I’m searching the yellow pages for a taxidermist. My husband caught an 18″ bass, with all four boys in the boat, and it’s something everyone says, “The kids will remember for the rest of their life.” So, with a tiny bit of stalling and pondering about where the bass will hang, I’m searching the yellow pages for a taxidermist, in unknown lands and small towns that I really know nothing about, while my husband is off at work this week.
Most of the numbers are disconnected. I finally “catch a live one on the other line” (I’m so clever.) And the guy explains,
“You can come over, but the place is a mess… you see we’re doing a renovation on our third bedroom… and…”
Nevermind all of that. The fish is in my freezer, wrapped in newspaper, mucking up smells on my frozen berries.
“Where do you live?” I say.
He describes the address… I’m following it OK, it’s pretty far… as he describes each and every curve, and then another curve, and then past a house on the curve on the road, and then a trailer, and then, there’s his place.
“What’s your address.”
“Well, if you want to see the address, I’ll have to go out and chop down the weeds around the mailbox so you can read the numbers.”
He continues. “My mailbox got knocked down… so you know those plastic kind of mailboxes? Well, we have the post for that, but the mailbox is actually metal, and it’s tied on with a bungee cord.”
I scrawl down the number on my directions. But I’m thinking, based on the trailer, the bungee cord mailbox and the weeds, I can find my way even without the number.
“How much does it cost to mount an 18″ bass?”
“$170” he quickly says.
I hang up the phone. Hmmmm. That’s about $9.44 an inch. There is no way I’m driving 40 miles, with four boys, to go visit this guy with a dead fish.
Still, that fish is mucking up my freezer.