Non-Catfish

April 1st, 1998 Posted in Short Stories

Author’s Note: The following is longish piece of Twain-esque drivel I came across while rooting through my writing backlog. I wrote this right after I’d graduated from university, and was living with my parents in Harrowsmith, which they’d recently moved to. Harrowsmith has a population of about 26— 27 if a car’s passing through. You get the idea. Intense boredom and frequent walks around the forest ended up with this story. The fact that it took me three years to put up on my webpage should attest to its fine, unblemished quality. Enjoy. Or, you know, don’t. Completely up to you.

Either way, plenty of gay jokes and intense stupidity to follow. Be ye warned. -Jay.

It was a sunny old in Harrowsmith, as it always was in the spring. The old fishing hole caught the sun like it didn’t know what to do with it, sending them specks of light a-shimmering off the lake.

Me and Heck, as we usually were to do on such a fine day, had our poles in the water. Me an Heck made it our regular to poke around for catfish during the fine days, when we weren’t patching up his shed, which leaked something awful. And today was to be no different. Whether or not we’d actually catch ourselves a catfish seemed nothing to be bothered about—the important thing was that we were there, haunched up under Old Man Oak Tree, catching the breeze in our teeth, and marveling at what God had done this day with His fine blue sky. A few specks of cloud hung there up against that big blue blanket, but they weren’t no bother to me and Heck. They, like us, saw it fit to mind their own business, and just hang there like flapjacks on the grill on a Sunday morning.

The heat was mighty powerful, and Heck said so, pulling his cap down over his eyes. But it was no bother, really. Under Old Man Oak, the sun didn’t mind us a lick, and if it weren’t for the air, which was hot and heavy, we’d not have noticed at all. And me and Heck, we got to telling stories about the catfish rumored to dwell in the fishing hole.

Now it was a durned fact that Old Red Jack, who owned the mill up on Thinkupanamelater Road, did indeed tell the best stories about that catfish. Old Red Jack would tell any chillun who happened to stop by about Red Jack the catfish, of the same name. To be perfectly honest, we never did figure out why the catfish shared the same name as Old Red Jack the man. And we never asked, neither. Old Heck figured it was because Red Jack weren’t none too bright, and weren’t a very good storyteller neither. Old Heck, you see, was convinced that Old Red Jack was one of them retards, on account of Red Jack havin’ that sizable divot in his head and always crappin’ his pants.

But I thought different. Old Red Jack might not have been the quickest rabbit in the pack, I’d give Heck that. And sure, he crapped his pants an awful lot. But that crap-panted old salt sure could spin a story. Many a day did I sit on Red Jack’s porch, hearin’ tell the tale of Red Jack the bear, who was wrestled to the ground by a lumberjack by the name Red Jack. Another time I did hear about Redjack the barber, who once near done clipped off the ear off the wealthiest landowner in Harrowsmith County, Old Redde Jacke Redgjakke– a foreign man. Old Heck would argue that every character in Red Jack’s stories had the same name, on account of Red Jack being an idiot, and were thereby not worth the time it took to listen to them. But still the man could tell a right purty tale, with excellent character development, flawless story arcs, and no third act problems or nothin’ neither, in my opinion.

One such yarn I heard on Red Jack’s porch was the tale of a catfish by the name of Old Red Jack—named so, it was told, because of a red streak that went right down its belly, and of course also because the fish’s Christian name was Jack.

“Ten feet long if he was an inch,” would say Old Red Jack the non-catfish human, and would stretch his arms out wide to show you how big that ten feet was. Course, on account of Old Red Jack not having ten-foot long arms, this never did really accurately convey the size of the catfish, and some level of imagination needed to be brought to the story on the part of the listener. Even after he’d make you go run and fetch the truck jack and tie it round his arm, and as per his instructions you’d floor the gas in an attempt to make Red Jack’s arms bigger — even then, it never did really convey the immense size o’ that durned catfish.

Later I would buy a tape measure, which conveyed the ten feet just fine, and that seemed to be the end of the problem.

Red Jack was a real stickler for showing a man what he told you, and it got real cumbersome sometimes stretching that damn tape measure out to fifty feet (when old Red Jack would tell the story of Old Red Jack the Wide-Cunted Stripper). But in the end, I appreciated the man’s steadfastness to illustrate to his listeners exactly what he was trying to convey. And this catfish, he would say, was ten feet long, and ten feet wide as well.

When we’d press him on this — since it didn’t sound right—he’d explain further that Old Jack the catfish was a perfect cube. Only two fins on either side and a small flattish fish face on the front would mar that perfect square shape, said he.

And so he was never caught, since Old Jack the catfish was a right fuck-bugger to get into a net, being a perfect ten foot square cube and all.

And Old Jack the non-catfish would tell us that he, and he alone, had seen the thing.

It had billowed up into the surface of the fishing hole one morning, whilst Old Red Jack the non-catfish was burying something next to Old Man Oak. He never explained what it was he was burying, although Heck said it was probably pornographic magazines, to which Old Red Jack the non-catfish had many subscriptions. And Red Jack looked out at the sea of foam and watery disturbance, and bless the devil if he didn’t see a ten foot square cube staring him in the face, blubbering and making a mess of fishy noises.

Wellsir, he named it Red Jack right there, and would have caught it too, but that it dashed back down below the water quick as you please. And Red Jack, all afraid, did pick up Red Jack the shovel and Red Jack the empty box that once contained Red Jack the pornographic magazines, and ran back to his hovel, never to see the catfish again.

Since then, many folk in Harrowsmith have tried to catch Red Jack the catfish, but so far with no luck. Some have since said that Red Jack the non-catfish might have exaggerated the truth a mite, to which Red Jack usually responds that non-believing folk might well do to go to Hell and rot there a while. Whereupon, them doubting folk would usually add that Old Red Jack was a crazy old bastard, and Red Jack would rebut that all those doubting folk might do well to eat his fat shit whilst they were down in Hell. Fists were often thrown.

It was a dog best left lying, said me and Heck, and so fished out at the old hole with no expectation. Should a giant ten-foot-square cubed catfish choose to take the line, then all the better, but if not then me and Heck could have a bit of the ol’ filthy gay sex and be happy.

Oh, yes, me and Heck had some sex. I forgot to mention that. None of that unproper New York sex, mind, like what one might find in Red Jack’s alleged buried pornographic magazines. Just good old-fashioned country sex. And let me tell you that fishing hole got mighty hot indeed, once Old Heck would thrust his phallus into me, and I would grab whatever handfuls of ass I could get a hold of from whatever odd position I happened to be in.

Hadn’t started like that, mind. It had taken me a proper long time to see Old Heck’s propositions for what they were. And here I just thought he kept the fishin’ bait there because it was warmer for the worms.

But here I am a-gabbin’ on about sweaty faggotry and whatnot, when I should be tellin’ y’all about Red Jack the catfish, and the fateful day that me and Heck, caressing one another like you wouldn’t even believe, saw that catfish a-suddenly poke his head up above water—and darned if we didn’t see the cube-shaped beast in all his glory.

There me and Heck was, and we was telling each other about some of the things we’d do to each other if we didn’t fear goin’ to Hell for it. Old Heck had gotten to the point where he had to start making diagrams with some chart paper and red and black magic marker, and I was sitting patiently, trying to figure out what in Jesus’s name he was drawing. It was altogether complicated, and involved animals, and I didn’t understand the 6th century catapult at all.

The wind on this day was light, and carried with it the scent of flowers and forbidden things. Truth be told, I was right happy just to be sitting there on the Earth with a smile on my face. I didn’t even mind that I couldn’t made hide or tails out of Old Heck’s sick drawins.

Then, from right out of the water, comes this GOOOSHH! noise, and automatically Heck looks all guilty and starts inspecting his trousers, but I says “Heck! Look!” and suddenly he sees what I bin seein’. There, in the middle of the lake, sits the biggest ten-foot square catfish I ever did see, kind of gurgling somewhat and lolling its eyes around. And Heck, he tells me to be quiet, and very slowly he stands up, and I do the same.

And we stand there all quiet-like, and stare at the most confounded creature I’ve ever had witness to see. Ten foot square it was, and Red Jack was no liar, as the ends of the mighty fish met to perfect points. The little fins on either side flapped about gamely, and I thought I could just make out a red streak on the underside of its flat belly.

“Heck!” I whispers, all coarsely, “What do you make of this?” And Heck, he stares me down, and whispers, “I reckon we should catch it, and make Red Jack proud.”

And I says, “Why would catching the fish make it proud?” And Heck shakes his head, and says “Red Jack the non-catfish, I mean,” which is the proper name that sits atop Red Jack the non-catfish’s mailbox.

About this time, sure enough, Old Red Jack the non-catfish himself turns up, with a big box under his arm and a shovel in his hand. And he looks at the two of us, in various states of undress, and he just shakes his head. Then he takes along look at the diagram that Heck’s done made on the graph paper, and nods knowingly at it, and then he starts to digging under the tree, a-fixin’ to bury his stained pornography.

“Red Jack!” I says, all whispered and hoarse. “Maybe you ain’t noticed, but Old Red Jack the catfish just done surfaced in the fishing hole!”

And Old Red Jack the non-catfish looks up, and sees the fish, and then starts back to digging like he hadn’t ever even seen it. Well, Old Heck and me start to get real confused, and Heck walks over to Red Jack, who’s lifting out of the box, much to my dismay, a large stack of magazines, that he then drops in the hole he’s made.

“Red Jack!” says Heck. “Don’t you want to catch it? People’ve been calling you a liar for well on twenty years now! You could prove them all wrong, Red Jack!”

And Red Jack, he just looks up, and he says, “Heck, if I cared what those damn fools thought, I would have built myself a damn big fish out of two-by-fours by now, wouldn’t I? And covered it with tarp, put googly eyes on it, and rested it in the fishing hole myself, now, wouldn’t I?”

And Old Red Jack, his words rung true, and me and Heck felt mighty small. Red Jack, he didn’t care what no Harrowsmith folk thought, he just carried on as God would have wanted.

And his little speech would have sounded mighty distinguished, were it not for the fact that he’d been buryin’ stained pornography at the time, and not wearing pants or underwear as most folks might. But still, the fact remained. Red Jack didn’t give a bear’s turd for the talk of other folk. He just kept on with himself, and let the world go on where it felt. That was Red Jack the non-catfish, and though he was a mite not right in the head-like, and sometimes exploded things that weren’t meant to be exploded with the case of dynamite he kept in his shed, he was still stand-up country folk, and me and Old Heck stood in his shadow that day.

And so Red Jack patted down his hole with dirt, and mopped his brow, and then left with his shovel and his empty box. And Heck and I looked out at the ten-square cube catfish, and we also realized that it didn’t matter if folk believed us or not, and that maybe it weren’t right to catch and kill so unique and pretty-looking a creature.

And it was then that both of us noticed that the poor thing had gotten lodged against a floating log, so that it couldn’t escape, and that the chain it was attached to was caught against some branches. And so me and Heck waded in up to our stomachs, and give the poor thing a mighty big push, since Old Red Jack’s words had taught us that is just weren’t right to keep so interesting a creature all killed-up and in the freezer.

And the push does it, and it slowly sinks back down into the water, free at last. And I gives it a pat on its flat, tarp-like hide, and look deep into its plastic-looking eyes, which said MADE IN TAIWAN on the side of them, and I says, “Get on, now, you creature, to whatever mystical place you came.” And with a SLOOP! noise, it settles slowly down underwater. Back to Taiwan, I expect, to frolic with the other creatures of its kind. And I kindly pull an errant nail out of its side, which didn’t quite lodge itself into the two-by-four right, and flick it away into the brush.

Then me and Heck climb back up to the ridge, and watch the bubbles of air float up to the surface as the noble thing sinks back into the depths from whence it came.

Later, whilst me and Heck were havin’ some more of that ol’ faggotrous sex, we saw with sadness that the bubbles had stopped coming to the surface. Whatever it was, it had gone.

And when it accidentally surfaced again the next day, we dutifully beat it back down with broomsticks, and this time weighted the fucker down with sacks of brick. We never saw it again, although I expect it might come back some day, when it’s done with its wandering.

Harrowsmith, after all, is a right pretty place to settle down into after a hard day’s work.