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The Lone Fisherman

 1.0 – The Overtime call.

Thunderstruck, from AC/DC’s 1990 album The Razors Edge plays as he stirs from hibernation.  Intuitively reaches for his phone to silence the alarm, careful not to rattle awake his sleeping wife.  The budding clock barely displaying 3 A.M., chimes the ringtone on his cell phone, designated exclusively for his employers emergency calls.                                      Partly attentive she anticipates he will faintly kiss her on the cheek, petitioning her to “have a good day”, amidst discreetly departing the room.  Just as she calculated from the countless years of empirical evidence acquired by observation, his performance replicated her forecast.  He then blindly nabs his previously arranged clothes and quietly closes the door behind him.   Dolefully lying awake, she can hear him charging around the kitchen, dumping the ice tray into his meticulously organized Igloo Playmate drop top cooler.  Equipped with a custom home-made shelf that sat on top, apart from the ice and water bottles, occupies everything he may need to nurse him throughout the duration of his day.  Finalized by the clicking of the containers latching lid, safely securing it for transportation.                                                                                                                                             Within earshot she can make out the clanging of springs from the automatic garage door opening, followed by the thud as it quickly rebounded and restored itself to its initial docking.  Without omission came the instantaneous rumble of the full-sized, 8 cylinder pickup truck shaking the living room windows.  Exempting the customary vehicle warm-up, he hastily dislodges the gear shift from park into the hesitantly receptive drive position, and hurriedly stomps on the gas pedal.   Being reluctant, the old, hunter green Dodge truck proceeds to pioneer down the road, with the roar of the engine diminishing as they journeyed out of sight, down Meadow Road.

1.1 – The Family Manager

“It’s time to get up.” She casually whispers, as she sneaks a peek into his darkened room, only slightly illuminated by the standby LED lights on his custom built gaming computer, standing upright in the corner.  He detectably rouses just enough to murmur, “mm hmm” then returns back to a profound sleep.  “Bird! I’m not kidding, you’re gonna miss the bus and I’m not driving you this morning” she now yells from the kitchen while pressing the on switch on the back of the Keurig coffee maker.  The youngest of four boys embarks on his journey to the bathroom, mumbling some gibberish under his breath, portraying as if it’s his mother’s fault that the bus route, and the townships high school schedule impede on his much needed rest, undoubtedly after pecking away at his keyboard into the wee hours of morning.  “Chocolate milk and vitamin are on the counter” she discloses as she pushes up on tip-toes to place a kiss on his cheek before retiring back to her room to get ready for work.  The clanging of the garage door openers spring sounds for the second time this morning, however this time is not pursued by the thud of the door closing.  After the families manager vacates the home, pressing the garage door closer for the last time this morning, the house falls peacefully inaudible once again.

 1.2 – The “Fog” rolls out in the “Nick” of time

At the brink of noon, the elder to the previously acquainted son awakens from his slumber.  With a strategically planned out itinerary consisting of afternoon college courses and evening table tending at a favored local restaurant, he exercises a seemingly effortless existence.  Meandering about in the evidently tranquil ambiance, he still conjures up a way to start his morning with a sundry of anxieties and apprehensions.  Bringing to pass a game plan to his day, he is able to settle down into a rhythmic cadence.  Awaiting the presentation of the Windows Login Screen, he is abruptly hindered.  “Hey Fog, don’t forget to pick Bird up from school and bring him to scouts, thanks rude dawg” he is snappishly reminded through a text message from his Dad.  “Shit” he snarls as he springs up from his computer chair searching for his shoes.  After realizing he has dawdled away two not-so-studious hours, he proficiently slips on the classic black, worn bottom Converse low-tops and hurriedly runs out of the house.  In the intervening time, as he is running out of the garage he hears his older brother calmly utter “you can leave the door bro.”  His brother Nick who is standing on the side yard, adjacent to where his father’s Dodge pick-up had departed early that morning, was taking the final drag of the Camel Turkish Gold that lazily drooped out of his mouth.  As he went to extinguish the slowly smoldering butt, into the freshly emptied craft brewery beer can that posed on the hood of his car, he gazed leisurely at his younger brother carefully directing his car away from the curb, dispassionately waving as he headed down Meadow Road and out of sight.

To Be Continued….

 

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