Uncle Coot and the Catfishzilla of Lake Tawakoni

Sometime in mid April a lawyer showed up at my door with a battered document claiming to be the last will and testament of Willard “Coot” Langden. The will stated I was to be solely responsible for his final wish: to take him fishing one last time at his favorite fishing hole. I wasn't at all close with my father's side of the family and had absolutely no desire to have any dealings with them. Sure enough, after having a sit down with my own lawyer, I discovered it was in fact a legally binding document. It just seemed like too much money and trouble to fight it so I decided to go out to Corry Mill.

I guess I should start from the beginning. I don't remember much about Corry Mill. My mother and I moved out when I was still in 2nd grade. I only had vague recollections of the place, of people shouting and laughing, throwing beer bottles into a bonfire. I remembered a cousin had blown his house up and caught half the neighborhood on fire. I would often ask my mother about it, but she would just pat my head and say the same thing each time: “You're better than the people of Corry Mill now.”

When I was older I was able to track down my birth father only to find he died in prison of cirrhosis some years back. That was all I needed to know about where I came from and the people on that side of my family. I never gave them anymore thought after that. In time I became a semi-successful commercial real estate agent with my own up and coming firm just outside of Ft. Worth. I had a beautiful wife and a child on the way. I had done well for myself.

I drove 3 hours east to the little town of Corry Mill. The bustling metropolis with a population of 233 had only three buildings there. One was a convenience store that also served as the community's grocery store, laundromat, payday loan office and video poker lounge. The other two buildings were little wood frame churches directly across the highway from one another, both with signs that read the parishioners of the opposing church were doomed to an eternity in hell.

None of the people in Corry Mill actually lived in Corry Mill but rather at the end of a winding dirt road that ended in a low lying river basin. Rows upon rows of mobile homes in disrepair, some precariously perched on poorly constructed stilts, sat nestled in a tangle of pines and underbrush. Lawns, if they could be called as such, were littered with faded soda cans, discarded rolls of stock wire, and bits of rusty playground equipment. The address on the will didn't include a street number. Instead it gave a physical identifier as being the red white and blue travel trailer with the three john boats in the front next to Aunt Sheila's old place.

Eventually I found a travel trailer that seemed to fit the description. I took a long moment to collect myself before knocking on the door. I had no idea what I was walking into but it was almost surely going to be a mess.

“Ya'll gonna have to come back tomorrow. Estate sale's at 8.” a voice called from inside.

I knocked again. I could hear the woman inside give an exasperated sigh before swinging the door open. She stopped in mid-swing and looked suddenly very pale.

“Mickey? I thought you was dead.”

“My name is Dennis Langden. I'm here for my Uncle Willard's ashes.”

The woman breathed a sigh of relief and regained the color in her cheeks. She had a sweet face, kindly drawn with laugh lines and framed with greying strands of ash blonde. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.

“Oh, you're Mickey's boy. Well if you don't look the spittin' image of your daddy. I didn't think you'd actually show. Come on in. It's a bit of a mess, but there's still room to sit.” She motioned for me to come in.

I found myself wedged between two stacks of old newspapers at a table holding nothing save an old thermos decorated with glitter infused unicorn stickers.

“Yeah, I found him like this this mornin' when I woke up. Kayla said she wanted Uncle Coot to be pretty for when he went fishin'.”

I had to stifle a laugh at the sheer absurdity. In this old thermos that now resembled a drunken Lisa Frank collage were the remains of someone who once proudly went by the name “Coot”. I picked up the thermos and nodded.

“So all I have to do is take this thing fishing, huh?”

“Well, you'd have a tough time getting to his spot without a boat. Gene and Rabbit are gonna take you two out in the mornin'. It's too late in the day now to go.”

Damn the luck. I was trapped here at least overnight.

“There ain't no hotels close by so I guess you can just stay here tonight so long as you promise not to go rifling through Coot's stuff.”

I made my solemn vow that I would not touch the piles of useless crap stacked around me. The evening was much more peaceful than I had expected it to be. I was largely left to my own devices.

I settled into a restless sleep on the cot at the back of the travel trailer. The walls were plastered with photographs of family functions, baptisms, weddings. There were even a couple pictures of me and my mother from a time I couldn't remember. She didn't look nearly as happy as I did in the pictures, nor did she look anything at all like the other people here either. She was refined, dressed in her Sunday best with a wide brimmed hat obscuring most of her face. How on earth did we ever come from such a place? I had just drifted into sleep when someone pounded on the door.

I groaned and answered the door and was met with two of the largest men I had ever seen both dressed in camo from head to toe.

“Rise and shine, Sleepin' Beauty. We're running late 'cause someone forgot to hitch up the boat last night.”

“What time is it?” I whispered into the dark. I couldn't see anything yet except for the grill of an old truck parked almost directly over the stairs of the travel trailer.

“Half past 3 already. Do ya remember your cousins? I'm Gene and this here is Rabbit.” The thinner of the two men tossed a can into the back of the truck which roused a sudden flurry of snarling teeth.

“Oh, cut it out, Pisser. He's a good dog; he just gets real protective of the truck. There ain't no room in the truck, but you can ride in the boat or in the back with Pisser. I gotta warn you though- he lives up to his name. He pisses like a racehorse when he gets excited.”

“I think I'll take my chances with the boat.”

I came to regret that decision as I soon found myself jostling about inside a boat being pulled at speeds a boat was never meant to be pulled at. Chances were good we weren't stopping anywhere for coffee either. It's just one day, I reminded myself as I shivered against the cold wind tearing through the back of the boat.

Finally we made it to Lake Tawakoni, and I braved the on site portable toilet in the dark while Gene and Rabbit loaded and launched the boat. The two men and an excited old hound waited for my return. I noticed the boat looked a lot smaller with the two large men, a cooler and fishing supplies packed in. It also looked well past overloaded.

“So, uh, what's the weight rating on this thing?” I asked. Without a doubt we were going to sink if I added my weight to it.

“It's plenty big enough. Gene here had six kids in it last summer perch pokin' in the creek. Come on in.” Carefully I stepped into the boat and winced, waiting for it to capsize. To my surprise the boat just rocked a bit and nothing more.

It took several moments and some cussing before they were able to get the motor started, but once it did it roared to life. I would have never expected this old boat could go as fast as it did, but almost immediately it went up on plane and we were soaring across the still waters of Lake Tawakoni at pre-dawn. Pisser stood at the front of the boat barking and snapping at the spray. I really hoped it was lake water and not dog piss that sprayed me in the face as we sped across the lake. Finally we made it to a spot surrounded by stumps off of a narrow cove and set anchor.

“We don't have any good rods left to lend, but I found this one in my shed.” Gene passed over a kid's fishing rod, blue and red with Spiderman swinging across the handle.

I was really starting to think these two were having a bit of fun at my expense. Still, it wasn't worth getting into a scuffle about. There was only one seat in the boat and it was reserved for Uncle Coot's thermos. The rest of us sat on the floor of the boat with our respective poles.

I had just barely noticed a bucket with nearly an entire roll of duct tape rolled around the lid when Rabbit pulled out his knife and started cutting the tape away. Suddenly the lid popped off into the water and I was hit was the most foul stench I had ever experienced. There wasn't much on my stomach, but what little there was found it's way over the side of the boat and into the water.

“I been brewing this chum up since November.” Rabbit howled. “I'm guessin' it's a good batch.”

I was red-faced with embarrassment. Gene stepped in and tried to preserve my honor.

“Don't feel bad. You're just doin' your part to chum the water.” He patted me on the back.

Luckily the smell didn't linger too long after the contents were dumped overboard and the bucket was rinsed in the lake.

“You ever been catfishing?”

“Sure.” I lied.

I enjoyed fly fishing in Wyoming, but that had been the only fishing I had ever done. I followed their example and stabbed my treble hook into a cup of punch bait and began flicking it across the water.

“No, no. Catfishin' is the lazy man's sport. You ain't gottta do all that moving around. You're just gonna sling your bait off. Just drop it right over the edge, set your line and grab a beer. That's it.”

I was really starting to wonder what the point of catfishing actually was by the end of the first hour. Gene and Rabbit made idle conversation about topics I knew nothing about, about football and fixing up an old tractor. This trip was really quite awkward until Rabbit started to talk about the time Uncle Coot lost what he called Catfishzilla.

“Yeah, that Coot swore up and down he caught this monster cat here about three years back. It was four foot long with a big old flat head near as wide as the boat. He told us he fought it for hours and finally got it in the boat but he was afraid it was gonna start floppin' about so he grabs his pliers and wangs it in the head one good time to knock 'im out. This don't knock him out but pisses 'm off and he starts flappin' around with his face split open. Sure enough he flip flops right out of the boat with Coot's good rod still hooked to 'im”

“Uh huh. He prolly fell asleep and dropped his pole in the water is more like it.” Gene interjected. “But man he was committed to his fish story. Every time we'd come out here he talked about catchin' Catfishzilla.”

I felt a tug on my line. It surprised me enough that I nearly dropped my pole.

“Look'it that. Denny's already getting a bump. They's gonna be hitting good today.”

Catching a catfish was nothing like catching a trout. The fish on the line was heavy and lazy, barely fighting beyond occasionally throwing its weight about. By the time I dragged the fish into the boat my little pole was bent tip down into the water.

“Well he ain't no Catfishzilla but he is still a good 'en. Maybe about four pounds.”

The catfish flopped about in the cooler, croaking with dismay among the ice and beer. I realized at that moment I was having fun after all. We caught several more catfish throughout the course of the morning and finally by noon we were starting to run out of room in the cooler. Gene had grown quiet as if he was having an internal struggle with himself. Finally he started talking.

“Look, Denny, we was all real sorry what happened to your Mama. We knew your daddy weren't no good, but we didn't know how hard he made it on ya'll. The best thing your daddy ever did for you two was go to prison. He used to get drunk and slap her around. Your mama was a real private person so we didn't know about any of it. Uncle Coot tried to help after your daddy went away, but I think by that time it was too late. I know she don't think too kindly of us, but maybe one day if you're talkin' to her just let her know Coot really was sweet on her. He talked about you two all the time and wished he coulda knowed you better. You would'a really liked Uncle Coot. He was real salt of the earth right to the very end.” Gene looked like he was ready to say more but Rabbit shot him a look and he went silent.

I didn't want to think about that time. I knew there was a reason my mother was always so tight lipped about her time in Corry Mill, but I could have never guessed it was something quite so awful. All day I had heard stories about Uncle Coot, his intelligence, his charisma and most of all his desire to do right by everyone he knew. It clashed with everything I knew about this side of my family. I didn't have anything constructive to add except a heavy silence.

“Well.” Rabbit said finally. “It's starting to get hot and we already gotta full cooler so I think it's time to pack it in.” Gene and I nodded in agreement, and we began trolling our way out of the cove. Suddenly something bumped the bottom of the boat sending it rocking wildly.

“Dammit, Rabbit, watch the stumps!” Gene grumbled.

“There ain't no stumps here.” He tried to reply ,but another thump sounded against the side of the boat.

The thermos with Uncle Coot's ashes tipped over and launched into the water, sinking like a stone into the murky depths. For the life of me I will never know what compelled me to do what I did next. Maybe it was reflex; maybe it was the realization that even though I didn't know Uncle Coot I really wished I had. I jumped into the water and dove in after the thermos without a second thought. The water was a murky brown and hard to see through. When I reached the bottom I could barely see the thermos just at the tip of my fingers. Suddenly a giant maw and eyes big as dinner plates appeared in front of me.

Long whiskers danced in the current, and a long scar across the behemoth's flat forehead glowed in the dim sunlight. This was Catfishzilla. I reached for the thermos at the same time the giant maw opened. Before my eyes Catfishzilla swallowed the thermos and swam away.

"Now somewhere deep in Lake Tawakoni is a giant catfish with a scar on his face and a belly full of Uncle Coot. Catfishzilla may have a bellyache, but at least he got his revenge.”

Dennis Langden smiled as he finished his story. His cousin Lisa handed him a beer while he sat on a lawn chair that had seen better days. Dennis's wife smiled uneasily and cradled their son from across the unkempt lawn. It was going to take some time for her to get used to the people of Corry Mill, yet Dennis knew it wouldn't be long before she fell as much in love with them as he had. A handful of his nieces and nephews laughed at the story he told and chattered to themselves about their Uncle Coot and Catfishzilla.

Maybe next time, Dennis thought, he could convince his mother to come to the next family barbecue. She wasn't ready just yet, but maybe if he told her enough stories about his visits here she would gradually warm up to the idea. The people here were good, and more importantly they were family. Slowly they started to grow on him. Even though his life was very different from those living here it was the place of his roots, and they moved at a pace all their own.

“I gotta ask, but I've always been afraid to. How did Uncle Coot die?”

“Well, Spiderman, that's one hell of a story. Grab me a beer and I'll tell you all about it.”