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Spanish Fly
- University of Wisconsin Press
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57 Span ish Fly Call me Pedro.” The words seemed in no cent enough at the time, merely the lat est of his harm less quirks, like his taste for fla menco music and the oc ca sional pitcher of san gria. But they loom now, look ing back, as Pete Smith’s pri vate Ni ag ara—the mo ment he went over the edge. When I fished with him next, a month later, he was work ing an eve ning midge hatch on the Mad i son. He’d pulled his hair back into a tight po ny tail. A new pair of black neo prenes stretched over his raw bone frame, sheath ing it like a body con dom. And the dinged can teen that had bounced against his lean flanks for years had been re placed by a goat skin bota. “What the hell’s got into him?” Clyde croaked that night as we sat hunched over our tying vises in his den. “The bas tard looks like he just got off a bus from Ju a rez.” I didn’t re spond, in tent on pal mer ing a webby length of hackle over a dyed tuft of fur from a road killed coyote. “Beats me,” I fi nally mum bled, still locked in on the streamer emerg ing under my jit tery fin gers. The shape and color of a stick of dy na mite, it was des tined to hit the water as the Big Wile E. “A shrink would have a field day with that guy,” I added, snip ping off a way ward guard hair. “He’s get ting weirder all the time.” Wally nod ded and slid off his stool. “I need an other brew,” he said, head ing for the kitchen. 58 Spanish Fly Clyde squinted at his dis ap pear ing back. “Cer veza,” he growled, his ar thritic dig its bent around a hot-pink swatch of wood chuck ear hair. “Bring me one of ’em too.” “Serve you what?” Wally said, turn ing back. His oval face fur rowed in the blue light of the re frig er a tor door. “An other beer,” I said. “Dis re gard the Cly dester. What ever bug bit Pete must have got a piece of him too.” “Are you nuts?” Clyde shot back. “I was just repeatin’ the only word I’ve heard from him lately where I had some idea what he was sayin’. What the hell’s a taco bar, any way?” The old electri cian shook his head in dis gust. Hanks of fur sprouted like centi pede legs from under his thumb, fring ing the hook he’d wrapped with elas tic from one of his ex-wife’s gar ter belts. Over the years I’d seen him tie the gaudy fly by the box ful, swear ing he’d quit tying them the day he ex tracted one from a fish’s lip. The bib u lous night of his di vorce, when he’d created it, he’d chris tened it the Over ’n Dun. “Tapas bar,” I cor rected him. “It’s a bar that serves appetizer-type food. He told me they’re big in Spain, like all the other stuff he’s got ten into since he came back from that va ca tion. You’ve heard him. Hu evos ran che ros. Paella. Clas si cal gui tar.” Clyde’s baggy eyes rolled to ward the ceil ing as the tying thread snapped under his thumb nail. “Far as I’m con cerned, it’s all a bunch of bull,” he groaned. “That too,” Wally said, hand ing him his beer. A few weeks later the four of us were out again, on bigger water, and the sea son had changed. The as pens had turned golden and the cot ton woods had begun to drop their leaves in the gun me tal runs and the rif fles that shim mered like sil ver in the au tumn breeze. Pete leaped out of the van be fore the motor died and scut tled off into the pines, a leather sad dle bag slung over his rod case. The raven hair he hadn’t cut for months fell in long raf fish strands down his shoul ders. His nos trils flared like a rut ting deer’s. When he strode out of the trees ten min utes later...