The Authority Song

It’s been observed about me many times by many people that I have a problem with authority. However it’s only one problem and it was aptly summed up by my father. He said to me, “Son, you’re only problem with authority is its existence.” That pretty well says it all. The existence of authority bothers me.

Now I’m not a total anarchist. I recognize what I consider to be legitimate authorities. For example I still recognize my parent’s authority and my wife’s authority. As for the rest of it, however, it is subject to my scrutiny. In other words if I agree, I’ll submit. If I don’t, authority can go take a flying leap and I’ll tell authority as much.

This attitude has bought me some trouble in my life. It’s caused me to fight a few fights I probably should have just passed on, but it’s also put me in the right more often than not. I wouldn’t change it though. In my mind if I don’t question and challenge authority then I’m no better than another sheep with his head down following the herd.

It wasn’t always so. While I was growing up I was a follow the rules kind of guy. If I was told to do it by someone in authority I did it and I kept my mouth shut about it. Even if I knew something was stupid or foolish, it would never occur to me to say anything about it because they were authority and I wasn’t. That’s kind of sad eh? Well my friends that is exactly how ninety eight percent of the people live their lives; lives of quiet desperation as Thoreau put it. In fact it probably would not have changed for me if I hadn’t been blessed with a light at the end of the long tunnel, as it were.

Those of you who are long time readers can probably tell this is going to be an Uncle Scott story. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Scott is my one and only sibling. He got the moniker “Uncle Scott” when my first son was born and it fit so well it stuck. Uncle Scott is two years younger than me and he is as big and effervescent a personality as you’ll ever meet. Along with the devil’s own wit, charisma and charm came a mind that would make Socrates green with envy. As we were growing up if anyone wanted a thrill, a blast or a flat out good time, Uncle Scott was the guy to see. From sun up to sun down Uncle Scott was usually up to something fun and mischievous.

Authority never bothered Uncle Scott. In truth authority always seemed to be a good three steps behind him. If there was a rule he broke it. If something was forbidden he’d try it. If there was a limit he exceeded it. If there was a sacred cow he ate it. If there was an authority figure, he thumbed his nose at it. If someone baked cookies and said, “Don’t touch those” Uncle Scott would hook a cookie as soon as the person turned around. If they caught him taking it he’d tell them with a straight face that it fell off the plate and he was putting it back. The higher the pile of evidence against him the more insistent he got that he was wrongly accused. I swear even when he got punished the people who punished him were apologizing to him as they did it because he’d have them almost believing that they were making a mistake. Uncle Scott had a Teflon coating on him that would have made Bill Clinton proud.

It used to piss me off royal that my brother was just totally above authority. I would be there scrubbing behind my ears and cleaning my plate and it seemed like no matter what I did I always had trouble from authority. Uncle Scott openly flouted authority and was completely unconcerned with it. He just didn’t care what the neighbors thought. People had to beg him to follow the rules and when he did they would fall all over themselves to thank him and it no sooner came out of their mouths than he was once again telling them to kiss his hinder.

Let me stop here and get two things straight for the record. First there was no malice in my brother’s approach to life. He wasn’t out to be mean and he didn’t really have a purpose beyond having a good time. He honestly couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. If he dug it he did it and if he really dug it he did it twice. That’s all there ever was to it.

Second I confess that I was awfully jealous of him and his ability to do as he pleased whenever he wanted. In a lot of ways I still am jealous of him for that. However that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him or that I didn’t want to hang around him as much as possible. We had a great rapport and we were brothers, partners and friends to the end. Enough so that I even asked him once why he hated authority so much. Uncle Scott looked at me like I was crazy when I asked that question.

“I LOVE authority,” he told me earnestly. “It’s so predictable. It does exactly what I tell it to do. What’s not to love?”

I can’t say I understood what the hell he meant by that at the time. Truth be told if it wasn’t for the little incident that I’m about to relate to you I’d probably never have understood what he meant and been doomed to a life of quiet desperation. However thanks to the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 all that changed for the better.

To say Uncle Scott and I lived different kinds of lives was a bit of an understatement. I was a nerd and Uncle Scott was as cool as the in crowd could come. However Uncle Scott never shied away from his nerdy older brother. In fact he went out of his way to confirm our relationship from time to time.

For instance until he moved away for school Uncle Scott always made it a point to go trout fishing with me on opening day of trout season every year. It was something we inherited from our father and his brother and we always went alone. After we fished we’d go get breakfast and just hang out together for the rest of the day. It was one of Uncle Scott’s public confirmation of the fact that we were brothers and he didn’t care who knew it. It seems Uncle Scott’s disregard for authority knew no bounds even to the point of being seen publicly enjoying himself with the uncool. He just didn’t care what his cool kid friends thought even when they were practically begging him to take them fishing instead of me. When they accused him of doing it just because we were brothers, he’d always laugh at them and tell them that they had me all wrong. I know from time to time it must have frustrated him that someone as cool as he was had such a decidedly uncool geek for an older brother, but he never rubbed my nose in it. Instead he just confined himself to every once in awhile asking me to lighten up a little. To this day it is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
So every year we’d take our fishing trip and I was looking forward to the one in 1989. I was looking forward to it because that year I had found the best fishing hole in the state. I’d gotten some inside dope from a friend about where fish were stocked for the coming trout season and I’d located the perfect fishing hole not ten yards from one of the stocking spots. Uncle Scott and I were both almost guaranteed to catch our limit of five trout each before we had time to get cold. We were both excited.

Opening day came and we headed out to our fishing hole before dawn. We got in position, baited our hooks and waited for the sun to come up. Once the cold New England sun peeked over the horizon we both commenced casting and on the third cast Uncle Scott landed the first rainbow trout of the day. As he strung it on his stringer Uncle Scott and I were both smiling broadly knowing that the day’s catch would be epic.

Just about that time we got a nasty surprise. Another fisherman in chest waders came sloshing down the stream and wound up standing right in the middle of our carefully scouted fishing hole. Once he parked himself he quickly caught a fish. However due to his position in the middle of the small pool the stream formed, we couldn’t cast our lines or we’d hook him.

Now there is a bit of etiquette when it comes to small stream trout fishing. The first rule is be quiet or you’ll scare the fish. The second rule is whoever is at the spot first gets to fish there. The third rule is do not disturb your fellow fisherman’s fishing by wading in their pool. None of these rules are written down, but every angling sportsman is aware of them and for the most part abides by them. All except for this guy, it would seem.

Well sometimes a friendly reminder is all that is required. With that in mind Uncle Scott spoke up.

“Hey buddy,” he whispered over the stream. “Think you could move upstream or downstream just a bit? Just give us a little room to cast.”

The other fisherman reeled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer. Then he snapped his stringer to a tree branch that was dangling over the stream and cast his line again. He didn’t seem to hear Uncle Scott.

“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott whispered a bit louder, but still keeping his voice down so as not to scare the fish. “Can you give us a little room to cast here?”

The other fisherman hauled in another fish and as he snapped it to his stringer he glared at Uncle Scott. Obviously he heard Uncle Scott, but maybe he didn’t understand.

“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott began a third time, just a touch louder.

“Screw you, bub,” came the answer before Uncle Scott could repeat his question.

Uncle Scott, much to his credit, kept his cool in the face of this slightly rude response. He tried tact again, this time appealing to the guy’s sense of fair play.

“Bud, we were here first, but we don’t mind sharing. Just give us a little room.”

The other fisherman hauled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer pausing just long enough to give us the finger. Apparently he didn’t care what we thought.

“Come on now,” continued Uncle Scott. “That’s not called for. Just give us a break.”

“Why don’t you guys f*** off?” said the fisherman getting indignant. “Whatcha gonna do? Call a cop?”

At this time I was pretty much resigned to the fact that our fishing trip was pretty much ruined. This guy wasn’t moving for anything and once he caught his limit he’d wade out taking care to scare off all the fish remaining. I was pissed, but what was there to do? I reeled in my line and sat down on the bank dejectedly.

“Let’s go,” I whispered to Uncle Scott. “Got to be more fishing holes around here somewhere.”

Uncle Scott kept his eyes on the other fisherman.

“Just a few more casts,” Uncle Scott whispered back.

I shrugged. It wasn’t any use with the guy standing in the middle of the pool, but it was Uncle Scott’s prerogative if he didn’t want to give up. I lay back on the bank, pillowed my head on my hands and stared up at the cold pale blue spring sky while I waited.

A few minutes went by. I can’t be sure how long because I dozed off. I woke up to a gentle nudge from the toe of Uncle Scott’s boot.

“I hooked something on the other side of the creek,” Uncle Scott whispered to me. “Hold my rod while I go across and get it loose. I don’t want to lose that spoon.”

I stood up and held Uncle Scott’s fishing pole. This didn’t strike me as odd. Uncle Scott favored expensive Rooster Tail lures and didn’t like to lose them. Uncle Scott headed upstream to a road bridge running over the stream so he could cross the stream without getting wet. Meanwhile I kept staring up at the sky and waiting. After a few minutes I heard Uncle Scott calling me from the other side of the stream.

“I think it’s loose,” he whispered to me.

I tugged a bit, but the line didn’t move. I put a little more tension on the line, but nothing happened.

“Just give it a good yank,” Uncle Scott whispered.

I shrugged, put my pole down on the bank and proceeded to give Uncle Scott’s line a sharp tug. The lure broke loose from whatever was holding it and came sailing back towards me landing sedately on the tip of my boot. It was then I noticed that the hook had a rather large patch of green rubber on it. I had just enough time to think to myself.

“Hey, that looks like …”

“WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU DOING?”

I looked up from my boot and there in the middle of the stream with a look on his face that would kill was the other fisherman.

“YOU LITTLE BAST ...!” he sputtered with rage. “YOU JUST TORE A CHUNK OUT OF MY WADERS!”

Now I freely admit that when he said this I burst out laughing. I don’t know why. It just came out. Maybe it was nervous laughter, but something about the situation was just so comical that I couldn’t stop from laughing out loud. Something about the idea that his waders were now filling up with water due to the hole in them was funny to me, especially since it was a nice chilly spring day in New England. Perhaps it was just my innate sense of poetic justice.

“I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!” roared the fisherman and he began to gamely slog towards the bank dragging his right leg due to the added weight of water pouring into that side of his waders.

I burst out with renewed laughter as he staggered towards me. It was easy to see he was pissed enough to try and whip me, but it was also easy to see he’d never catch me with his boots full of water. Still the practical side of me determined that it was time to get lost rather than find out if this guy could fight with limited mobility. I scooped up my fishing pole and took off running down the bank still giggling like a hyena although I still couldn’t tell you why I was laughing. This guy obviously intended to try and beat my ass if he could catch me. I decided not to take a chance and got up a good stride towards the car. I figured Uncle Scott would meet me there and we’d leave old one step to rage at the tail lights.

I was just about back to the car when I got a second nasty surprise. I ran smack into a game warden that was headed the other direction. For those of you who don’t know a game warden is like a police officer for hunters and fishermen. The game warden enforces the written rules regarding fishing such as bag limits and hunting hours. Run afoul of the gaming laws and Mr. Game Warden will show up and write you a big fat ticket. I slowed down hoping he didn’t see me, but he did.

“Hold on there, son,” he called to me. “Where you going in such a hurry?”

I froze in place pondering just what to say. How was I going to explain that I’d just ripped a chunk out of another fisherman’s waders and I was running away? I was pretty sure hooking someone else’s waders wasn’t a crime, but it would probably get me thrown out of this particular stretch of stream for a long time just to keep the peace. However I had to answer. So I did what every law abiding citizen does when confronted by authority. I stuttered.

“Well I was … ummmm … you see … I was … ummmmm.”

The game warden looked at me intently. I could tell he was thinking, “This should be good” as he took out his ticket book. I continued to fumble around for a start to my story and the game warden waited patiently. Just then the other fisherman burst into the clearing.

“THERE YOU ARE!” he roared at me.

Both the game warden and I turned to look at him and I burst out laughing once again. The other fisherman was standing there panting with rage and exhaustion having chased me up the bank and water was spouting out of an inch wide hole in his right wader boot. Once again I’m not sure why I was laughing but something about it was just damn funny at that time. The game warden shot me a curious glance and that made me laugh even harder. I felt a tear of mirth roll out of my right eye, and no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t quit laughing. The game warden opened his mouth to speak again and that’s when the next surprise happened.

Uncle Scott burst into the clearing holding up a stringer with six fish on it. He glanced at me quizzically because I was still laughing uncontrollably and then Uncle Scott unleashed a masterpiece.

“Officer, I’m glad you’re here!” began Uncle Scott earnestly. “My brother and I were fishing down there and this guy here (Uncle Scott pointed at the other fisherman like he was something that crawled out of a sewer pipe) was bragging how he was catching so many fish and that he was going to take more than his limit! Look at his stringer! It’s got six fish on it and we’re only allowed to take five!”

Uncle Scott paused while the game warden stared at the stringer of six fish. Then Uncle Scott pointed at me.

“My brother said he was going to tell a game warden and this guy started chasing him and said he was going to beat my brother up if he told! That’s why my brother was running!”
For a few seconds the game warden only stared, and then he turned to me.

“Is that so?”

Immediately I stopped laughing. I was being questioned by authority and that meant I had to respond and respond with the truth. My mouth opened automatically.

“Well ….”

I looked around for the next words. As I did my eyes locked with Uncle Scott’s and I saw him plead with me to lighten up, just for once.

“Yes sir, that’s just what happened.”

For a moment everyone just stared at me. Uncle Scott’s mouth opened, probably in amazement, and then he closed it as I went on.

“Yeah, I saw him catch about eight fish, officer. He was catching them and measuring them and throwing the smallest ones away. Then he just said, ‘Aww screw it. I’ll just keep them all. Who will know anyway?’ That’s when I told him that I’d report him and he threatened to kick my ass if I told. He even started towards me and that’s why I ran.”

I stole a glance at Uncle Scott and I could see a small smile stealing across his face.

“WHAT?” screamed the other fisherman indignantly. “HE MADE THAT UP!”

“No I didn’t!” I shot back vehemently. “Ask him if that’s his stringer, officer! Ask him!”

The game warden obliged.

“Is this your stringer?”

The other fisherman stared for a minute. Before he could answer I held up my empty stringer to show him that the one my brother held wasn’t mine. Following my lead Uncle Scott held up his stringer … which was now empty of fish. I stumbled for a moment recalling my brother snapping our lone fish on his stringer, but then I got my balance back.

“Admit that’s your stringer!” I yelled at the now red faced fisherman. “Admit it!”

The fisherman stood stock still for a minute.

“Well that’s my stringer, but I only caught five fish!” He protested. “I only took the limit!”

The game warden’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Your stringer has six fish on it, sir,” he told the fisherman matter of factly.

The fisherman was rocked but played his best card.

“THAT LITTLE PUNK HOOKED MY WADER AND TORE A CHUNK OUT OF IT! LOOK! THEY MADE ALL THIS UP BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO FISH IN MY PLACE AND I TOLD THEM NO!”

Everyone looked at the hole in the fisherman’s wader. All of the water had drained from his boot now and the inch wide hole was there for everyone to see.

“Oh, you ripped your waders jumping that barbed wire fence back there when you said you’d beat me up!” I countered quickly. “And we didn’t make this up! Your stringer has six fish on it! How else could six fish get on your stringer if you didn’t put them there?”

“He must have done it!” the fisherman spat pointing at Uncle Scott. “He must have put another fish on there!”

“Are you calling my brother a liar?” I snarled taking a step towards the fisherman. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me! You’ve got six fish and you got caught by the game warden with six fish on your stringer and now you’re making up stories to try and get out of trouble!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, but the game warden seemed to have heard enough.

“I’ll need to see your fishing license and your driver’s license, sir,” the game warden told the fisherman flipping open his ticket book. “I hope you like that sixth fish because it’s going to cost you about two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Then the game warden turned and looked at me.

“So help me God, that’s what happened, Officer. All I want to do is help enforce the gaming laws. Those laws are in place for a good reason.”

The game warden stared for a minute and then nodded a small smirk at me.

“Sure. Say, why don’t you and your brother get on out of here. Maybe get some breakfast. Just take it slow and have a nice day.

“You too, officer.”

My brother and I walked quickly to the car and stowed our fishing tackle in the trunk. Then we piled in the car and I fired up the engine, shifted into drive and started us on down the road towards a diner for breakfast. My brother took a good solid look at me and a smile played on his lips.

“What?” I asked him innocently.

“Didn’t know you had that much bull in you,” he said and his eyes showed a new bit of respect. “You were lying like a carpet. I gave you the ball and you scored a BS touchdown.”

I looked at my brother incredulously and then I smirked.

“I told that officer the honest to goodness truth! One hundred and ten percent pure and unadulterated! I’m offended my own brother would ever question my integrity like that! By the way brother of mine, where is your fish anyway?”

Now it was Uncle Scott’s turn to smirk.

“Oh, I turned him loose. He looked too boney.”

“Oh, really?”

“I smiled at my brother. Uncle Scott smiled back and held up two fingers.

“Scout’s honor.”

That, my friends, is the story of the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 and the start of my little problem with authority. To my brother I give the famous wink with a nod that has passed between us more times than I could count as a sign of our bond of brotherhood and friendship. To the fisherman I say karma is a fish, so be careful about what you reel in. And to authority I say, “they went that-a-way.”