Waterlogged

Above, still seated on the wooden bench, sat Phil. He noticed the slackness of his line and reeled it in a bit, then rested the fishing pole again into the groove of the railing. He jiggled the pole and shrugged. He wasn’t sure if he liked fishing or not.

The two ounce weight he’d attached earlier to his rig skimmed the bloated female body again; the tackle still danced around her head and neck area along with the crabs and pin fish.

Bored, Phil toyed with the shrimp he’d cut earlier for bait, two pieces lie on the railing; it would be only minutes before the sun would dry them to it. Phil chuckled; his father had told him time and again to never leave the shrimp there.

Put the pieces you’re not using back into the bag so they won’t dry out. Phil could hear his father’s admonishing words as he eyed the two pieces; he touched them with his fingers, they felt rubbery; already the sun was baking them. The corners of his mouth curved upward in defiant glee.

Leaning back against the fishing pier bench the young teenager propped his feet against the wooden slats. He reached into a small cooler and fished out a Sun Drop;-it tingled his throat as he gulped it nearly to half empty, then from his shirt pocket he grasped the pack of Pall Mall he had bought earlier that morning at Grocery World.

He thought of the girl there, the one with the wispy blond hair; her name tag said Mindy. She never asked for his I.D. He grinned; she was cute, though a little thick through the middle.

Phil always flirted with her, knowing he could tap that anytime he wanted. But today, he wanted to go fishing or at least he’d been compelled to do so by the urging of his father.

As he lit a cigarette with his father’s