I Think You Knew What You Were Doing

November 21st, 2000. I regain consciousness. Dangling in blur and then into focus is an Abbott-Nothwestern Hospital Nurse's ID framed in purple and lettered in yellow. My quadruple bypass is over, the male nurse is adjusting the pillow behind my neck. I read the yellow letters. They say Minnesota Vikings infinitely.
I hear my voice.
“I think Robert Brown is one of the classiest running backs in the National Football League. Now you say something nice about Brett Favre.”
“Brett Favre is a PUSSY!”

Yes! I am still alive!

__________________________________________



It is a glorious June afternoon and I am floating down the Chippewa River with a buddy, having launched the canoe just off Water Street behind the Eau Claire Bus Barns. We have brought along important things like a cooler of beer, and brand new fishing licenses, but have left behind inconsequential things like the phamplet of fishing rules for that season and a tape measure.

It isn't long before I get a strike and land a 13 inch white bass. Let's see: white bass -- no size limit. Not my favorite eating variety, but what the heck, just in case it's the only one I catch, we will need it for our anticipated shore lunch so I put it on the stringer and toss it over the side.

We fish for another twenty minutes or so and I get a dandy strike on a Mepps spinner and after a goodly fight on ultra light spinning tackle, I land a fairly good-sized small mouth bass. Let's see: small mouth: limit 5 per day, size limit -- size limit -- where's that damn book of rules? Oh, that's right. Left it back in the car.

What was it last year? Below Highway 64, after June 1, when the wind is out of the west and the moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter alligns with Mars: 12 inches. That's it! 12 inches. Now where's my tape measure? Who took my damn tape measure out of the tackle box?

Oh, that was me.

So I "eye-balled her", as my carpenter friend Lundy used to say, and yup, she's at least 13 inches. All the while my fishing buddy has no opinion.

About half hour later, down river we hear the sound of a motorized boat and around the bend comes this olive drab boat with two guys in brown shirts and swast -- er, I mean, pine trees embroidered on their shoulders, and they pull up to our canoe, and one of them puts his foot right in my canoe, which I thought was an invasion of my personal space, but being a good Wisconsin citizen, I say nothing.

The warden who appears to be in charge and definitely has an "attitude" asks us to produce fishing licenses. We do. Then he wants to know if we have caught anything.

I tell him the truth. Yes, we have, but we stopped at an island along the way and I filleted them and would he like to see the fillets?

No, he wouldn't, but I have broken the law, he says, by filleting the fish on the river, then he tells us not to go anywhere and the brown shirts motor up river in search of carcasses.

Soon they return with the evidence.

"What's legal size for small mouth?" asks the belligerent one.

At the same time that I say "12 inches", my buddy says "15 inches". I shoot him a look that says shut the hell up!
My buddy wins the quiz and because I caught both fish, I win the prize: $128.00 fine.

As the warden reaches for his ticket book I say: "I understand that ignorance is no excuse for breaking a law, so you go ahead and write me the ticket."

Herr Warden replies: "I think you knew what you were doing. I think you just thought that you were going to get away with it."

I was right! This guy REALLY has an attitude problem.

He continues to write, finishes writing, detaches the ticket from the pad, hands it to me and says it again for effect: "I think you knew what you were doing, I just think that you thought that you were going to get away with it."

And they cruise off.

Next day I pay the ticket at the court house. That was my last fishing trip that summer.

A couple of years later, I am at my desk in my office on a day in April when I get a telephone call from The Department of Natural Resources, Madison. "Would you like to play at our state convention?"

Well, I suppose.

I like his next question even better: "What do you charge?" So I tell him and tack on $128.00 and I feel pretty damn good about it.

He gives me the details: June 28, Paper Valley Hotel, Appleton, Wisconsin. I send out the contract.

Now every day I go to the office and I wonder: I wonder if that sumbitch is gonna be there. God! He'd had better be there.
Payback is a bitch! HOW CAN IT STILL BE ONLY APRIL????

Finally the day arrives and I am up and packing gear at 4:30 in the morning. I am driving Highway 10, Wisconsin Death Trip, all the way to Appleton, my mind racing: I wonder if he will be there -- He better be there -- Oh! He won't be there -- I was raised a Catholic! It never works out for a Catholic boy!"

I pull up in front of the Paper Valley, walk up the steps into the lobby, and just as I am doing this, the doors to the banquet room open from the just completed lucheon and here come the brown shirts -- and who is the first guy I see? Mr. Wonderful himself.

He walks over to me and says: "Hi, remember me?"
"No, who are you?"
"Last time I saw you was on the Chippewa River."
Oh, now I remember you -- what was your problem that day?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I told you I hadn't read the rules and that you should write me a ticket and then you called me a liar. Not once, but twice."
"I didn't call you a liar. I just didn't think you were telling me the truth."

WHAT???? Dos this man work part time as a speech writer for George W?

So I set up equipment, shower, dress, and come down to the evening banquet and join five wardens and their wives for dinner and I tell them the story of my encounter with Mr. Wonderful.

When I finish, one warden asks: "What's the warden's name?"
I say: "T.J."
The entire table says together as one: "THAT son of a bitch."

Then they all tell me their own horror stories of how he was their instructor at one time and all the shit he pulled.

Then one warden says: "Well, you're gonna get him in your show, aren't you?"
I say: "Oh, Gee, I hadn't thought about that."

It's my turn at the mic. I do about half my show and then I say: "I'd like to dedicate the rest of my show to my friend TJ who taught me the value of catch and release." Then I do every small penis joke I can think of and finish to a standing ovation of game wardens.

When I get outside the banquet room, there is someone waiting for me. It's Mr. Wonderful (who has been transferred out of the Chippewa Valley because of death threats - - I can't imagine why).

He threatens: "Come on up to Spooner -- It's my turn."

I fish in the Chippewa Valley, thank you very much. And once a week I fight the temptation to send him a post card saying: "I'll be on the Nemakogan on Thursday. Look for me."

Several years later I receive an envelope in the mail post marked Menomonie, Wisconsin. Inside is a clipping from the Dunn County Court Section, which reads: "Arrested. T.J., age 49, hunting game birds out of season, over bag limit: fine $189."

I want desperately to scrawl on the bottom: "I think you knew what you were doing --"

Disclaimer: The above is how I remember it happening. I am not to be held liable for any of it. It is written purely for the joy of story telling. That is why there is no last name given.