The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Four – The Brewer 12
Serial Fiction
Ron sat in the middle with the priest and the Brewer on his sides. He liked that because he was the biggest talker and was perfectly situated between his old and new audience.
‘Ok! In so many words. I provide mental preparation, support and confidence. I prepare and protect athletes from distractions. I preach to them mental control and mental toughness, control of emotions. All that to compliment their technical and tactical skills. I upgrade them from good athletes to elite athletes. I give them the mental control to become artists in their craft. At the height of pressure they are calm and creative.’ The boat was heading for the open ocean.
‘What craft is that?’
‘Fencing.’
‘I guess my question was: How do you achieve that? What tools do you employ?’
‘Fiction.’ Joined in the priest. ‘For him a perfectly technically and tactically tuned fencer is a blank canvas. He employs eloquent wit combined with metaphorical fiction, which subtly infuses his subjects with focus, strength and motivation. It is the conversational equivalent of poetry what he does.’ He ventured to explain.
‘Fishing is poetry.’ Said Ron cordially changing the topic. I sign of a man accustomed to flattery.
‘Fishing is random.’ Followed up the priest. ‘The best gear, the most delicious bait, the most favorable weather can not control what happens under the water. You have the same random chances as a boy with a wooden stick, a tread from his sweater with a twisted paperclip at the end of it.’ He smiled proud of himself.
‘Randomness is poetry.’ Concluded the topic the Brewer.
His two new acquaintances smiled. He felt included. He didn’t feel the bitter wind or salty water drops hitting his face. It was a bitter good day.
‘While fishing everything is aloud.’ Continued Ron. ‘This is the garden of delights.’ He pointed to the vast mass of water.
‘You, yourself look like you love coming out here to pause your clock for a little while.’ Pointed out the priest.
The Brewer grinned.
‘Yes, after all the navy is in charge of the nations’ clocks (precise atomic time that is).’ Added Ron.
‘Clocks are like sex.’ Said the priest randomly. Pausing in wait for their reaction.
They both turned briskly in question.
‘Sex is a thing we know everything and nothing about at the same time. Like time and its incarnation in clocks.’ He explained.
Their frozen faces took the shape of intellectual delight.
‘A type of madness is born if you don’t dust your clock. From over-capacity or large contractions the mind stifles. Creativity stifles.’ Explained Ron.
‘You are confusing creativity with perversion.’ Protested the priest.
‘Creativity is a sort of perversion.’ Answered Ron. ‘The only beautiful sort.’
At that very moment the Brewer’s rod took a violent dive. He took a firm grip on it with both hands and his face contracted in a mad smile. He pulled back and turned the handle as fast as he could to bring it home. The cord was sharper than a knife. The Brewer repeated the same exercise several times while the far end of the cord was making vast circular motions by the side of the boat. With one last giant pull he extracted the defeated creature from the ocean. (Thank you Hemingway!)
His excitement was mildly defeated by the average size of the fish. By the fight it put he had pictured a monster. It fought furiously while in its own water world, motivated by pain. In the world of men it was helpless.
The Brewer held it in his hands for the benefit of his companions. At a closer look the fish had two additional metal hooks healed into its mouth like piercings. It had previously fought and won against men.
‘It’s a labyrinthine story you are holding in your hands, just like yours.’ Smiled Ron. ‘This fish had seen more trills than most men. I wish it could speak.’
But! It couldn’t. A mood of permanent fatigue had settled in it, inspired by defeat.
‘I think this defeated champion is trying to say something.’ Ventured the priest. He lowered his head, bended his ear foreword and stuck it to the fish’s mouth.
‘Aha, aha.’ He hummed. ‘He says: ‘The world is spinning but he is not.’ He says that: The biggest mistake a fish can make in life under the water is be too obvious. He always wanted to be more than a fish. If you mate with a fish you become a fish. He chose to live in a world of fat-rabbit and mad-hatted fish, where everything was colorful and flavorful. He despised the life folded according to a manual. He preferred the fast waters. He liked the taste of bait almost as much as the danger of the hook. Even though he was robbed of an infinitive beginning he exploited his circumstances to his best. And. Now when the end is near he is not asking for a royal pardon. In his youth he had slayed an underwater dragon, bathed in his blood and became invincible. His life have been full and is ending in a battle, he has no regrets.’ Finished the priest.
‘I didn’t know you speak fish!’ Smiled Ron.
They all smiled.
The boat was turning back.
‘It’s vesper time.’ Said the priest in a short musical statement.
‘All I have to do is slayer a dragon.’ I said to the Brewer’s neurons.
Stay tuned for next week’s installment of The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer – Tuesday, April 12th
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more by PETER ODEON
photograph by Johnny Chen
