'Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America' by Richard Brautigan


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ROOM 208, HOTEL

TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA




Half a block from Broadway and Columbus is Hotel Trout

Fishing in America, a cheap hotel. It is very old and run by

some Chinese. They are young and ambitious Chinese and

the lobby is filled with the smell of Lysol.

The Lysol sits like another guest on the stuffed furniture

reading a copy of the Chronicle, the Sports Section. It is the

only furniture I have ever seen in my life that looks like baby

food.

And the Lysol sits asleep next to an old Italian pensioner

who listens to the heavy ticking of the clock and dreams of

eternity's golden pasta, sweet basil and Jesus Christ.

The Chinese are always doing something to the hotel. One

week they paint a lower banister and the next week they put

some new wallpaper on part of the third floor.

No matter how many times you pass that part of the third

floor, you cannot remember the color of the wallpaper or

what the design is. All you know is that part of the wallpaper

is new. It is different from the old wallpaper. But you can-

not remember what that looks like either.

One day the Chinese take a bed out of a room and lean it

up against the wall. It stays there for a month. You get used

to seeing it and then you go by one day and it is gone. You

wonder where it went.

I remember the first time I went inside Hotel Trout Fish-

ing in America. It was with a friend to meet some people.

"I'11 tell you what's happening, " he said. "She's an ex-

hustler who works for the telephone company. He went to

medical school for a while during the Great Depression and

then he went into show business. After that, he was an errand

boy for an abortion mill in Los Angeles. He took a fall and

did some time in San Quentin.

"I think you'll like them. They're good people.

"He met her a couple of years ago in North Beach. She

was hustling for a spade pimp. It's kind of weird. Most

women have the temperament to be a whore, but she's one

of these rare women who just don't have it--the whore tem-

perament. She's Negro, too.

"She was a teenage girl living on a farm in Oklahoma. The

pimp drove by one afternoon and saw her playing in the front

yard. He stopped his car and got out and talked to her father

for a while.

"I guess he gave her father some money. He came up

with something good because her father told her to go and

get her things. So she went with the pimp. Simple as that.

"He took her to San Francisco and turned her out and she

hated it. He kept her in line by terrorizing her all the time.

He was a real sweetheart.

"She had some brains, so he got her a job with the tele-

phone company during the day, and he had her hustling at

night.

"When Art took her away from him, he got pretty mad. A

good thing and all that. He used to break into Art's hotel

room in the middle of the night and put a switchblade to Art's

throat and rant and rave. Art kept putting bigger and bigger

locks on the door, but the pimp just kept breaking in--a huge

fellow.

"So Art went out and got a .32 pistol, and the next time

the pimp broke in, Art pulled the gun out from underneath

the covers and jammed it into the pimp's mouth and said,

'You'll be out of luck the next time you come through that

door, Jack.' This broke the pimp up. He never went back.

The pimp certainly lost a good thing.

"He ran up a couple thousand dollars worth of bills in her

name, charge accounts and the like. They're still paying

them off.

"The pistol's right there beside the bed, just in case the

pimp has an attack of amnesia and wants to have his shoes

shined in a funeral parlor.

"When we go up there, he'll drink the wine. She won't.

She'Il'have a little bottle of brandy. She won't offer us any

of it. She drinks about four of them a day. Never buys a fifth.

She always keeps going out and getting another half-pint.

"That's the way she handles it. She doesn't talk very much,

and she doesn't make any bad scenes. A good-looking woman, r

My friend knocked on the door and we could hear some-

body get up off the bed and come to the door.

"Who's there?" said a man on the other side.

"Me," my friend said, in a voice deep and recognizable

as any name.

"I'11 open the door. " A simple declarative sentence. He

undid about a hundred locks, bolts and chains and anchors

and steel spikes and canes filled with acid, and then the

door opened like the classroom of a great university and

everything was in its proper place: the gun beside the bed

and a small bottle of brandy beside an attractive Negro woman,

There were many flowers and plants growing in the room,

some of them were on the dresser, surrounded by old photo-

graphs. All of the photographs were of white people, includ-

ing Art when he was young and handsome and looked just like

the 1930s.

There were pictures of animals cut out of magazines and

tacked to the wall, with crayola frames drawn around them

and crayola picture wires drawn holding them to the wall.

They were pictures of kittens and puppies. They looked just

fine .

There was a bowl of goldfish next to the bed, next to the

gun. How religious and intimate the goldfish and the gun

looked together.

They had a cat named 208. They covered the bathroom

floor with newspaper and the cat crapped on the newspaper.

My friend said that 208 thought he was the only cat left in the

world, not having seen another cat since he was a tiny kitten.

They never let him out of the room. He was a red cat and

very aggressive. When you played with that cat, he really

bit you. Stroke 208's fur and he'd try to disembowel your

hand as if it were a belly stuffed full of extra soft intestines.

We sat there and drank and talked about books. Art had

owned a lot of books in Los Angeles, but they were all gone

now. He told us that he used to spend his spare time in sec-

ondhand bookstores buying old and unusual books when he

was in show business, traveling from city to city across

America. Some of them were very rare autographed books,

he told us, but he had bought them for very little and was

forced to sell them for very little.

They'd be worth a lot of money now, " he said.

The Negro woman sat there very quietly studying her

brandy. A couple of times she said yes, in a sort of nice

way. She used the word yes to its best advantage, when sur-

rounded by no meaning and left alone from other words.

They did their own cooking in the room and had a single

hot plate sitting on the floor, next to half a dozen plants, in-

cluding a peach tree growing in a coffee can. Their closet

was stuffed with food. Along with shirts, suits and dresses,

were canned goods, eggs and cooking oil.

My friend told me that she was a very fine cook. That

she could really cook up a good meal, fancy dishes, too, on

that single hot plate, next to the peach tree.

They had a good world going for them. He had such a soft

voice and manner that he worked as a private nurse for rich

mental patients. He made good money when he worked, but

sometimes he was sick himself. He was kind of run down.

She was still working for the telephone company, but she

wasn't doing that night work any more.

They were still paying off the bills that pimp had run up.

I mean, years had passed and they were still paying them

off: a Cadillac and a hi-fi set and expensive clothes and all

those things that Negro pimps do love to have.

Z went back there half a dozen times after that first meet-

ing. An interesting thing happened. I pretended that the cat,

208, was named after their room number, though I knew that

their number was in the three hundreds. The room was on

the third floor. It was that simple.

I always went to their room following the geography of

Hotel Trout Fishing in America, rather than its numerical

layout. I never knew what the exact number of their room

was. I knew secretly it was in the three hundreds and that

was all.

Anyway, it was easier for me to establish order in my

mind by pretending that the cat was named after their room

number. It seemed like a good idea and the logical reason

for a cat to have the name 208. It, of course, was not true.

It was a fib. The cat's name was 208 and the room number

was in the three hundreds.

Where did the name 208 come from? What did it mean? I

thought about it for a while, hiding it from the rest of my

mind. But I didn't ruin my birthday by secretly thinking about

it too hard.

A year later I found out the true significance of 208's

name, purely by accident. My telephone rang one Saturday

morning when the sun was shining on the hills. It was a

close friend of mine and he said, "I'm in the slammer. Come

and get me out. They're burning black candles around the

drunk tank. "

I went down to the Hall of Justice to bail my friend out,

and discovered that 208 is the room number of the bail office,

It was very simple. I paid ten dollars for my friend's life

and found the original meaning of 208, how it runs like melt-

ing snow all the way down the mountainside to a small cat

living and playing in Hotel Trout Fishing in America, believ-

ing itself to be the last cat in the world, not having seen

another cat in such a long time, totally unafraid, newspaper

spread out all over the bathroom floor, and something good

cooking on the hot plate.









THE SURGEON





I watched my day begin on Little Redfish Lake as clearly as

the first light of dawn or the first ray of the sunrise, though

the dawn and the sunrise had long since passed and it was

now late in the morning.

The surgeon took a knife from the sheath at his belt and

cut the throat of the chub with a very gentle motion, showing

poetically how sharp the knife was, and then he heaved the

fish back out into the lake.

The chub made an awkward dead splash and obeyed allthe

traffic laws of this world SCHOOL ZONE SPEED 25 MILES

and sank to the cold bottom of the lake. It lay there white

belly up like a school bus covered with snow. A trout swam

over and took a look, just putting in time, and swam away.

The surgeon and I were talking about the AMA. I don't

know how in the hell we got on the thing, but we were on it.

Then he wiped the knife off and put it back in the sheath. I

actually don't know how we got on the AMA.

The surgeon said that he had spent twenty-five years be-

coming a doctor. His studies had been interrupted by the

Depression and two wars. He told me that he would give up

the practice of medicine if it became socialized in America.

"I've never turned away a patient in my life, and I've

never known another doctor who has. Last year I wrote off

six thousand dollars worth of bad debts, " he said.

I was going to say that a sick person should never under

any conditions be abad debt, but I decided to forget it. Noth-

ing was going to be proved or changed on the shores of Little

Redfish Lake, and as that chub had discovered, it was not a

good place to have cosmetic surgery done.

"I worked three years ago for a union in Southern Utah

that had a health plan, " the surgeon said. "I would not care

to practice medicine under such conditions. The patients

think they own you and your time. They think you're their

own personal garbage can.

"I'd be home eating dinner and the telephone would ring,

'Help ! Doctor ! I'm dying! It's my stomach ! I've got horrible

pains !' I would get up from my dinner and rush over there.

"The guy would meet me at the door with a can of beer in

his hand. 'Hi, dec, come on in. I'11 get you a beer. I'm

watching TV. The pain is all gone. Great, huh? I feel like a

million. Sit down. I'11 get you a beer, dec. The Ed Sullivan

Show's on.'

"No thank you, " the surgeon said. "I wouldn't care to

practice medicine under such conditions. No thank you. No

thanks .

"I like to hunt and I like to fish, " he said. "That's why I

moved to Twin Falls. I'd heard so much about Idaho hunting

and fishing. I've been very disappointed. I've given up my

practice, sold my home in Twin, and now I'm looking for a

new place to settle down.

"I've written to Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexi-

co, Arizona, California, Nevada, Oregon and Washington for

their hunting and fishing regulations, and I'm studying them

all, " he said.

"I've got enough money to travel around for six months,

looking for a place to settle down where the hunting and fish-

ing is good. I'11 get twelve hundred dollars back in income

tax returns by not working any more this year. That's two

hundred a month for not working. I don't understand this

country, " he said.

The surgeon's wife and children were in a trailer nearby.

The trailer had come in the night before, pulled by a brand-

new Rambler station wagon. He had two children, a boy two-

and-a-half years old and the other, an infant born premature-

ly, but now almost up to normal weight.

The surgeon told me that they'd come over from camping

on Big Lost River where he had caught a fourteen-inch brook

trout. He was young looking, though he did not have much

hair on his head.

I talked to the surgeon for a little while longer and said

good-bye. We were leaving in the afternoon for Lake Josephus

located at the edge of the Idaho Wilderness, and he was leav-

ing for America, often only a place in the mind.









A NOTE ON THE CAMPING



CRAZE THAT IS CURRENTLY



SWEEPING AMERICA




As much as anything else, the Coleman lantern is the sym-

bol of the camping craze that is currently sweeping America,

with its unholy white light burning in the forests of America.

Last summer, a Mr. Norris was drinking at a bar in San

Francisco. It was Sunday night and he'd had six or seven.

Turning to the guy on the next stool, he said, "What are you

up to?"

"Just having a few, " the guy said.

"That's what I'm doing, " Mr. Norris said. "I like it. "

"I know what you mean, " the guy said. "I had to lay off

for a couple years. I'm just starting up again. "

"What was wrong?" Mr. Norris said.

"I had a hole in my liver, " the guy said.

"In your liver?"

"Yeah, the doctor said it was big enough to wave a flag

in. It's better now. I can have a couple once in a while. I'm

not supposed to, but it won't kill me. "

"Well, I'm thirty-two years old, " Mr. Norris said. "I've

had three wives and I can't remember the names of my child-

ren. "

The guy on the next stool, like a bird on the next island,

took a sip from his Scotch and soda. The guy liked the sound

of the alcohol in his drink. He put the glass back on the bar.

"That's no problem, " he said to Mr. Norris. "The best

thing I know for remembering the names of children from

previous marriages, is to go out camping, try a little trout

fishing. Trout fishing is one of the best things in the world

for remembering children's names."

"Is that right?" Mr. Norris said.

"Yeah, " the guy said.

"That sounds like an idea, " Mr. Norris said. "I've got to

do something. Sometimes I think one of them is named Carl,

but that's impossible. My third-ex hated the name Carl. "

"You try some camping and that trout fishing, " the guy

on the next stool said. "And you'll remember the names of

Your unborn children. "

"Carl! Carl! Your mother wants you!" Mr. Norris yelled

as a kind of joke, then he realized that it wasn't very funny.

He was getting there.

He'd have a couple more and then his head would always

fall forward and hit the bar like a gunshot. He'd always miss

his glass, so he wouldn't cut his face. His head would always

jump up and look startled around the bar, people staring at

it. He'd get up then, and take it home.

The next morning Mr. Norris went down to a sporting

goods store and charged his equipment. He charged a 9 x 9

foot dry finish tent with an aluminum center pole. Then he

charged an Arctic sleeping bag filled with eiderdown and an

air mattress and an air pillow to go with the sleeping bag.

He also charged an air alarm clock to go along with the idea

of night and waking in the morning.

He charged a two-burner Coleman stove and a Coleman

lantern and a folding aluminum table and a big set of inter-

locking aluminum cookware and a portable ice box.

The last things he charged were his fishing tackle and a

bottle of insect repellent.

He left the next day for the mountains.

Hours later, when he arrived in the mountains, the first

sixteen campgrounds he stopped at were filled with people.

He was a little surprised. He had no idea the mountains

would be so crowded.

At the seventeenth campground, a man had just died of a

heart attack and the ambulance attendants were taking down

his tent. They lowered the center pole and then pulled up the

corner stakes. They folded the tent neatly and put it in the

back of the ambulance, right beside the man's body.

They drove off down the road, leaving behind them in the

air, a cloud of brilliant white dust. The dust looked like the

light from a Coleman lantern.

Mr. Norris pitched his tent right there and set up all his

equipment and soon had it all going at once. After he finished

eating a dehydrated beef Stroganoff dinner, he turned off all

his equipment with the master air switch and went to sleep,

for it was now dark.

It was about midnight when they brought the body and

placed it beside the tent, less than a foot away from where

Mr. Norris was sleeping in his Arctic sleeping bag.

He was awakened when they brought the body. They weren't

exactly the quietest body bringers in the world. Mr. Norris

could see the bulge of the body against the side of the tent.

The only thing that separated him from the dead body was a

thin layer of 6 oz. water resistant and mildew resistant DRY

FINISH green AMERIFLEX poplin.

Mr. Norris un-zipped his sleeping bag and went outside

with a gigantic hound-like flashlight. He saw the body bring-

ers walking down the path toward the creek.

"Hey, you guys !" Mr. Norris shouted. "Come back here.

You forgot something. "

"What do you mean?" one of them said. They both looked

very sheepish, caught in the teeth of the flashlight.

"You know what I mean," Mr. Norris said. "Right now!"

The body bringers shrugged their shoulders, looked at

each other and then reluctantly went back, dragging their

feet like children all the way. They picked up the body. It

was heavy and one of them had trouble getting hold of the feet.

That one said, kind of hopelessly to Mr. Norris, "You

won't change your mind?"

"Goodnight and good-bye, " Mr. Norris said.

They went off down the path toward the creek, carrying

the body between them. Mr. Norris turned his flashlight off

and he could hear them, stumbling over the rocks along the

bank of the creek. He could hear them swearing at each other.

He heard one of them say, "Hold your end up.'' Then he

couldn't hear anything.

About ten minutes later he saw all sorts of lights go on at

another campsite down along the creek. He heard a distant

voice shouting, "The answer is no ! You already woke up the

kids. They have to have their rest. We're going on a four-

mile hike tomorrow up to Fish Konk Lake. Try someplace

else. "









Editor 1 Interpretation

Trout Fishing in America: Part 7

Introduction

Richard Brautigan's Trout Fishing in America is a collection of stories that explores the themes of nature, humanity, and the American Dream. The seventh part of the book, titled "Trout Fishing on the Bevel," is a short story that tells the tale of the narrator and his friend, who embark on a fishing trip to the Bevel, a river that is said to be "one of the best trout streams in America."

In this literary criticism and interpretation, I will analyze the themes, symbols, and motifs that Brautigan uses in this story to present his message. I will also explore the narrative structure and the characterization of the narrator and his friend.

Narrative Structure

The story is narrated in the first person by an unnamed protagonist who is accompanied by his friend, also unnamed. The narrative structure is simple and linear, with a chronological sequence of events that describes the fishing trip. The story is divided into thirteen short paragraphs, each one detailing a particular episode or event during the trip.

The narrative structure is used effectively to create a sense of anticipation and suspense. The narrator builds up the excitement of the trip by describing the Bevel as "one of the best trout streams in America," and by recounting the stories of previous fishing trips that he had taken with his friend. The reader is made to feel as if they are on the trip with the narrator and his friend, sharing in their excitement and anticipation.

Themes

One of the central themes of "Trout Fishing on the Bevel" is the relationship between humans and nature. Brautigan portrays nature as a powerful force that is both beautiful and dangerous. The Bevel is described as a "wild and dangerous" river that is capable of taking lives. The narrator and his friend are aware of the risks involved in fishing on the Bevel, but they are also drawn to the beauty of the river and the thrill of catching trout.

Another theme that is explored in the story is the American Dream. The narrator and his friend are both struggling artists who dream of making it big in the world of literature and art. They see the fishing trip as a way to escape the drudgery of their daily lives and to pursue their dreams of success and fame. However, the story suggests that the American Dream may be an illusion, as the narrator and his friend are never able to catch a single trout during their trip.

Symbols and Motifs

Brautigan uses several symbols and motifs in the story to convey his message. One of the most prominent symbols is the trout itself, which represents both the beauty and the elusiveness of nature. The trout is described as a "jewel" that is highly sought after by fishermen, but that is also difficult to catch. The fact that the narrator and his friend are unable to catch a single trout suggests that nature is not easily conquered by humans.

Another important symbol is the fishing gear that the narrator and his friend use. The fishing gear represents the tools that humans use to try and control nature. However, the gear is ultimately useless in the face of the power and unpredictability of the Bevel.

The motif of death is also present in the story, as the narrator and his friend are constantly aware of the dangers of fishing on the Bevel. The river is described as a "killer" that has taken the lives of many fishermen. The motif of death serves to emphasize the power and unpredictability of nature, and to suggest that humans are ultimately powerless in the face of it.

Characterization

The characterization of the narrator and his friend is subtle but effective. The narrator is portrayed as a dreamer who is constantly searching for meaning and purpose in his life. He is drawn to nature and to the thrill of fishing on the Bevel, but he is also aware of the risks involved. His friend is portrayed as a more practical and pragmatic individual, who is focused on the task of catching trout. He is frustrated by their lack of success, and he becomes increasingly impatient and irritable as the trip goes on.

The dynamic between the two characters is interesting, as they both have different motivations for going on the trip. The narrator is seeking a spiritual connection with nature, while his friend is focused on catching trout. This contrast in motivations serves to highlight the different ways that humans relate to nature, and the different ways that they try to control it.

Conclusion

"Trout Fishing on the Bevel" is a powerful and moving story that explores the relationship between humans and nature, and the illusory nature of the American Dream. Brautigan uses vivid descriptions and powerful symbols to create a sense of awe and wonder, while also emphasizing the dangers and uncertainties of the natural world. The characterization of the narrator and his friend is subtle but effective, and serves to highlight the different ways that humans relate to nature. Overall, this story is a testament to Brautigan's skill as a writer, and to his ability to capture the essence of the human experience.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan is a classic story that explores the themes of identity, memory, and the relationship between humans and nature. In this 2000-word analysis, we will delve into the story's plot, characters, and symbolism to understand its deeper meaning.

The story begins with the narrator, who is on a fishing trip with his friend, Trout Fishing in America. They are fishing in a river that is so clear that they can see the trout swimming in it. The narrator is amazed by the beauty of the river and the fish, and he feels a deep connection to nature.

As they continue fishing, the narrator notices that Trout Fishing in America is not catching any fish. He asks him why, and Trout Fishing in America replies that he doesn't want to catch any fish because he doesn't want to disturb the river's ecosystem. This is a significant moment in the story because it shows the respect that Trout Fishing in America has for nature and his understanding of the delicate balance that exists in the natural world.

The narrator then tells Trout Fishing in America about a time when he was a child and went fishing with his father. He remembers catching a fish and feeling proud of himself, but his father told him that he had killed a living creature and that he should feel ashamed. This memory is significant because it shows the narrator's conflicted relationship with nature. On the one hand, he feels a deep connection to it, but on the other hand, he is aware of the harm that humans can cause to the environment.

The story then takes a surreal turn when the narrator sees a giant trout swimming in the river. He tries to catch it, but it eludes him. This is a symbolic moment in the story because the giant trout represents the narrator's desire to connect with nature on a deeper level. The fact that he cannot catch it shows that this connection is elusive and difficult to achieve.

The story then shifts to a scene where the narrator is in a hotel room with a woman. They are drinking and talking, and the woman tells him about a dream she had where she was a trout swimming in a river. This dream is significant because it shows the woman's desire to connect with nature and her identification with the trout. It also foreshadows the ending of the story, where the narrator becomes a trout himself.

The story then takes another surreal turn when the narrator sees a man walking down the street with a trout on a leash. This is a bizarre image that highlights the absurdity of human attempts to control and dominate nature. The fact that the man has a trout on a leash shows that he sees the fish as a pet or a possession rather than a living creature.

The story then returns to the river, where the narrator sees the giant trout again. This time, he catches it, but instead of feeling triumphant, he feels a sense of loss. This is because he realizes that he has killed a living creature and that he has disrupted the delicate balance of the river's ecosystem. This moment is significant because it shows the narrator's growth and development as a character. He has gone from feeling proud of catching a fish as a child to feeling remorseful for killing one as an adult.

The story then takes its final surreal turn when the narrator becomes a trout himself. This is a symbolic moment that represents the narrator's ultimate connection with nature. By becoming a trout, he has shed his human identity and merged with the natural world. This moment is significant because it shows that the narrator has finally achieved the connection with nature that he has been seeking throughout the story.

In conclusion, Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America is a classic story that explores the themes of identity, memory, and the relationship between humans and nature. Through its surreal imagery and symbolism, the story takes the reader on a journey of self-discovery and growth. The narrator's journey from feeling proud of catching a fish as a child to feeling remorseful for killing one as an adult is a powerful example of how our relationship with nature can evolve over time. Ultimately, the story's message is one of respect for the natural world and the importance of preserving its delicate balance.

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