Part 2 of Trout Fishing in America Analysis

Author: story of Richard Brautigan Type: story Views: 3

         TROUT FISHING ON THE BEVEL

The two graveyards were next to each other on small hills

and between them flowed Graveyard Creek, a slow-moving,

funeral-procession-on-a-hot-day creek with a lot of fine

trout in it.

  And the dead didn't mind me fishing there at all.

  One graveyard had tall fir trees growing in it, and the

grass was kept Peter Pan green all year round by pumping

water up from the creek, and the graveyard had fine marble

headstones and statues and tombs.

  The other graveyard was for the poor and it had no trees

and the grass turned a flat-tire brown in the summer and

stayed that way until the rain, like a mechanic, began in the

late autumn.

  There were no fancy headstones for the poor dead. Their

markers were small boards that looked like heels of stale bread:

                 Devoted Slob Father Of

          Beloved Worked-to-Death Mother Of

  On some of the graves were fruit jars and tin cans

with wilted flowers in them:

                            Sacred

                     To the Memory

                     of  John Talbot

           Who at the Age of Eighteen

  Had His Ass Shot Off  In a Honky-Tonk

                 November 1, 1936

                This Mayonnaise Jar

             With Wilted Flowers In It

Was Left Here Six Months Ago By His Sister

                          Who Is In

                The Crazy Place Now.

  Eventually the seasons would take care of their wooden

names like a sleepy short-order cook cracking eggs over a

grill next to a railroad station. Whereas the well-to-do

would have their names for a long time written on marble

hers d'oeuvres like horses trotting up the fancy paths to the sky.

  I fished Graveyard Creek in the dusk when the hatch was on

and worked some good trout out of there. Only the poverty of

the dead bothered me.

  Once, while cleaning the trout before I went home in the almost

night, I had a vision of going over to the poor graveyard and

gathering up grass and fruit jars and tin cans and markers and

wilted flowers and bugs and weeds and clods andgoing home

and putting a hook in the vise and tying a fly with all that stuff

and then going outside and casting it up into the sky, watching it

float over clouds and then into the evening star.

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