Short Story: The Royal Roachman

Barnum and/or Bailey would undoubtedly relinquish every penny of their cotton candy or corn-dog revenues to buy the rights to exhibit a man who has fingers just about the size of overstuffed summer sausages. And they’d pay more just to watch him wrap a fly at the vise…

Such, however, are the appendages of one Big Bill, the larger member of the Bullseye Bunch, Infallible. An organization consisting of just two men, worlds apart in some respects, but they almost lovingly tolerate one another’s aggravating antics. And indeed, they share considerable time together hunting or fishing or anything else even remotely tied to either pursuit.

Joe, leader and much smaller member of this fun-loving, two-man rank & file, constantly felt the need to steer Big Bill in a direction that may ultimately deem him a more respected, prolific “sportsman.” But good old, softhearted Joe may have carried this too far when, one evening, he decided to instruct Big Bill in the art of fly construction. Be that as it may, Little Joe loved Big Bill; they were best of friends, and so, Joe greatly enjoyed sharing his vast knowledge, which was rather restricted to the outdoor “sport.” Joe preferred to call hunting and fishing, “challenges.”

Joe felt, after diving headlong into the task of teaching Big Bill fly tying, he might have been better off teaching Dick Butkus to crochet? Nonetheless, let the all-thumbs lessons begin…

“Billy me boy, you shall be introduced this evening to the fine and delicate art and science of intricate fly construction which, your leader feels certain, will tug at your rapt heart for countless years to come.”

“Why,” asked Bill, “construct the pesky little things when I can catch all I need on that super-sticky paper a feller can buy?”

Joe Quickly learned at that moment, just what he might be in for this time! “Billy, ol’ pal-o-mine, I do not refer here, to the common, maggot-bearing house fly, so please open wide, the gates of your childish mind and listen intently to the Master of Puritan fly-fishing ways. You will soon there after, have learned an art and science which will become pleasant, yet often frustrating, addiction which has its just rewards. You will learn to create your own feathered versions of the things trout most love to molest or disdain and although often the later, when the former is done to near perfection the joy is boundless, overwhelmingly satisfying in fact!

You will first become somewhat of an amateur entomologist, them I shall teach you to be an expert tier of flies. And ultimately, my chubby friend with fingers like kielbasa, you will become a respected fly fisherman among your peers. Trust my judgement, Willy, when I say you will adore, wholly, the whole package, my fat, worm-slinging friend. And indeed, you will more adore, your beloved leader for introducing you to the vise and materials of the fly tier. I’ve little doubt, if in fact we are able to entice your banana-like fingers to function in such an intricate, delicate way? Now if you would, please sit there, Billy, and shut up as I engage my talents at the vise and please, don’t interrupt me, but do learn, if you can?

“What’s that enema-ology, short stuff?”

“Not enema-ology, Bill! Entomology! It’s the study of insects, actually. You first learn some of the insects trout favor most, match them by tying flies that closely resemble them in size, shape and color and, bingo! Take the flies to yonder stream and fish them for the ever-elusive trout. I believe behavior of the fly is most important of all, Billy, then size, shape and color, but I try hard to get it all just right. There’s a lot of trial and error, but the rewards of tossing a fly line adorned with your own creation is wonderfully satisfying. It’s, to my mind, the only way to angle, big buddy!”

Big Bill smiles broadly, saying, “I have a head start, Joe! Why I studied insects all the time when I was a kid. Shoot, I musta squashed a trillion of ‘em in my hands. Then I’d just sit there for hours hours an’ hours starin’ at their tweeny-weeny guts! Shoot, there was some days I’d go home lookin’ like a surgeon who’d just performed a triple bypass! Hands bloodier than a butcher’s! I know bugs, little buddy, b’lieve you me! Why, I studied bug guts til I finally graduated school, you know, the fifth grade? Heck, I had years of learnin’ ’bout enema-ology, Joe. It’s what I did in class to pass time.”

“Ento, Bill! Not enema, please! Okay, big guy, you know bugs, now please sit there now and be quiet while your furtive, artistic leader shows you how to tie one that’s sure to catch trout come spring.”

“What’s furtive, Joe?”

“Never mind, Bill, just watch!”

Joe wrapped a fair-looking Adams on a size 14 hook, speaking to Bill as he tied. “Billy, this here fly is what a fellow might use to do what they call, search the water. Some anglers of the fly call it a prospector of sorts. This little gem of a bug, originally a caddis imitation, by the way, helps the fly fisherman in determining just what the trout may have an interest in on a particular day. Gives ‘im some idea of what he should be using at the end of his tippet. Know what a tippet is, Jumbo?”

Big Bill had fallen asleep and most likely, not due to his acute interest. Poor Bill looked bored to death, his rosy face, expressionless. “Wake up Moby Dick! You ain’t sleepin’ in my class! Just look at this luscious creation I’ve made with just a smidgen of thread and feathers!”

Bill opened his eyes, looked at Joe’s delicious looking Adams fly and said, “Looks like somethin’ that’d eat a hole in a good wool sweater, to me, Joseph!”

“Bill, this is what we of the purist fraternity refer to as an Adams. Kind of generic pattern sometimes angled as a mayfly imitation, when in reality it was originally designed by a Len Halladay of Michigan, to be a caddis imitation. Regardless, it catches trout when some flies won’t and it’s a must for the flyfisher’s fly box. Now, sit here behind the vise and ol’ Joseph here’ll show ya how to wrap your own.” Joe looked at Big Bill’s shaking fingers and whispered to himself, “What with fingers the size of pepperoni sticks, old Billy here would have a tough time with the dexterity needed to change a truck tire, let alone what he’ll need to tie even a half-respectable fly…”

Joe got Bill all set up with the proper materials and enough instruction to keep him occupied a while then said, “Just sit there, Billy, try to relax yourself, take your time and try to copy the fly I’ve tied. I’ll head on upstairs and warm us some of my potent cider.”

“Okay little buddy, but heavy on the cinnamon, will ya, please?”

“Gotchya Porky, be back in a jif.”

Poor sausage-fingered Bill. The sweat ran off his forehead like heavy rain off a dormer, as he labored over his “creation” in the vise. Upstairs, Joe could hear his beloved buddy singing, “…feathers and things and buttons and bows, for what you’re gonna catch only the enema man knows!” Joe smiled with personal satisfaction. Thinking, what a guy this Big Bill was…

After about ten-minutes of Joe at the cider kettle and Big Bill at the tying vise, Joe returned to the basement. “Here ya go, Tons-Of-Fun! Ye old spiced cider from the magic, black kettle of Little-Joe-Heavy-on-the Cinnamon! Let us toast to your…Bill!” Joe’s eyes bulged from their sockets like mini hot-air balloons, “What in the world is that humongous atrocity in my vise?”

“That there Little Buddy is Big Bill’s first trout fly! Nice hain’t it?”

“Fly? Why Bill! Your first fly? That thing looks more like a pregnant ostrich for heaven’s sake. Why that’d put a great white shark to swimming the opposite direction! Move over, let’s lift that thing outta there and try to salvage a few pounds of my tying material!”

“I wouldn’t move it yet, Joseph, hain’t dry yet!”

“Bill, don’t be worryin’ about dry, why it’d take a week for all that head cement to dry! Sooner we get it out of there, the easier it’ll be to save some of the materials!”

Joe began taking THE FLY from the vise. “Here now, little buddy, don’t be a liftin’ that beauty all by yourself! Let big ol’ Billy here grab the other end.”

Joe strained, careful not to aggravate an old hernia. “Just toss it over there in the corner, Bill, where no one’ll trip over it! Ready? On three! One, two, heave!” THE FLY landed in the corner with a thud. Joe looked at it in amazement and began shaking his head back and forth. “Man Bill! Why someone sees that thing they’ll think we scarfed up a road kill!”

“Geezooey, Little Buddy,” Bill said looking down at the huge fly, “it is a big’un, hain’t it? Kinda looks like our national bird a little, huh?” Bill laughed in that lovable, childish way of his, which always seemed to soften Joe’s heart and make him forget his anger with Bill.

“Ha,” Bill said, smiling at THE FLY, “If’n ol’ Billy here tossed that thing in th’ water, we’d limit out in no time! Daggone trout’d die of conclusion! Probably illegal though, huh, Joe?”

“Not conclusion, Bill – concussion, and nevermind illegal, Bill. Let’s just dismantle it and try to save some of those materials! C’mon now, help me drag it over there under the big light.”

Big Bill began laughing as the two struggled with THE MONSTER FLY. “Why don’t we just hollow the rascal out, Joe, and use it for a stylish fishin’ boat!” He laughed uproariously, dropping his end of THE FLY. And Joe? He couldn’t help but laugh along with Bill to the point where he weakened and fell to the basement floor… the purest evidence of how he really felt about his buddy, Bill.

Needless to say, Joe ended Bill’s flytying lessons that evening, but promised to supply Bill with flies “henceforth.” And come spring, Joe would hold to his promise, and teach Big Bill in the ways of the flyfisherman.

Ten-Mile Creek cut a watery trail through the picturesque mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania and was fed by numerous, small, springlike streams that trickled off the lush mountains, offering good oxygenated water and unlimited trout-fishing opportunities. Good water for the beginner, as it was wide enough to allow for the backcast and shallow enough in most sections to be easy to wade. Most pocket water was easily accessible and this was where Joe planned to “train” Big Bill.

“Bill, it’ll be the pristine, meandering Ten-Mile we fish opening day. The perfect stream for your debut as a Purist of the fattest kind!”

Bill innocently asked, “Who’s this Pristine-gal, she allow us to fish her crick?”

“Yeah, Bill, I got her permission…”

Bill cut Joe short. “I am read-deee, Partner. I have spent considerable bucks from my alooneyum cans I took t’th’ recyclin’ place, and, according to my wife, I’ve made some several dozen trips to ye’ old flyshop. And, Joseefus, I have made purchases that’ll make you proud, and your brotherly love for fat ol’ Billy will only broaden. Joe, just wait until you cast your eyes upon Billy-boy’s flyfishin’ gear, ol’ buddy!”

“Proud, Billy? Ya’ mean like I was with your first fly? The remains of which still take up considerable cubic footage of my basement? Pleeeze, Bill, don’t embarrass me with the brethren of flyfishers on opening day! Try to be a little conservative and civilized in this new endeavor, please! Don’t be doing like you did on our first deer hunt together, when you wore so much fluorescent-orange I had to wear sunglasses around you before daylight!”

“Ta, ta, little brookie of B.B.I., settle yourself and trust in your student companion to bring your frail body and cold heart to the very threshold of pride on opening day! An enema man I may not be, but I will be the stylish one among the clan of flyfishermen for the opener!”

“Give ya this, Wil. Your English is improvin’, but please, not enema, entomology!”

Water was certain to be high and turbid for the opener, so Joe tied dozens of weighted wet flies, to include a few nymphs. This would allow the pair to get down, deep, where the trout would likely be feeding – where, in fact, they mostly feed anyway. Still, Joe worried about the effectiveness of flies for Day One. Too, the weather report called for, “Mostly cloudy skies, with periods of light rain and gusty winds, up to 30-mph.”

Joe switched off the radio. “Brother!” he said to himself, “a windy first day is gonna make things tough, especially for poor old Billy. Hard enough for a skilled flyfisher to buck the winds with a fly…” Joe forever held Bill’s best interests at heart and fervently wished for Bill’s first-day success with the fly rod.

Joe thought again, “Heaven knows, I love the big dipstick, but if he gets frustrated with wind knots and all, he’ll reduce his fly rod to mere high-tech chopsticks. Best I call a meeting of the ol’ B.B.I. tonight.”

Joe phoned Bill and the meeting was set for that night. Joe sat there seriously pondering the idea of teaching Big Bill to flyfish, of trying desperately to pound data into his ligneous-like head. To him, without old Bill along, his constant companion, outings would be at best phlegmatic and spiritless. Bill was a joy to spend time with anywhere, and Joe so often referred to Bill as his “Memory-Maker.” His partner, and a day spent without the company of Bill was just that – a day spent.

He’d always felt this strong responsibility for Bill, and, pain that he was sometimes, he nonetheless had a way about him that made Joe’s days afield (however fruitless) memorable days, worthwhile and wholesome. “I’m darned lucky to have the old poop,” Joe thought as he sat at his kitchen table.

Joe’s missus walked in, interrupting his thoughts: “Are you asleep, Joseph?”

“No, no! I was just sitting here thinking how fortunate I really am to have old Billy as a partner.”

“Yes, you are! And if it weren’t for bad luck, you’d have none! Now, why don’t you go to the sofa and take a little nap?”

“Okay,” Joe said, yawning, “but how’s about your thawing out some of those mincemeat cookies for tonight? There’s an emergency meeting of the B.B.I. tonight, and Big Bill always brings along a full appetite!”

“Best we hide the doggie treats right now, then!” said Joe’s missus. “He at a whole box the last time you turkeys had a ‘meeting’!”

The meeting convened and Big Bill was given hours of last-minute instructions for his flyfishing debut. Joe made Bill pronounce ‘entomology’ at least fifty times, praying all the while he wouldn’t say “enema-ology” in front of Joe’s friends, especially those who read his outdoor column week in and week out. “It’d blow my reputation to the wind,” he thought.

After the meeting, Bill began his rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. “Where in devil’s name ya’ hidin’ the doggie treats, these days, Joseefus?”

“Under the sink there, big guy, but go easy on ‘em, or you’ll spend the entire day in the Porta-Potty down at old Ten-Mile!” Joe laughs, and Bill joins in.

“Ha! Ya might be better off with me in the one-holer than on the crick!”

The morning of the opener dawned windy as radio promised. Bill, as usual, arrived two hours earlier than instructed. When Joe opened the door at his knocking, there stood Big Bill in the garb of the ultimate flyfisherman, looking as though he’d bought and was now wearing every item Orvis had in their warehouse!

“Mornin’, Billy! What is that stench?”

“Stench? What’s ‘stench’?” Bill questioned with that childish, puzzled look which always melted Joe’s “tough” heart.

“Okay, Bill, stink, s-t-i-n-k, stink! What is that stink?”

“Oh, that? Probably comin’ from where I burned this here vest in the back while tryin’ t’iron on the duct tape.”

“Duct tape? For what?”

“Well,” Bill said, “I hadda sew two vests together since the catalogs didn’t have ‘em in m’size, and not being much of a sewin’ man, I kinda had t’tidy it all up and cover the stitchin’ with duct tape. Daggone stuff don’t take much to ironin’, but aside from that, Little Buddy, how’s your ol’ pardner lookin’?”

“Fine, Bill, ya look just fine! I could probably put a down payment on the Hearst castle with less money than you musta spent on all that stuff! And how, may I ask, are you ever going to remove all those flies from your hat, even though I tied all we’ll ever need this season?”

“Like that arrangement, do ya? Why, there’s four or five dozen of them babies pinned in there. Got ‘em at the Dollar Department Store for ninety-nine cents on the dozen. Ol’ Billy here is a-ready as a Freddy and ‘um gonna knock ‘em dead today, Little Buddy!”

“Bill, the smell of that vest alone ought to knock ‘em dead! C’mon, let’s get rolling!”

At the stream: “Okay, Bill, listen up. I’ll be upstream from you just a’ways. Work those flies deep and strip line to prevent slack, so you’ll see or feel the strikes. Fish ‘em downstream and across like I taught ya and mend your line when it starts to belly on you, okay? And, Bill, pleeeeeze don’t be dropping that hat into the water or we’ll be arrested for chumming! Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it, Joe, except what do you mean ‘mend’? You can see by this vest I hain’t much of a mender!”

“Just fish, Bill, and good luck.”

Joe watched Big Bill at every opportunity. The wind was playing havoc with the leader and after just a couple of hours, and one morsel of a rainbow, Joe decided they’d better pack it in for the day.

“Hey, Billy! Let’s hang ‘er up, Big Buddy,” Joe said as he approached Bill’s position downstream. “This wind is a killer! How’d you do?”

Bill smiled that priceless smile of his and answered, “Shoot, Little Buddy, been done for nigh on fifteen minutes now. Got me eight ‘bows lickety split! How’s ’bout you?”

Joe said, “Just got one rainbow about the size of your little finger, Bill. That’s about it.” Joe’s eyes watered as he examined Bill’s leader, which had back-to-back knots from butt to tippet. “Bill, look at your leader, fer cryin’ out loud! How’d’ya ever limit out using that thing? Looks like some crazed Boy Scout went on a rampage trying to get his knot-tying merit badge!”

“Why, Joseefus, I had a fine instructor, did I not – get it, knot?”

“Yeah, Billy, I get it. Now I think we’d best head for the Coffee Palace and call it a mornin’, okay?”

As they sat sipping coffee, they reviewed the morning’s activities. “Ya know, Chubby line chucker, I’m right proud of you!” Joe said, patting Bill’s mountainous shoulder. “Why, a limit of trout first time flyrodding? That is great! Tell me, Billy, what pattern were you using all morning?”

“I think,” Bill said, removing his fly-filled hat and scratching his head, “it was a Royal Roachman, Joe. I h’ain’t real sure now, since the daggone fly is still in that last trout I landed. I’ll find it when I clean ‘em up later an’ let ya know.”

“Bill,” Joe said, giggling, “read my lips. Say, Royal Coachman.”

As the pair were ready to leave the Palace, Joe reached into his pocket and came to realize he’d forgotten his wallet. “Doggone it, Billy, I was gonna pick up the tab, but it appears I left my wallet at home. Got any cash with you?”

“Sure I do, Tiny Tightwad, sure do!” Bill reached into the depths of his sewn-together vests and pulled forth a handful of change. A rather muddied tin fell to the floor, which caused the lip to jar open. Out onto the linoleum floor spilled a huge gob of tangled, very juicy-looking and lively red worms! Joe, in total disbelief, eyed the red worms as though they were toxic waste, then looked sternly into Bill’s squinting, guilt-ridden blue eyes.

“Think it was a Royal Roachman, huh, Big Boy?”

Bill, near frantic from fear of being strongly reprimanded, said, “Listen, Joe. I lost ever’ fly you gave me, in that big old tree behind me this mornin’, and I couldn’t free the ones stuck in m’hat. Why, that wind was horrendous, and I couldn’t get my flyline to do anything right! I just hadta use the worms so you wouldn’t think all those lessons ya gave me were for nuttin’. I wanted t’make ya proud of old Billy, so I tied on a snelled number eight and fished my worms. Caught ‘em all of the flyrod, though. Please don’t be ticked with me, Little Buddy, I was just tryin’ to make ya proud of the way ya taught me to handle the flyrod, is all!”

“Bill, let’s go to the truck!” Bill followed Joe to the truck like a geisha girl, fearing what might be about to transpire ….

After they’d gotten outside, Joe looked squarely into Bill’s big, frightened eyes. He removed Bill’s new flyrod from its perch inside the truck and, sighing, said, “Billy, my friend, you have done a grave injustice to this beautiful flyrod. But then, on the other hand, you have fared well in the face of tremendous adversity. That wind was very tough to contend with today. Indeed it was! But, still, William, that’s no reason to dishonor a rod as fine as a Hexagraph! Imagine how it would be hurting if it in fact had a heart!”

“What do ya mean, Little Buddy?”

“What I mean, Bill, is this: there is a strong, well-adhered-to tradition among the purists of flyfishermen, and your shame should forever grieve and haunt you!”

Half-smiling, half-bewildered, Bill asked, “What tradition, Joe?”

“Why, ya big dummy, you got mud all over the cork handle, leaving it there for all to see, that’s what tradition! Folks’ll know you were wormin’ with your flyrod! Now, let’s get home and clean it off before someone of the fraternity sees it!”

Big Bill’s eyes swelled with tears of relief and gratitude. He loved his B.B.I. leader, with his understanding way. “Yeah, Joe. Yeah! Let’s go clean ‘er up, and, Joe?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“I wanna make you a promise here an’ now! I’m gonna become the best flyfisherman you ever know’d. Even better than that Hefty Clay fella, Joe!”

“It’s Kreh, Bill, and Lefty Kreh, not Hefty!”

“Whatever, Joe, I’m gonna get good at it, just you watch. And ya know, all I gotta do is stay off the cricks on windy days and get me a handle on that enema-ology stuff!”

“Right, Billy. And you may just want to remember to always clean off the cork handle if you’re going to expect folks to believe you caught your trout on a Royal Roachman!”


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