Trout Fishing in America - Richard Brautigan Canons

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WELCOME. Just behind the statue are three poplar trees, almost leafless except for the top branches. The statue stands in front of the middle tree. All around the grass is wet from the rains of early February.

      In the background is a tall cypress tree, almost dark like a room. Adlai Stevenson spoke under the tree in 1956, before a crowd of 40, 000 people.

      There is a tall church across the street from the statue with crosses, steeples, bells and a vast door that looks like a huge mousehole, perhaps from a Tom and Jerry cartoon, and written above the door is “Per L’Universo.”

      Around five o’clock in the afternoon of my cover for Trout Fishing in America, people gather in the park across the street from the church and they are hungry.

      It’s sandwich time for the poor.

      But they cannot cross the street until the signal is given. Then they all run across the street to the church and get their sandwiches that are wrapped in newspaper. They go back to the park and unwrap the newspaper and see what their sandwiches are all about.

      A friend of mine unwrapped his sandwich one afternoon and looked inside to find just a leaf of spinach. That was all.

      Was it Kafka who learned about America by reading the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin …

      Kafka who said, “I like the Americans because they are healthy and optimistic.”

       KNOCK ON WOOD(PART ONE)

      As a child when did I first hear about trout fishing in America? From whom? I guess it was a stepfather of mine.

      Summer of 1942.

      The old drunk told me about trout fishing. When he could talk, he had a way of describing trout as if they were a precious and intelligent metal.

      Silver is not a good adjective to describe what I felt when he told me about trout fishing.

      I’d like to get it right.

      Maybe trout steel. Steel made from trout. The clear snow-filled river acting as foundry and heat.

      Imagine Pittsburgh.

      A steel that comes from trout, used to make buildings, trains and tunnels.

      The Andrew Carnegie of Trout!

      The Reply of Trout Fishing in America:

      I remember with particular amusement, people with three-cornered hats fishing in the dawn.

       KNOCK ON WOOD(PART TWO)

      One spring afternoon as a child in the strange town of Portland, I walked down to a different street corner, and saw a row of old houses, huddled together like seals on a rock. Then there was a long field that came sloping down off a hill. The field was covered with green grass and bushes. On top of the hill there was a grove of tall, dark trees. At a distance I saw a waterfall come pouring down off the hill. It was long and white and I could almost feel its cold spray.

      There must be a creek there, I thought, and it probably has trout in it.

      Trout.

      At last an opportunity to go trout fishing, to catch my first trout, to behold Pittsburgh.

      It was growing dark. I didn’t have time to go and look at the creek. I walked home past the glass whiskers of the houses, reflecting the downward rushing waterfalls of night.

      The next day I would go trout fishing for the first time. I would get up early and eat my breakfast and go. I had heard that it was better to go trout fishing early in the morning. The trout were better for it. They had something extra in the morning. I went home to prepare for trout fishing in America. I didn’t have any fishing tackle, so I had to fall back on corny fishing tackle.

      Like a joke.

      Why did the chicken cross the road?

      I bent a pin and tied it onto a piece of white string.

      And slept.

      The next morning I got up early and ate my breakfast. I took a slice of white bread to use for bait. I planned on making doughballs from the soft center of the bread and putting them on my vaudevillean hook.

      I left the place and walked down to the different street corner. How beautiful the field looked and the creek that came pouring down in a waterfall off the hill.

      But as I got closer to the creek I could see that something was wrong. The creek did not act right. There was a strangeness to it. There was a thing about its motion that was wrong. Finally I got close enough to see what the trouble was.

      The waterfall was just a flight of white wooden stairs leading up to a house in the trees.

      I stood there for a long time, looking up and looking down, following the stairs with my eyes, having trouble believing.

      Then I knocked on my creek and heard the sound of wood.

      I ended up by being my own trout and eating the slice of bread myself.

      The Reply of Trout Fishing in America:

      There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t change a flight of stairs into a creek. The boy walked back to where he came from. The same thing once happened to me. I remember mistaking an old woman for a trout stream in Vermont, and I had to beg her pardon.

      “Excuse me,” I said. “I thought you were a trout stream.”

      “I’m not,” she said.

       RED LIP

      Seventeen years later I sat down on a rock. It was under a tree next to an old abandoned shack that had a sheriff’s notice nailed like a funeral wreath to the front door.

      NO TRESPASSING

      4/17 OF A HAIKU

      Many rivers had flowed past those seventeen years, and thousands of trout, and now beside the highway and the sheriff’s notice flowed yet another river, the Klamath, and I was trying to get thirty-five miles downstream to Steelhead, the place where I was staying.

      It was all very simple. No one would stop and pick me up even though I was carrying fishing tackle. People usually stop and pick up a fisherman. I had to wait three hours for a ride.

      The sun was like a huge fifty-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match and said, “Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper,” and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.

      I had walked for miles and miles until I came to the rock under the tree and sat down. Every time a car would come by, about once every ten minutes, I would get up and stick out my thumb as if it were a bunch of bananas and then sit back down on the rock again.

      The old shack had a tin roof colored reddish by years of wear, like a hat worn under the guillotine. A corner of the roof was loose and a hot wind blew down the river and the loose corner clanged in the wind.

      A car went by. An old couple. The car almost swerved off the road and into the river. I guess they didn’t see many hitchhikers up there. The car went around the corner with both of them looking back at me.

      I had nothing else to do, so I caught salmon flies in my landing net. I made up my own game. It went like this: I couldn’t chase after them. I had to let them fly to me. It was something to do with my mind. I caught six.

      A little ways up from the shack was an outhouse with its door flung violently open. The inside of the outhouse was exposed like a human face and the outhouse seemed to say, “The old guy who built me crapped in here 9,745 times and he’s dead now and I don’t want anyone else to touch me. He was a good guy. He built me with loving care. Leave me alone. I’m a monument now to a good ass gone under. There’s no mystery here. That’s why the door’s open. If you have to crap, go in the bushes like the deer.”

      “Fuck

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