by Ryan Scammell

Spring had been teasing its way into the atmosphere after a number of brutal barbs of winter hit Evanston with deadly accuracy throughout March and April – proving yet again that the God of Weather in the Chicago area has Attention Deficit, Multiple Personality Disorder, Schizophrenia or an ugly mix of all three.

This particular spring day had been a long one. If beer were time, then it was around the 13th hour when my buddy Foster accidentally knocked over the table and Gravity wrestled him to the floor. He remained pinned for his 30-minute rant about Dostoyevsky.

Foster’s bumbling came to a sudden halt when he popped up from the ground and staggered with his head hanging down from the weight of his white mesh Goodrich Construction hat. “Let’s go fishin’!” he said.

We gathered up the troops (names have been protected): the Widowmaker, the Fiend, Shauna (the only girl), Foster and myself (Ben would meet us at the fishing hole later) and headed north to grab the Warden at his fraternity. We found him draped over a couch in his room like a discarded shirt, listening to David Allan Coe’s country ballad opus “Fuckin’ In the Butt” at top volume. He was already fully cocked from 13 hours of drinking and could hardly stand. But his morale was untouchable. Nothing, no god or unknown force could place a roadblock between the Warden and his carp … or at least dare to. I could only try to make out his slurred words:

“Let’s go fishin’ boys. I’m driving.”

***

A warning posted on a local fishing site:
Bighead carp (Aristichthys nobilis) are large, filter-feeding fish native to eastern Asia. Reproducing populations of bighead carp have become established in the Upper Mississippi River System and are spreading upstream in both the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers. If this invasive movement remains unchecked, it is likely that bighead carp will enter the Great Lakes within the next few years. The introduction of bighead carp to the Great Lakes would pose serious threats [to fishermen, plantlife and most indigenous species of fish].

I forget who it was who first said that the best place to catch fish is right underneath a “no fishing” sign (maybe it was Jesus – who can recall, really). Northwestern’s Lakefill happens to be home to a plethora of “no fishing/no swimming” signs, as well as some of the most prime genetically mutated carp north of the Louisiana delta. It had been a long-standing goal of ours to catch one of these leviathan fish (nearly thrice the size of an overweight cat with an appetite for anything from cigarettes to small children.)

The genetically mutated carp can generally ingest anywhere from eight to 10 pounds of human flesh in a single gulp. But, its teeth have been softened from years of eating bread so that on the random occasion that when a small child happens to venture into the shallows of carp den water, four or five carp are necessary to finish off the child.

The Asiatic Bighead Carp (which now comprises 90 percent of the Mississippi River’s carp population and has slowly made its way slowly through the Illinois River and into Lake Michigan) can grow as large as 50 inches and can weigh up to 100 pounds. [website] “When disturbed, the Bighead Carp is known to leap high out of the water knocking fisherman unconscious or out of their boats.

“I was hit three times in 2001 and nine times in 2000,” said fisherman and biologist Eric Gittinger. These things can launch themselves 10 feet vertically in the air and jump up to 20 feet horizontally.” [website] Carp is not a species to be trifled with without expert fishing abilities.

We were armed to the teeth: A customized carp-fishing rod (a rod missing it’s top half), a pitchfork for spearing, and a small fishing net. We made our way along the small section of sand by the bridge just east of Regenstein Hall. The Warden and I stood in the water. The fish were everywhere, swarming and darting in all directions through the tiny shallow inlet. At this proximity, the fishing pole was worthless. I was wielding the net trying to swiftly sweep down and catch one as it passed by my ankles, but the bastard fish were smarter than they looked. It seemed they could smell the scent of the blood-thirsty carp hunter. Just as my foot moved in the water, the carp sped away. They knew their time was short.

I tried to scare them towards the Warden. He switched between trying to catch them in a small army satchel and the barehanded grab. Shauna, the Widowmaker, and the Fiend stood on the bridge (a better vantage point) to shout and point out where the fish were. But the hellbeasts were too damn quick. The moment we’d see one, it would dart in the other direction.

Suddenly, like thunder through my spine, I felt its teeth catch upon my Achilles tendon. “The bastard fish has got me!” I screamed. It was digging deep into my leg – I could swear that I could feel its entire mouth around my foot. I wondered – could it swallow me whole? I tried to beat it off by smacking it with the wooden end of the fishnet. Another one of the mutant carp swam by my legs. Were they planning an attack on humankind? Had these slow-witted fish wisened up and begun plotting to overthrow the world?

And then, like a bolt of lightning cast from Zeus’s own hand, a pitchfork pierced right through the center of the carp’s belly. It loosened its jaw. I was free. The pitchfork, so accurately thrown by the Warden, lay only about three inches from my ankle. To this day, the fact that a man that drunk could throw a pitchfork that accurately still astounds me. We estimated the fish weighed around ten pounds at 18 inches long.

We had our prize, so we hopped in the back of Ben’s and took off to my fraternity to cook the fish. There was a keg in the back, which we began to drink, and a small bucket where the skewered fish flopped around.

***

We were stopped at the corner of Sheridan and Chicago when a cop car pulled up behind us. We all dropped to the floor, wriggling our heads in between the shoes of the person next to us. We knew we were fucked – illegal fishing plus a car full of minors drinking a tapped keg in the back of a moving pick-up. I took another plug from the keg. I figured if we’re caught, we’re caught, might as well make the best of it. “What are you doing?” Shauna said. She stared at me in awe. I shrugged and passed her the spout and she plugged too. All the sounds in the world seemed to fade out except for the thin and constant hum of the cop car sitting only feet behind us.

I thought to myself, “Honestly officer, I didn’t know it was a crime to sit in the back of a pick-up truck. Oh sure, we’ve been drinking, but not from this tapped keg. Certainly not. We’re good college kids, really. Northwestern. Oh this fish? The rods? Well. ... ”

There were seven of us. If we moved fast enough the Widowmaker and the Warden could handle one of the cops, and Shauna and I could take the other, I figured. If we did it quickly enough we could probably get them in handcuffs and avoid their pepper spray.

The flashing lights suddenly burst on like spotlights piercing into my carefully hidden failures. My heart hit the concrete. Then all of a sudden, the cop tear-assed past us down the road (it had gotten a call about some drunk kids pissing on a local’s garden gnome.) We bolted up and gave out rebel yells like reveling pagans and passed around the keg again.

The Warden decided that one close call deserved another, so he turned on his right hand blinker (note: there is no road to the right) and bolted at the corner of Sheridan and Chicago over the sidewalk and tiny shrubs and into the cul-de-sac of University Place. Half of us had nearly lost our bowels in front of each other (which, in retrospect, actually seemed to leave a lasting bond of friendship).

“Hold on!” the Warden screamed. “We’re doing donuts!” We raged with fear hard-ons as he swung into the sorority quads and popped the e-brake. The car spun so fast that we were pasted to its walls. The keg flew straight off the back of the truck and landed on its side in the grass. If death had a face it could have been seen in the headlights spinning around Kappa Alpha Theta, Delta Gamma, and Phi Mu Alpha. The Warden popped his head out of the window like prairie dogs do out of their little holes. He smiled. All of us in the back looked like posterboys for scared shitless.

Shauna and I were convinced the Warden had gone off the deep for good. We got out of the car and agreed to meet the rest of them at the fraternity where we’d grill the fish. I felt guilty for killing something that I wasn’t going to eat, so I ate what I could of the fish (most of the meat burned and fell into the grill).

We drank until we were drunker than drunk. At one point I skewered the fish’s head onto a knife and made it try to pickup women. Later the Fiend melted some cheese on the head and put it in a bun and tried to pass it off as some ghastly hamburger to drunk-beyond-repair party guests. Nothing out of the norm really.

But I wondered what the girls in the sorority quad would think the next morning—trudging off to macro at nine a.m., eyes fighting to stay open, when they’d come across a perfect circle of mud wrapped around an untapped and nearly empty keg. Perhaps they’d think it was aliens. But certainly none would expect it was the work of extremely literate maniacs that hid in the corner of their classrooms, studying Anna Karenina and the Brothers K with unparalleled vigor, reeking of Lake Michigan and skewered carp.

Scammell looks oddly attractive wearing pink panties as a shirt. What’s your opinion: r-scammell@northwestern.edu.