Noodling, as recently made famous by the governor of Kentucky, is the practice of catching fish–specifically, flathead catfish–with your bare hands. It goes like this:
You stick your hand in a hole in the riverbank.
You let the catfish bite your hand.
You drag it out and hit it in the head.
Noodling is mildly illegal in many states, including (off-season) in Kentucky, because it’s stupid and dangerous. Sometimes it’s not a catfish in the hole–it’s a snapping turtle, or a water moccasin. Sometimes you lose a finger. Sometimes you drown.
Sometimes, one of us gets away.
Friday, December 16, 2005
“I’m being abducted,” says Nightjar, “by someone named Killington?”
“Mmm,” says Killington.
“That doesn’t bode terribly well,” she says.
“You don’t need to be afraid, little girl,” he says, grinning a knockaround grin. “Think of it this way: you’d be in more danger if I were my parents.”
“Oh?”
“They named me that.”
“Oh.”
Killington plays with cranks and sprockets, and the fire below the balloon turns from blue to white. They rise slowly to pass between two loops of road.
“My parents,” says Nightjar, stumbling a little, “named me Nightmare.”
“I know they did,” says Killington, and his smile disappears.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
“Two bikers will accompany each van,” says Smits, weary and urgent. “We’ll fire several blasts–”
The ground jumps; everyone whips around to the sweeping green radar line. “Scramble, Rebs,” says Smits. The men in orange jackets jog for the door.
“What if we got some tow cables from the vans, and–” Hamill looks eager.
“Not enough,” says Smits gently. “Every building in Providence used to be a church.”
Outside, Sayles Hall jerks up from the earth on long jointed legs. Granite shears. Its steeple bends, necklike; the crucifix swings for their hidden base and begins to crackle with power.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
The custom of stand right, walk left grew out of airport moving sidewalks, and when they built the first big intercity pedways it became an institution. They didn’t make a lane for runners. Especially those going the wrong way.
The peds who dodge and shout to either side of Helga whip by so fast it must be working. Just like Superman: backwards fast enough is back in time, too. Back to Greensboro. Back before.
Helga tracks her progress by the rings in the pedway tunnel: at least twenty feet so far. She’s sure she can make ten more by yesterday morning.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
What do I know about Virginia? Not her birthday; not her favorite color. I know she loves the earth and growing things, Catholicism and KET. She can cook. She plays Vice City.
I know her friends call her Jinny, and she married John, and their children are Joan, John, James, Jeff, Jerry, Jeanne and Jay. Tenth of eleven, mother of seven. When she calls to one of them it’s a vocal slot machine.
My godmother, my grandmother: I don’t know how, through eighty years, she’s sustained her sense of wonder. I don’t know if, without hers, I’d have found my own.
“But I’m the only one here,” says Miss New Hampshire.
“Not true,” says last year’s winner. “Miss Nevada–”
“–was shot with a blowgun and stuffed in the towel closet,” says Miss New Hampshire.
“Her thighs,” explains the bald judge.
“And aren’t we the little detective?” says the short judge nastily.
Miss New Hampshire decides not to ask why they’re in an Econolodge, anyway.
“Where were we?” asks the smiling judge. “Ah! The swimsuit portion…?”
Together, they tilt their heads a little to the left. Miss New Hampshire sighs and begins to disrobe, hoping that the Ace bandage effectively hides his thunder.
Thursday, December 8, 2005
“You don’t look like a dragon,” says Toynbee.
The pink thing coils and thrashes. “Leave China for Korea, lose a toe,” it snorts. “Farther and you lose your scales. This far–this ugly empty place–I’ve lost almost everything!”
Toynbee knows the dragon wants to be picked up. It’s covered in wet brown leaves; it has a pig’s nose. He keeps his hands in his pockets.
“You grant wishes?” he says.
“Of course,” it says quickly. “Many wishes. Dragon wishes!”
“You don’t,” sighs Toynbee.
“No,” says the dragon, “but FedEx me home and I’ll give you my next-to-last name.”
Wednesday, December 7, 2005
In the morning the doorman smiles (it’s not the best apartment complex, but it has a doorman) and calls her Beryl, and that’s who she is until she slides her card at the office and the reader recognizes GAINES, MERYL. She answers email to mary.gaines and signs off on expenses as MMmyyGOO, or something. She pays for lunch as 1222 0129 7269 4118.
“Hello, Beryl,” says the doorman again, just after dark. Hello MARYL ! say the TV Guide and Capital One.
“Hello, city,” she says through glass, as her breath fogs her cold apartment window.
Hello, lonely, says the city back.
Tuesday, December 6, 2005