“Yep, just fishing for some tires,” said the fisherman. “I only need four. I’ll catch one, one day, and then I’ll only need three more. I’ll catch them, as well. Tires, they float by like glaciers. Like worn, rubber glaciers, and I only need four to get me to where I need to go.”
The fisherman cast his line from the bridge into the churning water of the river. The hubcap struck the water and almost skipped before sinking.
“That’s some test,” I said, as the fisherman reeled in his line.
I continued on to other side of the bridge. Queen Anne’s lace was everywhere. I could hear the river behind me. The sound of the water gurgled up from the falls, and from the ruins of the old mill, and into my ear canals. The tireless hull of the fisherman’s rig sat close by on the flood plain. The brake drums were covered in rust.
I turned back to the bridge, and the fisherman waved, and I walked further on into the hopeful dream of America.
Bram Riddlebarger writes, plays music, and lives in Athens, Ohio. He is the author of the novel Earplugs (Livingston Press, 2012) and a poetry chapbook, Chez Filthy (JKPublishing, 2009). His second novel, Golden Rod, is forthcoming in 2018 from Cabal Books.