We stare out at the lake, but not really seeing it. We sit quietly, side by side. We sit as if planted in the earth like our fishing rods, and just as lifeless and immobile.
You now seem agitated by some thought. Seeing the disruption, I dare to ask you what is troubling you, breaking our silence.
You remark that you were thinking about the movie you saw last night, that film Zodiac.
I admit to never having seen it. I ask what it was about.
You lived in San Francisco when the killings occurred, you say. I ask what do you mean, what does it have to do with San Francisco. You tell me the movie is based on the true story surrounding a serial killer who operated in and around San Francisco.
I say that I suppose it was the violent scenes that troubled your mind just now. You say not really, although one of the scenes was right by a lake like this one. I stay quiet and do not respond. In the stillness it seems strange to think of violence.
We continue in silence. I watch you out of the corner of my eye.
Suddenly you say squirrel is a great side dish to most fish courses.
I nearly jump into the lake with utter surprise. What did you say, I must have misheard.
Sheepishly, you tell me I heard what I heard. You say on some of your wilderness expeditions, you trapped squirrels and ate them alongside fish dishes you prepared. You said it was quite good, much better than I would think. I nod, still a little bewildered, but normalcy is returning.
I settle back into my seat and adjust my fishing rod. Still not a bite. I ask if you saw a squirrel, what prompted such a remark.
You say you did not see a squirrel.
I wait. After a few moments, I ask you again what prompted such a remark, and you go on.
You say the movie Zodiac brought on the thought. I am completely baffled as to the connection and say so.
You tell me about a scene in which the killer's trailer is searched by the police and found to contain squirrels. Squirrels? Yes, many of them, you tell me. In cages, crawling around the trailer, in the fridge. Squirrels and more squirrels.
How strange, I say. In the fridge, did he eat them?
You do not reply. We settle back into our silence. There is not a breath of wind, and we are all still.
Squirrels as a side dish to fish, what peculiar concept. And a serial killer with squirrels in his fridge, what madness. My thoughts travel down strange roads, and I begin to smile to myself with amusement as such strange and fanciful thoughts.
Our quiet reverie is disrupted once more. This time, it is the anticipated event: we have a bite. Your rod is the lucky one, and we pull ourselves out of the stillness. On your feet, you adroitly reel in our dinner. I am on my feet, excited, not as calm and collected as you are.
Brown trout. Flailing does him no good, you say proudly. I say it is good dinner we have tonight.
Your eyes begin to glow with an idea. Excitedly, you tell me you have squirrel in your fridge if we want to accompany our fish with a side dish.
There is an awful silence. I stare, speechless, and just a little disturbed.