'Ring, ring. Ring,
ring.' “Hello.” “Is Dick Misch there?” “Well, he's here,
but he's not available. He's fishin'. Is this Geary?” “Yeah.
Is this Frank Witcomb?” I couldn't believe it. A guy from
the old dock in Wickford. “Yeah. Hi Geary. How ya doin'?” “I'm
good, Frank. Can you get Dad for me?” “Sorry, Geary, he's
fishin'. The blues are runnin'. They're chasin' the menhaden, chopin'
'em to pieces. Your dad won't be home for hours. He went out with a
ten weight fly rod and a bunch of clousers. I'll bet he's havin' the
time of his life.” I was taken aback — Dad with a fly rod? “He's
using a fly rod now, eh Frank?” “Yeah. He can see outta both eyes
again, and he's deadly with that rod. A fifteen pound blue on that
ten weight is a blast!” “I'll bet it is, Frank.”
“Look, Frank,
would you ask Dad to call me when he gets back? I really need to talk
to him.” “I understand, Geary, but things don't work that way
with this phone. No outgoing calls. It just doesn't work that way.
I'm sorry.”
“I understand,
Frank. How's Tina?” “She's not here. No bikinis allowed in this
section. You remember how she loved that bikini. She's in anothah
section. We get to visit once a year. She was fine last time I saw
her. Of course once you get here you don't get sick
anymore.
“Right, Frank.
Thanks. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Geary.” Click.
