The Rapist Read Online Free Page A

fiction? Hardly what one would consider uplifting now, is it? So be thankful that there are doers in the world (both yours and mine) and that everyone is not a simpering, passive creature such as you.
     
    The next morning after my witness of the goings-on in the wood, I had all but forgotten the incident except briefly while drinking my first cafe au lait , but I dismissed it out of hand at once. Last night was last night and today was today. To suffer the vicissitudes of memory is the desperate and shallow act of lesser men: those unfortunate enough to be burdened with a mind empty of weightier thought. When exercising the function of memory, I had more profitably recalled a sonnet of Andrew Marvell or a scene from Aeschylus, both examples far loftier than grubby, nefarious depravations of some inconsequential peasants as they mucked pathetically about on the primeval floor of the forest dark.
    It was at that moment that I made one of those decisions that, as they are endlessly saying, changes the course of your life forever. I was scheduled to receive a haircut that morning but elected to forego the appointment and go fishing instead at the river whose banks wind in lazy esses a quarter of a mile from my abode. I, of course, did the proper thing and phoned Harry the barber (I’ve always chuckled at his name) and canceled my appointment in sufficient time for him to refill it. It’s best to treat others as you would like to be treated, and even though Harry is, of course, merely a tradesman, I give him the benefit of the doubt and count his time valuable, at least to him.
    I remember being in a jejune mood that morning as I prepared my fishing tackle. I had decided against live bait, selecting surface plugs to take instead. Angling inevitably puts me into a sanguine mood. I suffer the company of others, but enjoy solitude more, and fishing is the definitive form of that joyous state. I highly recommend it and prescribe it as a palliative for that most intelligent of all conditions, misanthropy, or the specialized subset, misogyny. A fish is an excellent substitute for, say, a wife. The piscatorial species accept instruction with good humor and practice stoicism, two fine qualities never discovered in any but the rarest of the female species. I know that it (fishing) has aided and abetted me in my approach to life on many occasions. The hours I have spent thus employed have been both enjoyable and utile, the activity allowing me to contemplate in peace and achieve a state of utter relaxation at the same time. That is a side of my nature that you doubtless find difficult to comprehend, considering the short time we have been acquainted, but it exists, I assure you.
    Angling is the one arena in which I allow myself to become a competitor. It’s just you and your wits against the unknown skulking below you in the murky brown depths. There’s a mysteriousness there that compels with it a hint of danger and, at the same time, drops a peace over you like a blissful cocoon.
    As I say, my mood was elevated as I left the house, my South Bend spinning rod and reel carried like a rifle over my shoulder, tackle box in my fist, a spring in my step, shoulders thrust back to fill clean, pink lungs with fresh, cool oxygen, eyes clear of troubles.
    The jaunt to the river bank and my pet fishing spot was uneventful. It was eleven a.m. by the time I reached my destination, and the July sun was already baking the underbrush to a dry crackle beneath my feet. Where I angled was shaded with thick oak and elm trees with their armfuls of dark waxy leaves, and I was quite comfortable. Nestled in my tackle box was a thermos of icy lemonade and ready next to it a full pint bottle of amber Irish whiskey.
    I fished without incident for at least two hours. Not even a hesitant nibble, which is the way I prefer my fishing. If you don’t catch anything, there is no work to do and the whole activity is play and you can’t name another human enterprise