We take a walk in the woods in Rockwood Park, way the hell over on southside. On a trail bordered by chunks of trees felled by Hurricane Isabel last September, we walk downhill to the wind-rippled pond. A sign is nailed to a tree: "Private Pond No Fishing". We follow the trail around the pond and additional signs remind us that we may not fish.
"Do they really have a problem with too many people fishing?" Oz wonders.
"I guess they can't stand the sight of kids catching sunfish or whatever they have in here," I say.
Further along we see another sign thirty feet out in the water: "No trespassing". On this side of the pond within view of the sign there is no boat access and the banks are steep enough to discourage wading.
"Yeah, if you're going to be walking on water, don't do it here!"
We continue to observe the "No fishing" signs and wonder why the emphasis on fishing.
"Maybe the community association that owns the pond keeps it stocked with bass or something?"
"Liability?"
The trail bends around an inlet and the houses on the other side of the pond come into view. The houses are huge and the lawns are maintained by persons with a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Doubtless these are the same persons responsible for the signs. I spin a scenario:
Mrs. Herbert A. Jones sits in her glassed-in Florida room and gazes out over the pond while she swills her third martini of the afternoon. She spies some activity in the county park on the other side. It's those damn kids again, wholesome ten-year-olds with bamboo poles and red and white plastic bobbers messing around on the banks. Little fuckers! She sucks the olive into her mouth and bites it fiercely, chipping a tooth on the pit. She spits the olive back into the glass and, without bothering with the ice or the shaker, pours in a few more ounces of gin. They look wholesome now, sure. All cute and "Look at the fish, Mommy!" Squinting across the water, she considers her own Herbert Junior and the indictment last week, then picks up the phone to report a nuisance to the community association chairman.
374 words | April 4, 2004 07:55 PM | Real true story