Floyd Finnegan’s Finished Fishing Forever

The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and my lifelong friend and mentor Jaybird and I were waiting for two men ahead of us on the ramp, launching their boat, but what was about to happen dashed all hopes of fishing that day. Fidgeting, Jaybird mused, “I wonder what’s keeping those clowns from launching. We should be fishing by now.” I nodded in agreement with the old black man. Strange indeed … the truck’s driver, Floyd Finnegan, faced backward, but wasn’t responding to his pal in the boat who was shouting angrily for him to back further down the ramp until the boat floated free of its trailer. Frustrated, Jaybird moseyed down to chat with a few ladies fishing from the bank. On pretty days, they were always there, wearing flower dresses, wide-brimmed straw hats, and sitting on five-gallon cans. One of them, Sadie, lived on Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm.

“Hello, Sadie. Y’all doin’ any good?” Jaybird asked. Pointing to their fish stringer, she answered, “See for yourself.” It was loaded with nice fat bream. Pointing toward the guys on the ramp, he said, “Me and Junior are anxious to get to a spot where we’ve been catching lots of crappie, but they aren’t moving.” “Don’t know why, but this I do know — that man in the boat has got a foul mouth,” Sadie hissed. Jaybird and I decided to lend the guys a hand. The boat driver explained that Finnegan stopped the truck suddenly, and would not back down any further, so I went to speak to him. Right away, I knew something was wrong. He seemed not to hear me, and I noticed he had jammed the emergency brake to the floor. I suggested that he release the brake and back up a little more. His eyes were half closed and his limbs were rigid. Something is bad wrong here, I thought, as I glanced at Sadie and her friends, who were watching attentively. I spoke to the man again. He uttered not a word, so I tapped him on the shoulder, but got no response. Gently, I placed two fingers on his jugular vein. Nothing. When I shook him, he slumped sideways lifelessly. “Mr. Finnegan is dead,” I shouted to his fishing buddy. Instantly, the boat driver leaped onto the bank and fled, never looking back. Simultaneously, I heard women screaming, and turned to see fishing poles floating in the water, dresses fluttering behind fleeing females, and hats sailing off heads. Other than waves lapping the shore, all became silent. While I went to a nearby telephone to notify the police, Jaybird gathered up the ladies’ fishing gear and brought it to them, now watching from a safe distance. Mopping her brow and glancing once more at the dead man, Sadie accepted their belongings, but assured Jaybird that they were through fishing that day. Walking away, he said, “I imagine y’all will be back here tomorrow, but one thing is for sure: “Floyd Finnegan’s finished fishing forever.”