The Breakout by Scott Hendricks. I met Chief in my tenth year, when I finally mustered the courage to me interrupt to his barn on a cool June afternoon, interrupting him as he split a calm of bamboo. You need something, he asked, not sounding friendly. What are you doing? I said, genuinely interested. Who are you? He said, sounding annoyed, Henry Mason, I answered, walking into his barn, uninvited and mesmerized by the museum inside. You like to fish, he asked, seeming
to accept the intrusion into his rustic sanctuary. In the cracking from the splitting bamboo, stop and Chief stood with an insulted frown. Now you've never been fishing ever, Chief asked, unbelieving that any young boy could reach the tender age of ten never catch a fish. I ain't, never had nobody take me. You be back here early in the morning before the sun rises, and wool fish you hear? My eyes got big, and I agreed. The next morning, I was waiting in the dark before the two large
barn doors. He smiled slightly as he found me sitting Indian style, legs crossed, waiting for him. How long you been here boy, about thirty minutes, I said, as I watched the smile broaden across Chief's face, A thin stream of brown juice thrust from his lips. Under his direction, we lowered one of the canoes using his elaborate pulley system, and each took an end and walked it down to
the edge to the lake. He returned to the barn and retrieved a fly rod from the wall, and soon we both stood along the edge of the lake, and for an hour. Chief instructed me on the proper way to hold and cast a fly rod. He kept time rhythmically clapping his hands, and soon my casts were in time with his clapping. He was able to rein in my knee to use my entire arm as if I were throwing a baseball, and focus that energy into the
flick of my wrist. I practiced with a fly rod daily until I could place a popping bug into a mason jar lid. Satisfied that I was ready, we climbed into the canoe and Chief sculled the paddle smoothly, moving the canoe into the center of the lake. We quietly anchored both ends and situated ourselves perpendicular to a branch that grew from the water in a ragged, arthritic form. You smell that, Chief asked, as he inhaled long and deeply,
but quietly through his nose. I closed my eyes and mimicked him, unsure what I was supposed to be smelling. I smelled stink, I said, as I opened my eyes. Must end riding stink. Well, that's it. What's it? You smell? Bedding bluegill? Chief said, his eyes coming alive and jumping around, surveying the oily water before him. See Chief said, as he pointed with the tip of his fly rod, See them yonder, breaking the surface and rolling. And I did see the rolling forms churned the water as if it
were boiling in a pot. Suddenly Chief lost fifty years, and he and I were the same age. Anticipation grew as he hastily tied on a yellow and orange popping bug, white rubbery legs protruding from its sides, black dots covering the whole of the bug. As instructed, I held fly rod in my hand and watch Chief rhythmically extend the line forward and backward, lightly, placing the bug in the
middle of the boiling water in front of us. As soon as it hit the water, the soft rolls turned into a small explosion, and I heard what would become the familiar plot. The fight was on chiefs rod bent and the tip following the direction of a spastic escape. And when you hook them, you want to be sure to try and ease them away from the bed so that they don't disturb the other fish, he said, as he lifted the rod above his head, pulling the line
toward his lap. He brought the fish to the side of the canoe and into his hand, raising it flat as if he were offering me something to eat. The bluegill glistened in the morning sun. Flashes of purples and rusts and greens shone on the fish as it flexed and flopped back into the murky black water. Your turn, Remember what I told you, Chief said, as he quietly kept rhythm with his hands. My heart was beating wildly
as I began to work the rod. I soon landed my bug close to the same spot where Chief hooked his fish, and the water erupted again. Excitedly, I jerked my line, peeling the bug behind me clear into the next zip code. Now you have to hesitate one Mississippi lifts smoothly. Don't jerk it, Chief counted patiently. I immediately put the bug back into action, and as soon as it hit the water, there was a slight break on the surface, followed by a kerplot one Mississippi, and the fish was on.
A feeling of euphoria enveloped my entire being, and adrenaline pushed through my body. After several seconds, the bluegill was pulled into the canoe, and now in my hand. I surveyed it like a rare treasure, marveling at the coloring. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I took it off the hook and pulled in several more, just like it before. I noticed that Chief was no longer fishing, but just watching and guiding and patiently teaching me. And by the end of the morning, I was a
brim fisherman. I was hooked Chief and I fished every chance we got For several years. After that, I went away to college and finally came home for spring break during my second year. Beforegoing a trip to one of Florida's beaches, all I had on my mind was spending the entire week with Chief. My first stop was the barn, which was closed up tight and cobwebs extended in spots on the doors, creating a bridge between them. I went up to Chief's house and tried his back door. It
was locked and there were no lights on inside. As I walked to the front of the house, Chief's neighbor, Missus Livingston, was in his yard cutting tulips. He's in the nursing home, she said, almost proud that he was, and she wasn't. She never looked up and kept cutting twulips, unfazed that she was trespassing and caught doing so well, Which one I asked, hollering so she could hear the
one connected to the hospital. She said, a decibel higher than my own voice, mocking me as if she could hear just fine, and there was no need for me to speak so loudly. Thank you, I said even louder. You're welcome, she screamed, winning the vocal battle. I stood impatiently at the nurse's station, waiting for his room number when I spotted him. He was standing before a large picture window, cane in hand, staring over a small pond. You think there's any fish in there? I asked, He
slowly turned his whole body to see me. Boy, he said. His eyes danced as he brought a shaking hand to my cheek, cupping it before slowly moving in to hug me. How did you know I was here, he asked, your neighbor I went by your house that old nag. Was she stealing my tulips? He asked, his voice sounding stronger, almost defiant. We visited for an hour. I told him about my trip to Montana. He wanted to know every cast, every change of fly, and every toug on the line.
He was anxious to know what it felt like to catch a wild rainbow trout. He asked if I had fished dry flies only not lie, and I told him I had. I showed him photos of me holding a trout in one hand and a fly rod that he and I built in the other. I wish now I had taken him so we could share those memories. I wish I could have been with you, he said, with a mixture of pride and sadness. I missfishing with you. Boy. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. He
had me follow him to his room. We walked slowly. He sat in his recliner and instructed me to pull a box from under his bed, and as he prompted me to open it, I saw a frame photo of Chief and me. We stood beside each other, each holding the end of a stringer full of bluegill and chinkapins. I hand made rough hewn frame. Surrounded the photo. Carved into the bottom were two words for Henry. Often wondered if he remembered my real name because he only called
me boy, but he did know. I imagine he called me boy because he never had one of his own. I was his boy, Chief. I asked, what is the one thing you want to do before you become one day older? You mean before I die, he said, as a sly smile tilted one corner of his mouth stained with red man tobacco juice. He quickly answered, saving me from having to reply, go fishing with you, boy, his voice breaking, we sat in silence, both unable to speak. His crooked finger rubbed his top lip was trying to
stop the tears. I stood and immediately went to the nurses station. I told the nurse I wanted to take Chief outside for some sun. She soon arrived with a wheelchair and walked us to the door She punched in the code and opened the front doors into the warm spring day. You smell that, Chief asked, slightly, turning toward the small pond. Those bastards are bedding up. After sitting a short while, I told Chief to stay put. Where are you going? He asked. I bent down and whispered
in his ear. Get ready to leave this When I pull up, We're going fishing. A smile flooded his face as he set the brake on the wheelchair and folded up the foot rest, preparing for his escape. I pulled the car in front of him and slung open the door, and with the help of his cane, Chief stood and fell into my car's front seat. Let's go, he screamed. His twelve year old Bobby mac Spencer rode, shotgun pounding
on my dash. From sheer excitement, the joy of breaking out of prison and the prospect of holding a fly rod again had the old man giddy. Is anyone following us? I asked, as adrenaline pushed through me. I don't see anybody, he said, without looking, unable to twist his body to look behind us. We arrived at his house and immediately drove through the backyard to his barn and bouncing across the rolls of his neglected and overgrown garden. There she is,
he said, proudly, smiling. Before I could fully stop the car, Chief opened the door as if he thought he could jump out. The door swung open with a four so strong it swung back toward Chief, and he stopped its momentum with the tip of his cane, swinging his legs out. Simultaneously. I met him and helped him stand, and we both felt above the barn door, eventually finding the key. Except for dust and cobwebs, everything was as he left it. No family was available to pilfer. No one else knew
what treasures lay hidden within the rustic walls. There were two fly rods on the rack that once held a dozen at a time. I left these two here because I hoped we'd go fishing together one more day, he said. I moved the canoe to the lake's edge and set Chief up in the back. After replacing his leader, I rigged up his favorite orange and yellow popping bug and placed the rod in his weak, shaking hand. I watched as his grip tightened on the supple court. I sculled
the canoe into the center of the lake. We quietly anchored both ends, situating ourselves horizontally to the same ragged, arthritic branch that grew from the water. I watched as he moved a shaking thumb to his mouth, sticking his tongue out and placing moisture on the end of it. He robed the grime off the bamboo rod, cleaning his handwritten label Chiefs Rods, Bluegills. Special pride shone across his face as he read it, and this familiar crooked smile returned.
You smell that, he asked again, as he cast his line before him. The bug was quickly and softly sucked into the black depths, the rooster tail of water trail from his line as he raised his rod. The rod immediately bent and the fight was on once again. Okay, let me tell you a little bit about this story. The author, Scott Hendricks, is the author of three. He
has three novels out at the moment. One is called The Garden Spot, the other is called The Resting Spot, and his latest novel is called Justine, which I'm reading right now and it's excellent. It's really good book. This story, the breakout was entered in the Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest, and he one runner up in the twenty twenty five Great American Fiction Contest with this short story. I've had the pleasure of talking to Scott over the phone.
He's a super nice guy. I actually bought these books directly from him, with his autograph on them. I really appreciate Scott. He's a good writer. He's got a great imagination. He's a Southern writer. He's from Mississippi. I'm going to put his Amazon and the description right there at the top, and if you guys are interested in reading some good books, click on that link and take a look at The Garden Spot, The Resting Spot, and Just Dean both excellent.
All three excellent novels. Scott, thank you for allowing me to read your short story. I loved it. It brought back so many memories with me and some of the older guys I fished with, and it just hit home for me and it was like I was there with Chief the whole time. It is a great story and I know why you got runner up, probably should have won it. Thank you, Scott for your permission to read this story. Okay, that's gonna wind this podcast up a
non monster podcast. I'd like to do these every once in a while because these stories are just really good. So I hope you all enjoyed it, and we'll see you on the next podcast.