Chapter 14 - Something
It takes a lot of things when you're trying to amateur investigate, and one of those things is patience. When results come at all? Its in spurts. Results trickle in, be happy they're coming in at all. They had a phone peek into the life of the governor, and had all the time in the world to go over it. One rule of thumb the investigator taught me? You don't get a team, and official status, none of that shit. But? You do get only one case at a time, to concentrate on.
One set of calls, had been to the general area of my part of the state. They stood out. They were repeated a lot, but only in a brief burst. Then they went away. The investigator decided to get a bit of a lazy background on those calls. Like he did everything else, crossing off calls as unexciting, one at a time.
I had the house to deal with. My lawyer decided, that the only way to do it? Was with a little dinner and TV party. The two of us. I agreed, I thought it was a nice gesture. It was surreal, to pack for the overnight stay. Before all of this? I would simply, go there. I thought I was all right, from initial feelings walking in. Looking through something out of the freezer to make for us for dinner? Everything reminded me of her. I didn't break down, but only because of the happy shots I take.
She sat me down, and tapped her finger on her lips. She picked something, and cooked it for us as well. There was a little collection of DVDs. I told her to pick something. She grabbed out an action movie. I looked at it. Older, B plus grade action movie. She probably picked it up used? For me, for when I was over. The whole house? Would be a giant situation just like this.
She made us breakfast, and I begged her to let me go home with her. She smiled and hugged me, and said that was fine. I started staying nights by myself there, then two at a time. I built up the ability to get used to being in her house alone. Eventually, I more or less lived there. I felt strange being such close friends with the lawyer, but I was. She had me over for dinner, and to stay over. One big one was when her girlfriend was finally forgiven, and back on a trial basis. She saw me and looked the other way.
My work, as a computer programmer? I took stock. Where I was located originally doing that work from? Was no New York City or LA, and by far. I managed to get myself a headhunter is what they're called. Basically, an agent for your employment. They line up jobs and steps up the corporate ladder. The more you make? The more they make. They get a small percentage for managing mainly your between job time. They also use your on the job time? To compose a plan for your next step.
I just wanted the stress out of looking to relocate for work. Not climb the corporate ladder. I indicated this from the get go. I was looking for a certain type of regular work, and I expected to now work from home. As a better-titled computer programmer? There was no reason for me not to telecommute. I insisted on it, for employment. The headhunter asked me, that since working at home was not optional? Would I consider being shopped around for a contract. Produce this software, you get X amount of money. And obviously, the more I got paid the more often? The headhunter gets a percentage of that. Like any agent, they have a built in basic incentive to get you doing better.
I showed the headhunter several CDs and DVDs. Big software packages. When asked what part I played in this big scheme of software I was showing her installing on my own laptop? I explained. Everything. Idea, to work, to programming. The installation? Everything. If someone wanted to dress this up, with colors and skins? Its ready for that.
Armed with this new understanding of me... the headhunter upped the ante. I got invited to lunch, and handed a 12 or 15 page paper report. I glanced it over.
"Can, you do that? Hand them a CD, like you showed me. Installing, then... doing that."
I glanced again. Pretty straightforward.
"Yes."
"140 grand, cash. When its done. Just make it all work? They do all the graphics and colors and dress it up to make it look pretty."
It was a utility. It would take one type of file, and convert it to another format. That was stage I, and it had a list of rules on the renaming. You could check a box to get the old files deleted automatically after conversion. Stage I, was simply to make the file format conversion. Then demonstrate it could be done, and reliably.
Stage II. Do the same thing, but for a whole folder. If the name ends to signify it as a chosen file type for conversion? Change the name, option to delete as you convert. The renaming rules adhered to. Whoever compiled this report? Seemed first and foremost to care about the renaming rules. Doing this for a folder, was what made it more of a utility, at least to me.
Stage III. They felt it was possible. To take any folder inside the target folder? And with a check of a box, you went and did those folders for conversion too. If those folders contained folders? They needed professional outside help, for the logic of that.
Stage IV. The folder searching, demonstrated to work through all of them, inserted onto the first target? Would qualify for a bonus. Stage II qualified for 140,000. If I pulled stage III and IV off? A 50,000 bonus, if I could further deliver that as well.
I took the contract. I decided to try working at the house, and I was staying there more and more anyways. I thought I was doing sort of okay, when one night I got a little freaked out. I already had a near pathological dread of the bathroom that she was found in, and this is a split duplex. The sides seem like night and day, to be in first one and then the other.
I quickly started using the other side's bathroom, and to shower there as well. Running back and forth seemed silly? So. I adopted the other shabbier side of the duplex. The bathroom there was untainted. This cheaper tub and shower unit, I have been romantic with her in it. While this side held memories? They held no tragic ones. I'm working over here, when she gets home. She comes over, and is a bug up my ass working. Until I explain it all to her, and she gets to "help" me do something. Then? It often got romantic. It was one of our weird things, that we did that. Like I said. Less memories over here on this side of the duplex, but all good ones.
So I'm able to set up shop over here, for purposes of work. With three floors because an attic space got partially made into an extra bedroom, I picked the middle floor bedroom. I went and got two by four lumber and a sheet of wood and metal clips and screws. I screwed my own custom computer work table together and went to town. I had stage one done tentatively, within days. Lots of little things cleaning it up, and another couple days of drudge work to implement the renaming rules.
I know how to point at a folder, and read the file names inside the folder. Within another two weeks, I had stage II done. While I've done utilities, I've never needed the scour the folder tree logic. I'm usually content at the file and folder level. Now though, it gets me another 50 grand to crack that logic nut.
It took my time and energy and more importantly my whole mind to complete my work. The days and nights spent searching for the logic of scouring through folders, utility style? Was an almost welcome diversion. Ten days of intense searching on the internet and taking notes got me the rules down. It took a whole week to get test results from the scouring job. I searched for a test file, and moved it all around inside the many sub-folders inside, to try to hide it from the utility. I had it working.
I packed it all off on a CD, and I got a knock on my door several days later. It was my headhunter. I was handed a debit card, and told it contained 190 grand. Minus her percentage. Was I happy with our transaction? I said that when I finally verified the contents of the debit card, balance available at any ATM supposedly. I would be very happy if the numbers matched.
She suggested we go out. It was customary for contractors to have a little dinner and drinks to celebrate completing a contract. Or? She made that part up. I neither know nor care. The beauty of those antidepressant shots. I can function. She basically bought me dinner and a few drinks. She explained that she made more than my percentage? The companies paid her various sized fees to do various things for them. Would I consider working this way again.
I explained the loss of a loved one. That it was a spouse, was how I put it so she grasped the gravity. And that I valued time off, more than how much I made every year. I thought I had more than enough for a year here. Three months from now? Maybe. Not now. She promised to touch base with me. I described the size of jobs I normally did myself, start to finish. I then asked her what that would be worth, on the open market. She said she could find out. She emailed me a week later, and said a figure. A typical job at work, for which I was paid less than a hundred grand a year for? Was worth a couple hundred grand, start to finish. I pumped these things out, on a routine for them.
I explained. That if she could land me one of those? We'd both be happier. I would make more money, it was what I was used to doing anyways, she would make more money off her percentage. She would try to pimp me out doing what I did.
I reported my success back to my lawyer, who as always suggested a dinner and TV time. She asked me if I was happy with what I could make in what period of time, to estimate a yearly income out of it. I explained, it was more being able to do it. And work remote and not have to deal with any office bullshit? Was a bonus. After working several weeks, I could not work another whole year? And the financial position of working here, living in the house? I would have more money in the bank than when I was handed it initially.
She gently tried to get me to see the logic of financial success. I equally gently back explained how it all came about? Me finding out what my work at my old job really paid. Was a direct result of her death. Profiting off of her death? Felt horrible. It wasn't the money, it was the feelings it generated.
She patted my hand. She never discussed any particulars with me about her own finances, what a rising to the top lawyer made on their way up. She said I would be more than competitive, if I did this full time. Whether that meant less, more or the same I wasn't sure. She said it wasn't about the amount itself? I was her peer, pay wise, if I just wanted to do what I did in my field. Very upper middle class, borderline on entry level rich. Depending on when you thought "rich" technically even happened, as a number.
It was a mild bittersweet torture. My girlfriend had always wanted me to move to the city, and try to ply my programming skills there? Even suggested a headhunter. I resisted. I tried it one time, to facilitate keeping her house, making it financially sound to own it? Wow. Had I listened to her, I would have taken a big step up in financial gain. I never knew, she didn't either. Still true though.
Financially sound and even more, I relished it more as one less thing to worry about, I had enough to deal with. I normally and under the best of circumstances? Had a nervous and restless spirit. Under constant duress like this? My tics got worse. The best I could even hope for was a little more nervous and a little more restless. I touched base with the investigator. We had two little pockets of calls, out in my neck of the state. None really made sense.
Over time, background on the calls came out. They stayed in the odd pile. One set of them, was to a phone in the name of some female. He got a quick rundown of everything easy to get on her. She had, a couple years back? Graduated state police academy. Failing to land one of the coveted here's the state police job out of the academy deals, she goes off cop radar, and resurfaces as a security guard. Typical before cop job and activity. Then? She winks off. For a while.
Her background was out in the open, and easy. Like a lot of normal people. Then? He still has all her financial, all her normal stuff. It all goes on like normal. But, her job? Disappears and she never gets another one. Yet her financial world stays identical. The investigator pieced that puzzle together for me, and quick. He had run into this before, he said it was the voice of experience talking.
She was not only a cop now? She was an undercover cop.
I asked how he knew. He smiled. You never would know for certain? You had to learn to read between the lines. Basically put, cops that do well and graduate the state police academy. A small handful get the immediate jobs. The others? Become various local and county cops. There's the security guard waiting period job. But other than that? You go to cop college, you either end up a security guard, a cop... or you kind of flip burgers metaphorically, and even literally.
Her financial looks even better every month, the longer she's out of work as a security guard. Even as a security guard? She had one of the upper end ones. High pay for just checking IDs at some big plant. Plant police. Once again? Undercover cop explained it all.
I was going to look into her if I could, and he primed me to do it. I got what he called a phone grabber. I got near a target, and it locked on as the nearest phone with a good strong signal? I recorded the number and backed off.
I now had a project to go off on, and it was a productive one. Looking into weird connections to the governor. The lawyer had what was now my house property all set, to just pay its monthly bills and yearly taxes. I could wander off with free time. To try to relax, to try to follow up on possible leads. To accomplish both, ideally.
Her old address produced a male tenant, and no her. A little texting party with my favorite investigator? A few finger taps got results. He suggested staking out the county police force building. His reasoning. If she was going to be state police material? She already would have been one. All regular local cops and deputies? Show up like neon signs. That, left undercover work. Which is done routinely for the state police, and at the county level. He was betting on county, for that set of calls. Hence, if I staked out the county police building? I could locate her going in or out some door, parking somewhere.
Pay dirt. She did plain clothes with a plastic clip on ID, to go into the building. My next job was obvious. I had to get near her alone, to snag her cell phone. If it matched the one from the pockets of calls we were looking into? I had a match. I pulled that off on a daily highway jog. One day the traffic was fairly light after her work and she was tooling around to somewhere. The highway got lonely, I passed, and I got my phone trap with mine carefully switched off and the battery out of my own, to prevent any signal exchange locally from my end.
From the investigator's end? His guess she was some kind of county undercover was looking to be more or less probably right. Some cops go probation route when the cop plot line fails. Insurance investigator or even regular private detective work. All show up easily, looking. Her not showing up? Was what made her show up, as working undercover. Also from the investigator's end, he had an idea who she was. A distant relation to the governor. Family friends, to another family. That family, was friends with relatives of the governor's family.
The joke was? Tonto was a closer relation. But, when you're someone big, and you can claim any relation to them? You have the potential to hit them up. A governor is a big target for that. The investigator surmised that knowing the governor? Had helped her land a lucrative police job. Failing to land a state police job out the academy, time goes by. Bang. She starts undercover county work. It pays high. They hire in little waves. The governor could probably get a word in an ear and get her in, all things considered. A state police academy graduate, a fresh face. Access to the gov also explained why her "burger flipping" job waiting, IE getting an easy job checking ID's for such high pay and benefits? Even happened.
Among several things county has undercover for? The biggest and by far going by the numbers, is county drug task force. The investigator explained that a bigger county force setup? Might have a small undercover homicide or even vice unit. And the sheriff's department might. But all the homicide and undercover for it, was all state police in this county. And she wasn't state police. Leaving county drug task force, as again, the best guess.
Her cell calls ended up being the way to finally locate her. I simply drove around, until I picked up a faint signal. I was beginning to be able to start to locate her now, with a little bit of predictability. My investigator gave me a run down on the life of a county drug task force badge. Though they might act like it? They were not, in fact, deep undercover workers. They have cover ID and cover jobs and apartments? Their real name still exists. They can disappear and reappear, and still have their own house, apartment, girlfriend, boyfriend or life.
It made sense reading the tea leaves, the governor getting a distant relation a plum job. County drug undercover paid very well. It was considered a prestigious spot to land. That part, was part and parcel perfect to communicating with the governor. What wasn't, was ongoing regular conversations. The investigator explained it to me. Some distant relative calls wanting help with a cop job. You pick up the phone, you call around. Hey. Undercover county drug task force is hiring, another six months. I'll get you on the rolls.
You want them working, someone higher up knows the governor himself pulls strings for her, and you want her out of your hair in general. Here, the investigator shows me. We see an inconsistency to a normal pattern. Of what ongoing concern, is a really distant and young relative. A cop, to a far away politician. Not much. But a politician is a politician. If you have something they want, well, its an entirely different story then, isn't it. Yet, on that note. Of what use was she to the prince of darkness, the governor.
Another set of calls came from some shitty small town, a land line of all things. Most of the free world was on cell, and land lines were still prominent enough you ran into them. Landlines? Easy to trace. Easy to stake out. They sit in one place, stationary targets. This place? Hard to find. Not hidden, just out of the way.
A shitty little small town, one of many out of several shitty little towns up and down some river. All laid out similar, alleys regularly cut between main streets and avenues. A regular cross-hatch. Some were sometimes, missing. Normally, when one alley goes street to street one direction about through the middle, and another alley crosses again near the middle and runs avenue to avenue. You have four alleys to choose from, to get to a spot in the middle anywhere up around those alleys. Old gas stations, tire shops, repair spots, lots of things in alleys in small towns.
This one? Had three of those four alleys, closed off. Yards or buildings or whatever blocked them off. Only one, and if you walked idly down this alley? You were locked in to an area with several related buildings around the interior of this block. I knew I didn't belong, so I did what I figured enough other people did, when they accidentally went down this winding but sealed off one way, alley. I turned around and walked off how I came in. Found it. GPS on my phone nailed the land line.
The location proved problematic. What would have been alleys? Had three of the four alleys sealed off entirely. There were some houses still, some converted to other than house use, like storage or office secondary use. There was one main building back here built up, an industrial one with sheets of metal claiming all around it. Whatever was done there? Was the purpose for this little hidden out in the open industry in this shitty little town.
That property area was difficult. You couldn't see much but the outside of the residential houses. Almost all of which, were converted to storage or office use. In this old steel town, there were whole blocks of houses at a time that needed torn down. Small businesses considered it sporting to purchase a cheap eyesore on either side of the storefront, and attach it and have storage. To a store? Anything with a roof is storage.
And... that business, down in the alleys of this weird block? Looked like it had bought all or almost all of these cheap tear down houses. I suppose anyone else would have ran to their pet investigator for their next step. It was, after all, baby's first investigation. But, I had rare benefit of my girlfriend? Having been a lawyer.
Since I'm the curious type, I was shown by my lawyer ex what a title search even was. I was first shown what the average person means by "title search", what a "real one" was, then finally what a "full and complete back story" on a property would look like.
If you just want to know who owns a piece of property, that's not so hard. And, in the case of some house down the street? Yeah. Knowing who owns it, that solves that. This was some weird conglomerated situation. A little puzzle that went nowhere. Yet, when programming for work? I encounter 16 cases, I don't just cover 15 and think to myself... hey, great odds this puppy works every single time.
No, I cover that 16th case, and generate complete coverage of everything. Its encoded into my system, to be patient and persistent. I knew the address of the "actual property" as I thought of it. The one that paid the phone bill, the one in the back.
I'm curious to know who the big deal is. Its big deal stuff, to be buying up a whole block in a town. I made a simple trip to the courthouse. I know this courthouse. This is the county courthouse associated with my ex, before she went away to the city. This is my county courthouse, going by where I lived around here. Both where I grew up in my parents childhood home, and my adult house and other things I owned? This county, this county courthouse.
This shitty little town, with this business of some kind? Same county. Same courthouse. Same courthouse, in fact, where I was trained to do my property search. To a lawyer's specifications and beyond.
Land is a commodity, and is something owned. Who owned exactly what part of what land? Got so old, man developed a system of proof. Deeds. A diligent, prudent, careful title search? Can turn up surprising things. At one time, all land had the mineral rights, all the way down. These over time, it became more and more fashionable to split them off, and sell to different people. Regular surface dwellers? Didn't know or care about mineral rights.
A good title search? Can locate some unscrupulous lawyer back in the day. Who "split" the surface and mineral rights, and knew the mineral rights were worth something, and knew the family was none the wiser. More tightly regulated today? It was a common feature of life before computers. If you locate such a thing? You go and file, and take ownership. Of what might well be worth nearly anything, depending on what coal and what gas rights are exploited presently.
Of course me? I'm just interested in the conglomeration of properties that I find intriguing.
99 times out of 100, the computer reliably spits out who owns what address, its public knowledge. I sat at the computer with a notebook and a pen and pencil, and noted who owned things based off of what it said. I went back to the big ledger books, and noted back a sale or two. In the 80s and 90s? Was when the housing fell out, and a business started buying a couple. The trend just persisted over time.
Quality Coin, was the business that started this property poaching on this block. Quality Coin also owned at least some other stuff, it looked like. If I had to guess, not being the property expert? Looked off the top of my head like this, guessing.
Quality coin is the business on that block of residential, out of the alleys. Doing good for years, when properties go cheap on that block and go vacant? They pick them up. Tear them down for parking lot and yard space, put up fences. For office, storage, any other use.
A vacant house with the roof open to water, not worth five thousand on the open market? To a local, is potentially worth 20 thousand. Because the "big company" will buy property up. You refuse them. Now? They're stuck with the property only that company is interested in anyways. The price? Drops to a new bargain basement price, where it should be for any other house good only for remodeling or tearing down, now's the time to choose.
Quality Coin sent a third party over which they had control or influence, to purchase the house for 5 grand. Looks like they held out? For 6 and a half. The whole operation from the outside, and I was definitely an outsider looking in? Every town has one or more, big family names. You see these family names again and again on businesses all through that town, and surrounding ones.
Quality Coin, at first blush? Fit the bill, in my experience. The old timers might refer to that situation as the stereotypical family with money. Experience also taught me? That family, and others like it? Will run the gamut. They will range, from big shot wheeler dealers? To complete drug addicts that the whole family takes turns buying them a car, to wreck it every year like clockwork. From complete heroes, to abject assholes? Small town big families truly had it all.
Stuck for a next move, I would walk wistfully down the street. Glancing over out of the corner of my eye, what my next move should even be. I struck up a conversation. Of sorts, anyways. It was with a cool little dog.
I got a cute little muted snuffle, and looked over to see a bored but friendly little dog. Trying to get noticed and get some attention. One of those tiny bulldogs, that are technically ugly, but they're so ugly they're just cute. Slobbering, snorting, flinging this goo happily in all directions. Someone new to touch me, oh there we go, getting scratched.
I enjoyed the dog for far too long, and looked up to see an old lady waving at me. I smiled like an idiot and waved back. I smiled, I pointed at the dog, I shrugged. Old ladies? Take your pick, like there's no in between. Some get sweet, some get mean. This looked like one of the sweet ones.
I was now caught, and I got joined. I honestly have a thing with dogs and cats, and I will just stop and kiss and talk to one, for no reason. Like I'm doing now. When I get a pronounced reaction from a dog or a cat? Makes me feel wonderful. The dog or cat is tail wagging and prancing, they're obviously happy, too. Pisses a few people off, and I suspect a large swath of the population doesn't like me doing it? They just tolerate it.
But I'm a proud card carrying weirdo sometimes, and this is one of them.
"I see you made a friend."
"I did. I was walking by, I heard this, snort? Sounded like a couple hundred pound pig. I look over, and its this tiny little thing, snorting at me. What's his name?"
"Sogger. My husband named him. Its a kind of fish, I'm pretty sure."
"Aw. Little guy goes fishing, huh. I could see that."
"Well. Sogger used to go fishing. His daddy? Went to the big fishing hole in the sky."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear about that. Poor little guy here. How long has he... not got to go... fishing."
"Sogger?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. Must be two, three years now? You lose track."
I was of course still getting snorted and drooled at. Saliva was still slinging out when the little guy shook his rolls on his face loose. Flapping noises sent drool everywhere. Cute little barks that didn't go with the commanding sounding deep grunts.
"Well. Sorry for your loss, ma'am."
"Well, thank you. Little Sogger is getting ready for his big walk. Its probably why he's all excited around now. Snorting at you, going by. My husband? Used to walk him all over, and take him fishing and everything."
She held up her cane at me.
"He's lucky he gets to go around the block once a week now, and that's on good weeks. Arthritis."
"Ma'am?"
"Yes."
"I grew up with a little dog. Not one that looked like him? But, his size. Can I walk him? I'll give him a couple blocks. Maybe get him a beef jerky or something. Get me a coffee. You mind?"
"Well. I don't mind. Its more a matter of... if Sogger minds, really..."
I started rubbing the slobbery face and head. The eyes bulged, it got up on its hind legs to dance and rub faces back.
"Well. Sogger seems to like the idea. You sure you don't mind?"
"Mind? Hell. If he's ever missing? Chances are, he'll be back. I just took him for a walk. He just... something reminds me of my dog when I was little. Where does he normally expect to go first?"
"Oh. He likes over there, down the alley some. And around that block."
She had indicated with her finger. I get to walk the dog down, that, alley, some. The alley I wish I could get access down and into. Around, that, block? The block in question. I got an excuse to stop and peer down couple foot wide gaps between houses.
And going down that alley, heaven. Oh god, am I going to reward this little dog. I'm going to just bribe the shit out of this fuzzy little guy. A couple blocks had him at the convenience store. I got a coffee and a microwaved shitty little sandwich. I gave the dog half of the shitty little sandwich, and he was ecstatic about that. I bought a giant, couple foot long beef jerky stick and took it back with me, like a complete yahoo.
The old lady found me sitting on a bench in her tiny front yard. The dog sitting happy next to me. I was taking big bites of this couple foot long beef jerky stick, and the dog got one for his own every time I got one. I had quickly worked up my first trick. I held the piece in my mouth, calmed the dog by holding it back with my hands, and when it was a little bit calm I let it slowly grab the chunk of beef jerky out of my mouth.
I developed the trick with a long piece, and shortened it until it was a small piece, and looked way cuter. I let her see me do the hug and kiss baby talk trick I do with dogs and cats I seem to get along with.
When I was done? I had made it all about the dog. And would she mind if I walked little Sogger again? I enjoyed him, reminded me of my own little dog growing up. As long as Sogger didn't seem to mind? And he didn't. It was fine.
Sogger, as it ended up had several walk times. Morning and evening were the most important. A couple during the day, that varied. I had initially caught the afternoon, home from work walk time the dog grew up on. After several of these all important afternoon home from work walks with little Sogger to the convenience store for treats? I asked about the fishing.
"Fishing's not popular, or easy in this town. Most people go fishing? They go up or down the river, to fish."
"Why's that."
"The wall. The river here, and a ways out in either direction coming in or out on the main drag... the river, is a little cliff. Most people don't know there's a spot or two where you can manage to get down."
"Hmm. Interesting. You know, I ain't been fishing in years. I should go. Do you know where to get down to the water at?"
She shook her head no.
"Huh. I got all excited for a minute there."
She pointed at the buddy seated next to me, waiting for his next piece of beef jerky.
"He knows."
Now she pointed off, across the street and beyond.
"Him and my husband? They would disappear, going that way. Between that... big cement piece of bridge, that yellow fence? That way. They always came back out that way, too. I'm betting, that if you just walked little Sogger down near there? He'd pull you right to it."
I made all over Sogger, asking him if he thought he could do it.
I dutifully showed up to take Sogger fishing. I hadn't honestly gone in years. I found my old fishing vest, the sleeveless oversize thing, with portions of mesh. Pockets and zippers and buttons and Velcro everywhere. With the vest? I need no tackle box, the vest automatically is my tackle box.
I was dismayed to find my favorite two poles had shit the bed. I forgot the mantra. Leaving them lean up in the corner was fine weekend to weekend, but... leave them like that for a couple years? Bent tip, ruined.
I had a Morton, a little over 5 foot long and some inches. Super ultra lite, thin as hell and tapers down to pencil lead at the business end. In calm river? You can see a leech brush up against your bait is the joke.
The other was a Pretty Stick. Billed as "unbreakable", they once had the ad campaign you could tie it in a knot. If you could break it? Wait on shipping, but you get a new one.
The original company changed hands, they weren't quite what they once were. They no longer replaced rods for free, and no longer had the tie it in a knot, we dare you to break it mentality. Now, they coasted by on the original company's name and toughness. They put out a static product, no more innovation. A corporate holding now, no longer the experimental and influential rod company that shook the industry at one time and took rod sales by storm.
I didn't know all this shit, I just owned one of the rods for years. Yeah, on account of the commercials tying them into knots and the poles lived. Figured if I just fished with it? I'd have a lifetime rod. I actually had a fairly big Pretty Stick, and the littlest one they make. I thought I had the biggest they make? But turns out I just had the biggest at the fishing bait and tackle portion of the local small town hardware slash bait shop.
The biggest Pretty Stick was bent tip now, too. I decided to buy a new pole. I learned all the Pretty Stick changing hands lore from the old man manning the fishing section at a department store. I needed a fishing license and everything anyways.
I found a Pretty Stick combo. It wasn't quite as lite of an ultra lite as what I had go to fishing rod heaven with a bent tip. It was a hair over pencil lead at the thin end. But? It would do. Gee. I can buy the HI-2 Pretty Stick for 25 bucks, rod only. Or, there's a combo with a matching tiny reel. Same price. The combo comes with the one piece version of the HI-2 rod, you buy it alone, it seems to be all the two piece version.
I'm a one piece rod man. I don't like trying to align up the front half and the back half perfect and straight in the dark on a two piece. Despite the company selling out and going corporate? Consumer nostalgia has me with the HI-2 rod and reel ultralight combo.
The only thing I need other than that, really? Is line. My line is years old. New line always pays off for a few measly bucks. I went with four pound test. Casts nice on a short, handy rod like this one. Set the drag light, and you can slowly tire out anything that weighs as much as an anchor and slowly reel it in. Little light rod and reel is handy to carry to go fishing. When you already lost the tackle box and just wear the vest, a light handy pole goes along with the plot line.
I was in for sticker shock at the worm prices at the convenience store. Worms have went from a buck or two, and two dollars is getting ripped off? Four dollars and change, is the new going rate while my back was turned the last several years not fishing.
I showed up Saturday night, before dark. I had explained before I made my fishing date with Sogger? I always went all night, from sundown to sun up. I brought him something to lay on. The old lady said to wait, then stopped and had me follow her. She had her cane and could no longer hurry. A light folding chair was what she took me to, and tapped it with the ground end of her cane in indicate it well.
"This thing. My husband's old fishing chair. There's little tables, little armrests? That come up and out on this one. The dog? Sits on one of them."
"I thought you didn't go fishing with them."
She smiled.
"I didn't. But he told me enough times, and he used to set the chair up in the backyard, and make burgers. And the dog liked sitting there with him in the backyard, too. Not to mention. You got this chair with you, going down that way? Sogger knows where you're supposed to end up at. With that chair? No mistaking it."
I thanked her for use of the chair. It had a shoulder strap down it all folded up. Glad I didn't have a big tackle box to manipulate. I had a leash and a chair to replace that. Sogger did indeed know what was going on. I stopped to take a piss on the way down? He sniffed the chair and wagged his stump of tail at me, snorting. He knew.
The dog had that excited prancing exaggerated stepping motion little dogs get when happy. I at first thought Sogger was trying to commit suicide off the 40 foot cliff. I mean, I'm standing right there looking for the path down? Its such a steep and thin deer trail, just grass at the edge of the rail road tracks effectively hides it from view even when you're literally standing right over it while looking for it.
Sogger looked at me and snorted and pulled. I let him go down by himself, he seemed to know down here at the bottoms of the wall, and jogged around in the general area. He walked over to a rocky portion of shoreline, and stood there looking back at me. Hey, must be the spot.
Worms in the river around here, are standard bait. What do I expect, from spring through fall, fishing with worms in this river? Bluegill, and catfish. A small-mouth now and again. I fished growing up, it was a phase in different parts. A very young, excited to do anything with dad, fishing that way. Helpless, dad baiting your hook. Like that.
Then before my teens. Still just about as helpless, but going fishing with the local boys. I pretended I could worm my own hook. I mean, can I get a worm touching the hook and get it thrown out, usually staying on the hook? Then yes, I can do it. Dad's always stays on good and catches fish. And mine? Well... touch and go. But, that's how I fished approaching my teens.
At that age? You use whatever tackle is hand me down in your family. My family garage had the requisite old fishing setup. Tackle box so old, it was all metal. Beat up, but worked perfect. My grandfather's given to my father, I think. Some shit like that. All bottom of the line stuff.
Another couple teen and late teen bouts of fishing cemented it all in as a somewhat regular off and on hobby. I had an early twenties fishing gig going. The guys I grew up with did it, it was a rite of passage. Fishing was never my favorite thing? It was never my most hated activity, either. In general, I like it. Maybe just shy of truly loving it with a passion. But, close enough. I know for sure? I really really like it.
I got two bluegill just before and just after dark. Some noodling around and tapping that went nowhere for the next several hours. I finally landed a half decent channel catfish. Ended up by morning light peeking over the hilltop, with my original decent catfish. Another a hair less in length and girth, and a slightly smaller yet third one thrown in.
Now. I've eaten at least one of almost every common fish to catch in this river. I'm used to spots a couple miles the other way up the river, but its the same river. I don't have a problem with the taste of bluegill. In fact? One of the better and lighter tasting fish tastes out there, and you can catch as many as you have worms on a good morning when everything is cooperating.
If bluegill were any bigger? I'd probably be hooked on catching and eating them. I know they make special bluegill scissors, and guys know how to filet and use scissors on bluegill and indeed, many other small pan fish.
Not me. I don't want any hassle out of a hobby. That's why I severely limit my lure fishing. I'm mainly a bait fisherman. I do have a couple small lures, I'm just not a big lure guy. Its a backup, amusement thing.
Honestly, if bait isn't working? I will experiment with one of my little ultra light rods, as I used to have two at all times, back in the day. Usually, both bait. But on really slow periods? If its light out, I will try the little go to lures out of boredom.
So, the bluegill are going back. Honestly? The catfish, is my all around favorite eating fish. Its no work. There's no filet process. There's no wasting meat by the filet cutting. I cut the head off and gut it? I'm done. I wrap it in tin foil and toss some margarine and or butter down into the foil, and cook it in a pan on around 250 for under an hour, its done. I can eat the catfish meat? Off the bone.
Plus? Little Sogger went nuts, all happy when I caught catfish. He was unconcerned with the bluegill. I considered it an omen, and a good one at that. I put them on the thin rope stringer. First light? Had the catfish ending. I tried the couple small "chicken tail" lures I like and every once in a while, they work.
When lures work? They're great. In my book, here's how they work. You hit a brand new spot. No one else ever fishes there. Man, you toss out any kind of shit? You get nibbles and good bites. But when lures don't work? Even the dyed in the wool, big proponents of lure fishing will sigh, and admit it comes and goes.
Bait, on the other hand? If I'm willing to sit there, from before dark to after first light? I can usually drag something tiny out of there, to salvage it and say I didn't get skunked.
I packed up after waiting to see if any waves of anything would come in for the morning light, to use the surprisingly now expensive worms up on? Nothing. It finally broke my heart, to toss in worms worth over 4 dollars a dozen into the river.
I walked Sogger back, with my three catfish the only extra baggage back. Sogger got to nap throughout fishing whenever he wanted, and me not so much. Sogger was a little brighter eyed and bushier tailed than I was.
The old woman made over her little dog, asking him if he had fun. She asked if I caught anything, and I went through the obligatory story. Two bluegill? Back in. Kept the three catfish, because they're easy to catch, and easy to eat. The old lady shared that the husband used to keep certain fish, and that catfish was one of them.
Sogger, it seemed? Had been unconcerned with bluegill, because it wasn't on the menu. Catfish? Was. The old lady went on to explain naturally all of it. Catfish was a mainstay, of her late husband and the surviving Sogger both.
I asked, and sadly Sogger was not so named because of any fish. Sogger was a joke about the drooling. She herself called him Little Soggy. In addition to catfish? The husband liked catching sheep-head.
"You ate catfish, I see you kept three of them. Did you ever eat sheep-head?"
"Actually? Once. I was early into my eating some fish, stage? My buddy noticed I was eating catfish. He said, hey you caught a sheep-head there. Old timers? Called them poor man's prawn. They liked them as much as catfish. So? I tried it. You rarely get sheep-head, but when you do? You get a ton of them all night. And if you're the only one there interested in keeping them... well... you get the idea."
She smiled and finished for me.
"Full freezer. You only have to put a couple of them there. The other bunch of guys drinking and fishing? Puts the rest there."
I grinned and nodded.
"Yeah. Practical about it."
"You sound like my dead husband. Did you like the sheep-head?"
"Yeah. Most guys wouldn't eat them? I tried that one though. Tasted fine. Big fish, too."
"Did you care your buddies made fun of the fish, when you were eating it and liked it?"
I chuckled.
"Nope."
"Okay then. I'll share with you a secret, about my late husband, and fishing. He brought home carp."
I wasn't flabbergasted. I know some people, do eat them. And what's more? Of those that do, they claim you don't know what you're missing. Then, you hear all manner of shit from everyone else. The few people that do stand up for eating carp? Are hooked on it, and prefer it above other good eating fish.
"He ate carp?"
She smiled.
"You surprised?"
I thought about it.
"No. I'm not a fish expert. I go by what I hear."
"And what did you hear about carp. Go on. I heard different, most likely? From my husband. I'll give you the other side of the story."
"Well. If you're not in mixed company..."
She laughed.
"Yeah. Watermelon, fried chicken? Eating carp."
"Well. White as a ghost as I might well be, I do like fried chicken. Watermelon on fourth of July? Same thing. Black people are batting two out of three there, might as well try carp. I'll try anything, I tried groundhog once. Before you ask? It was... edible. I like squirrel? And it wasn't up there with squirrel."
She giggled.
"I'm white. You're white. My dead husband? He was white, too. But, he was born and raised down south. He said, where's the carp drive through. I'm like, say what? He grew up, every weekend. Him and his brother, they want dad to drive through the deep fried carp window. You ever hear of such a thing?"
I thought about it.
"I heard people eat carp. Never seen one went from hook to plate? But I'm curious. But, a commercial, drive through, fried carp joint? Never heard of it."
She laughed.
"Me neither. Must be a southern thing, husband would say. Well. No one but him, kept carp. And, everything you heard about carp? Is probably wrong."
"I heard they were brought here, for food."
"That much? You heard right."
I shrugged.
"How did they go from edible? To not edible then."
She smiled.
"Funny you should ask. I know that one. Apparently, they were brought here, as an easy to raise source of food. They do great being raised in shallow ponds you can manipulate and get the fish easy. They got out, probably through repeated big storms. Eventually? They dug roots in, and you couldn't get rid of them if you tried. Eating them was so common, no one bothered to write it down, it wasn't noteworthy. Then? Some guy comes along. The father of the modern fisherman. He lists recipes for carp, all good talk about them. There's no stigma against eating carp, until more recently. After world war two? Carp eating started to take on a tarnish, and its been downhill ever since."
"Well, if its so great? How come it got on the fish shit list."
"No one? Is really sure. They think it got associated with poverty, then that was it."
"So. What's carp really like. Your husband ate it. You ate it, I guess."
"Honestly? I use it like fish in almost any fish recipe. You know what happens if I tell anyone what they're about to eat?"
"They act like they're going to barf. I'm sure."
"Yeah. Funny thing is. Not a one of them? Has ever tried it, and that's not fair. I mean, if they just saw some breaded fish, in a stack there, and dove right in? When they're done, you can tell them they just ate carp? They don't believe you."
"You've done this?"
"More than once. How do you make your catfish? Curious."
"I, uh... cut the heads off, gut them. Wrap them in tin foil with butter? For a... while."
"Basic. You could do that with a carp? You honestly would be hooked after trying it."
"I heard... there's, like... 3 or 6 different sets of bones, going every which way. You have to know what you're doing. Its hard, its time consuming, and you still don't get much, cause of how all the bones are done."
She smiled at me.
"Tell you what I'll offer to do."
I was curious now.
"Hmm?"
"Sogger, expects a catfish now. You want one too?"
"Tell you what. If Sogger enjoys it? Just make me the little one, give him one and save him the other one. Okay?"
She nodded.
She made my catfish, and Sogger's too... as close to butter in tin foil as I could have hoped. She said she did the same thing in a covered pan, and it was no trouble. Sogger got the big one put back for a treat the next time.
The old lady more or less herded both me and the dog onto the back porch, and insisted I could eat there, it was fine. It reminded her of her husband. Also, if I wanted? I could bring her a big carp, and I could try it and see how it got cleaned, what it looked like... everything.
Further, she still had the makings of her dead husband's near life long carp and catfish dough ball recipe. She asked if I wanted to try it. He used to use it all the time, and bring home carp with it. She said it was dry powdered wheat germ mainly, with syrup and vanilla and other things in it.
I made another fishing date for the following weekend, as well as stopped in several times to walk little Sogger, who seemed to have taken an actual shine to me. One of the finer things in life, to me anyways, is that if you like something little and silly? Celebrate good fortune by wallowing in it. If its a simple joy? Enjoy it.
I got the couple foot long generic beef jerky, and one for Sogger, too. He sits on the bus stop bench with me, and I unwrap the end of the long jerky stick, and lay it across my lap. The open end? Is right there for him to gnaw off pieces as he wants.
As he nibbles it down? I feed it out of the package to him. While I eat my own. The dough ball the following weekend? Did indeed work, though she said that was a half decent night. It was possible on a good carp night armed with it? To catch more big carp than you could carry home for weight, let alone the nature of stacking fish being what it was and all.
Two half decent channel catfish, and one fairly big flat or bull head catfish. I'm not the catfish scientist, and neither was she. We just both knew it wasn't a regular channel cat, which is the highest prized for eating, in general.
The big wide head catfish, went for Sogger's future amusement. She made Sogger again the littlest catfish. Leaving 8 big carp to deal with. She asked if I wanted to watch her do it. I said sure. She put out garbage bags on the back yard picnic table. With a decent looking old time filet knife, she cut almost all the heads off with it, and cracked by twisting the last bit to remove heads. She ran the filet knife down the carp from head removed to past the ass. Less than a minute, per. Once at this point, she pointed to the skin and the big scales.
"Different ways. Here's how I do it."
She made light short cuts down the backbone, off to the side she was working on. After going thru the skin in a little spot? She switched to blade up, and shoved the blade up down the length, unzipping it. She prepared the other side, the same exact way. Grabbing a chunk of the thick scaled skin, she worked the filet knife gently just under the skin. In short order? She was holding the skin and cutting it off the big carp. If a little got wasted as the cut thickened up a little? No matter. It was so fast and there was so much meat there, under the skin.
She skinned the other side the same way, fairly quick. Back to side one? She lectured.
"No right or wrong way now. You just keep the knife close to the center, and all gentle, work down until you run out of fish. If you see one or two little bones, like... here? Just cut around it. There's a couple or several at the corners, that's it."
She carved off this long, thick fish filet. It was huge. It was a big carp, so it was fairly impressive in size. She flipped it over, and I almost forgot. Another of these huge things hanging out on the other side.
She handed it to me, and shrugged to let me inspect it.
"Where's all the... bones that go all different ways? Everyone talks about it."
She beamed.
"Yeah. You watched me. You're holding the filet, right now. You see all those bones... three, four, six different ways?"
I looked, I studied, I bent and twisted. Looking. Nothing. I shrugged and shook my head no, I couldn't find any.
"I don't know what they're talking about, either. Skin's hard to get through, but... one you get it going? Its so tough you can cut up against the inside of the skin, as a guide. You saw me, skin it."
"The bones all stayed... back in the main thing you cut these fillets off of."
She nodded yes.
"So if you miss a hunk here, a hunk there? Its carp, you ain't out anything."
I watched, about mesmerized. The lowly carp I knew my whole life, and was told how it could be eaten, but no one did it. I'm sitting here, and in minutes? This old lady had this platter of carp fillets going. Stacking them up. 8 big carp, produced 16 good sized fillets. And? The lesson continued.
"So. The bones? Were all bullshit. They never once saw a carp cut up and eaten, as soon as they talk about all those bones. Now. What's the other thing, peculiar to carp and eating it, you hear about."
I wracked my brain, then yeah, I did come up with it.
"The mud vein!"
She smiled.
"Correct. Would you like to... show me the mud vein, please?"
I was stumped. I was expecting something like a shrimp? Needing a turd vein cut out, but... damned if I could find it. Her lecture went on.
"You'll hear a lot of, oh... you need to soak them in the bathtub or a washtub, for so many days. Or a rain water barrel. Clean that mud vein out."
I nodded along to that plot line. Heard that tale. Sure.
She smiled.
"There is no... mud vein. And though what they call the mud vein is there, and I'll show it to you... see this, here, the red color going down here?"
"Yeah."
"That's where its at. All it is? Its an area of the fish meat, where a lot of the blood vessels come together to run through. Now. I'm making both of these fillets for you, so you can see the mud vein, once and for all."
She cut down the length of the one fillet, taking a thin but somewhat haphazard slice off more or less following the red lines in the white fish filet. A little more came off in her pursuit of losing the colored area.
"There. You'll never get it all. Some people cut it out, whole sale. They waste most of the fish that way. Feed dogs and stuff with it. They're almost as bad as the people that won't try it."
She sat me and and the dog down, and made us all coffee and gave the dog a water bowl. When she was back with the two large fillets I had watched her cut the one mud vein off of? They were back on my plate, sizzling hot. Butter and salt and pepper. The one? Fairly clean all over and down. That was the one she had haphazardly cut a lot of the red off of.
The other? Looked like.... not dirt, but... the tasty crud or residue left in a pan after frying a steak. Something like that had been run down the middle of the fish meat after being cooked. She said, that was the mud vein. When cooked? It made this mud-like coating.
She said it was edible, a slight off taste but nothing ridiculous. You could scrape it off easy with a fork? It was fine. Cut off was the way to go for most recipes, though. She asked if I wanted to try carp breaded in chunks. How did I like my breaded fish sandwiches.
I said ketchup and salt, extra ketchup and extra salt, for a breaded fish sandwich. She made two fish sandwiches out of one medium size carp. Two more? She cut up the 4 fillets into chunks and had bread crumbs, and stuff she threw together to bread the chunks.
It took longer to wait for the little oil pan to heat up, than it did for a batch of breaded carp to get taken out, and a fresh batch thrown into the oil in the pan. She apologized for not having fish sandwich buns, but... how did I want to taste my experimental breaded fish sandwich.
I said ketchup, and a paper plate with a big pile of ketchup? Had me over salt and over ketchup the breaded fish like I did all the time. On a breaded fish sandwich? Extra ketchup, extra salt. This would definitely pass as a really good fish sandwich, and I kind of raved that I knew it was a carp.
Then we ate the breaded fish cubes that were cooling. I wanted mine like any other fish stick product. Extra salt, extra ketchup. I had a ball between both the breaded fillet sandwich examples, and the breaded chunks. The little dog wagged his stump, and ate a bunch and burped and had a last bite or two before quitting on his own little feast.
That was it. I? Was a carp convert. It was official.
Now. All of this? Seems to have gained me nothing. But, it hasn't cost me anything yet, either. If I were to ask her and start quizzing her about Quality Coin over there, I would set her off. But she does know all the local gossip about the place, which is what I need. I wait long enough, the place visible, me walking the dog over there? It can't help but come up eventually.
Now, anyone hearing this has to realize. I have my attack strategy with old ladies? Down pat over the years. For the one thing. You be sweet to any old lady. Nice old ladies? Will beam and smile, and show you who they are. The mean old ladies? You stay away from. Even once too big to smack around, they can still yell like a rattlesnake.
Now. A sweet old lady? Is a blessing. You get cookies, and brownies, and home made pie she talked about weeks ago and finally got around to making, and remembered talking about it with you. I mean, what's not to like. And with a sweet old lady? All you have to do, is smile and nod your head politely as you hear all about people you'll never once have to meet in your life anyways.
You do that? You're sweet, you get your cheek pinched. Yeah, you get hit up for "carry that box" duty? But what the hell. You get that never ending shower of door prizes, the goodies all sweet old ladies bake and give away. At my age? This, is one of those sweet old ladies. My brownies and cupcakes are fish sticks and breaded fish sandwich fillets, but... pretty much the exact same deal going on.
And you know, that place is right there, just across the street. Old people, once retired? Sit there and see everything. Just gotta wait her out, and she mentions it.