gone fishing

The windows were shut, the door locked; a lone sign hung loosely in the breeze.

He peered closer to read the sign and then threw his hands up in disgust.

So I wasn't in the office today.

Or yesterday.

Or the day before that.

Instead, here I am, tie untied, slacks rolled up to the knee, bare feet swinging inches above the water, trying to tease the Loch Ness Monster out of the shallows with my naked toes. At first, the silence was refreshing to my bruised ears, but now the thick sound of near nothingness was almost painful. I almost miss the dull roar of life, the murmur of movement, of people doing and going about their day--almost.

Now, all I can hear is the faint sounds of calm water lapping against the rotting wood. It's dead out here. The bucket is empty and the rod is still. I feel like the Old Man and the Sea, except I'm not old (yet), I'm not in the sea, and I have no idea what I'm trying to catch--still stressing out over what bait to throw, what hooks to use, which lines are the strongest. Why am I sweating the big catch when I can't even get the little greedy ones to bite?

My patience is wearing thin. Maybe I should go back. At least I get paid to sit there and be miserable. At least there's food on the table every night. Out here, if I don't catch, I don't eat--and I'm starving. The ringer on my phone is off but all the calls I'm neglecting are clanging loudly in the back of my mind.

But perhaps there's a better way to fish than wishful thinking on the dock.

Perhaps I need to get into the water.