Off the Hook

Alek Kissoondyal

      Dad shoved the cooler and fishing rods into the trunk of his car and slid into the driver’s seat, smelling like beer and mosquito repellant. I fidgeted with my seatbelt as he took the breathalyzer from its holster by the ignition, turned to the passenger side where I sat, and held it to my face. I was six years old back then, oblivious to Dad’s two DUIs, ignorant of why he needed my breath to start the car. But I didn’t question it because the one thing I did know was that everything was better when Dad wasn’t angry.

      The chord brushed against my arm as I leaned forward and breathed into the mouthpiece.

      Out. In. Out again. 

      A small green light flashed three times. 

      The car rumbled to life, and we pulled onto the street. Beer cans rattled inside the cooler. The rock song that blared through the radio static didn’t hide the car’s rattling and whining and the strange clanking under us like a metal ball rolling back and forth. 

      The sun had started to set, and I squinted against the orange light that poured through the cracked windshield. A rectangle of shadow from the visor masked the top half of Dad’s face, but the light still touched his jaw and made his stubble glitter. We passed houses that looked like Dad’s, except the lawns were mowed, the roofs still had all their shingles, and the gutters weren’t clogged with old leaves.

      We turned left at the end of the street and kept going, past more houses, and rows of streetlights. Up ahead, three teenagers rode their bikes in the middle of the road. Dad leaned on the steering wheel and scattered them with a blast from the horn. They pulled into the nearest driveway and watched us pass, their eyes wide under their helmets.

      “Jackasses,” Dad said.

      I stared into my lap and didn’t look up again until we arrived at the pond. Dad pulled onto the curb and parked on the grass. He popped the trunk, and I carried the rods while Dad unloaded the cooler. The sun dipped behind the house on the other end of the pond. Smoke rose over the backyard fence, along with laughter and the smell of grilled meat. I kicked at an empty Coke can that lay in the grass. It landed in the water, joining the floating mass of cans, bottles, fast food wrappers, and plastic bags.

      Dad set the cooler on the ground, opened it, and pulled out a pack of ballpark franks. He took a hotdog from the pack and broke off the end pieces, which we stuck on our hooks. Dad ate the rest of the hotdog, returned the pack to the cooler, and traded it for a beer. He held the rod in one hand and the can in the other and cast his line with a flick of his wrist. The reel clicked, and the bobber hit the water with a loud plunk. I tried to cast one-handed too, but my line dragged across the ground and got tangled in the grass. Dad clenched his jaw, and I tensed up.

      “Do it how I taught you,” he said.

      I tried again with both hands, and the line splashed into the water.

      Dad finished his beer, punted the can into the pond, and opened another. The sky was purple now, and the streetlights flickered to life and shimmered white against the brown water. A woman’s high-pitched laugh drifted over the fence.

      “How’s your mom?” Dad asked.

      “Good,” I said.

      “Does she talk about me?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “What does she say?”

      “I don’t remember.”

      “Remember what I told you,” Dad said.

      “I’m using both hands,” I said.

      “The other thing.”

      “I can’t tell Mom about the breathalyzer.”

      “That’s right,” Dad said. “It’s top secret. Remember that.” He took a long drink. It went down the wrong pipe, and he coughed. Beer ran down his chin and dripped onto his white t-shirt. “Fuck,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

      I stared at the ripples in the water and thought of how adults weren’t that different from kids at school, always spreading secrets and begging others not to tell. The day before, Mom talked with my aunt over the phone while she drove me to Dad’s house for the weekend. When she mentioned Dad, she called him “bastard,” “son-of-a-bitch” or “piece of shit,” but never his name. But when we pulled into his driveway, she turned to me, smiled, and said, “Promise you won’t repeat anything I told your auntie, okay?”

      The sky darkened to an inky blue. Stars appeared, and a plane with flashing red lights on its wings howled above us. Frogs croaked in the shadows and mosquitos buzzed around the streetlights. Dad finished his second beer, kicked it into the water, and reeled in his line. There was nothing on it except the hotdog chunk, which he plucked off the hook and dropped onto the grass.

      “Come on,” he said, walking to the cooler, “time to go.”

      I started to reel in my line, but then I felt a tug.

      “Dad,” I yelled. “I got a bite!”

      He turned and shouted, “Pull!”

      I did as I was told. The rod bent, and something splashed around, sending ripples through the water. I smelled Dad beside me, all beer and sweat. 

      “Reel it in,” he said. “Nice and easy. Don’t rush it.”

      The line jerked left, then right, then steadied and cut a V shape through the water. Finally, the fish broke the surface, flailing on the end of the line. Its eyes were black beads, and a long, spiky fin ran from the top of its head and down its back. Its body was flat and shaped like a bar of soap; its wet scales flashed under the streetlights. 

      “A bream,” Dad said, patting my shoulder. “Nice job.”

      “Are we gonna cook it for dinner?” I asked.

      “Hell no,” Dad said, “I wouldn’t eat a damn thing that came out of this water. Take it off the hook and throw it back.”

I reached for the bream, but it struggled and flapped its tail, flicking water everywhere. I jerked my hand away and turned to Dad, but he was already crouched over the cooler with his back to me. The bream stopped moving. I took a breath and grabbed it, but it thrashed again, and something sharp dug into my middle finger. I screamed and dropped the rod.

      “Dad!” I cried, running over to him, “I’m hurt! I’m hurt!”

      “Calm down,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

      “The fish,” I sobbed. “I think I’m bleeding, I’m—”

      “I fucking told you to—” he paused as more voices drifted over the fence. He put his hands on my shoulders, lowered his voice, and said, “What happened?”

      I took deep breaths, sniffled, and said, “I tried to grab the bream, and it hurt me.”

      Dad grabbed my hand and held it up to the streetlight. I stifled a sob when I saw the thin line of blood that ran down my finger and into my palm.

      “You got pricked by one of the spines along its back fin, that’s all,” he said. “We’ll clean and bandage your finger when we get home, and you’ll be good as new.” Then, in a softer voice I hadn’t heard before or since, he added, “I promise.”

      He put the beer can in my hand, and the cold metal numbed the pain. He crouched next to the fish, wrapped his fingers around its belly, and pressed its top fin down with his thumb, holding it like a cell phone. He pulled the hook out of its mouth and carried it to the pond.

      “Wait,” I said, swiping away my tears, “can I try again?”

      Dad nodded at the can. “I’ll trade you.”

      I swapped the beer for the bream and held it just like Dad did, my fingers around its belly, my thumb pressed against its back fin. I crouched by the edge of the pond and let it go. I stood up and watched the ripples the bream left behind. Frogs croaked, streetlights buzzed, and the voices and smoke kept rising over the fence.

      “Let’s go home,” Dad said at last.

      We shoved everything into the trunk and climbed into the car. Dad jammed the can into the cup holder and fumbled with his keys. I took the breathalyzer out of the holster.

      Out. In. Out again. 

      The green light flashed. The engine started. Music blared from the speakers. Dad pulled off the curb, and the entire car shook. The rods rattled, and beer spilled down the side of the can. I bounced up and down in my seat. Dad made a U-turn, and we headed home. 

      How’s your finger?” Dad asked.

      “It still hurts. But it’ll be okay, just like you said.”

      Dad passed me the can and said, “Drink.”

      “But—”

      “You earned it,” he said. “Just don’t tell your mom.”

      I took a drink and scrunched up my face. “It tastes like wet bread!”

      “I don’t drink for the taste,” Dad said.

      “Then why do you drink?”

      He was quiet for a long time, then said, “I guess it’s for the same reason we throw fish back. Sometimes it feels good to be let off the hook.”

      I held the can carefully with both hands and noticed my blood streaked across the side. My face and fingers tingled, and I took another sip. I hiccuped and started to laugh. Dad started laughing too.