chance is slimmer than that chick in calvin klein pantses

145-Minutes of Commute: Friend or Foe - Jay Z

Be stunned: I went fishing

It is Saturday morning, 6:30 am, not a ray of light even caressing the horizon, and, to boot, the first cold morning since summer arrived this June; I am awake and cursing myself over and over. Luckily, by the time we reach my favorite deli in Ardsley I am looking forward to the promise of a relaxing day out-of-doors spent with a good friend. Oh and a fresh-fish dinner at night, because even if I don't catch any, chances are that QB will.

We drive to the dock, find a spot on the "party boat", and optimistically add 2-bucks each to the pool for biggest fish of the trip. I am, as usual, not dressed for the cold. Still, the sunrise is quickly filling the sky so we stay on deck eating our egg-and-cheese bagels as the boat pulls away from the dock. Finally the boat stops; the school of blue fish that the captain has found are so plentiful that they are jumping out of the water. The captain's yell comes to us garbled through the loudspeaker: "drrrrop 'em down ta' tha bottom. reeeeeeeeel 'em up fast."

QB teaches me the simple technique (drop the lure down to the floor of the water, then reel it up as fast as you can; if you haven't caught a fish by the time the lure is half way up, you're probably not gonna), which I think I do a fabulous job of following. Unfortunately the first few spots our boat hits leave our boat fish-less. Then, all of a sudden, we hit gold. For the next two or three hours it seems like men are dropping lively fish on the boat's deck every ten seconds. Fish-blood flies everywhere and I am constantly kicking fish back to their owners. By noon I have deftly reeled in not one but two fish, both of which I proudly stash in my bucket and poke at as I regale them with tales of their fate (my dinner). Then I turn to QB and regale him with tale's of my dinner-to-be (he has yet to catch any). Then QB and I sternly correct the fish-boat-guy when he sees "QB's" fish and laughs at my lack thereof. Chauvinist bastard. Then I turn to my fish and to QB and tell them my dinner fantasies again. In the next four-and-a-half hours of boating we eat our Ardsley-deli sandwiches, drink the boat's Budweiser beer, play cards and nap inside. QB catches one fish (smaller than both of mine!), I catch none, and the three guys on our right catch 24 between them! They take no pity on us and walk away with all 24.

The men on our left are a 7-party crew. They keep calling a co-worker to brag about their Saturday off, their out-door trip, the beer they are consuming, and the fish they are catching. One man in particular, we'll call him Ernest, is particularly loud and obnoxious on the phone. Halfway through the day, during one lull between fishing-spots, I am leaning against the railing and QB is sitting across from me on the bench. A large man with grey hair wearing a Yankees cap and large, black sunglasses, we'll call him Tommy DeVito, walks over from the other side of the boat and stands close to me and amidst the group of 7. He stands in front of Ernest, who is seated on the same bench as QB (there is a pile of clothes separating them) and leans in close to Ernest, resting his hands lightly (but with a subtle, delicate menace) on Ernest's shoulders.

"You got a problem with my brother?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ernest flutters."Oh, really?" Tommy's very wide back is to me and is blocking my view, but apparently he starts to choke Ernest. (QB later confirms this: "Ernest's face started turning red!") Ernest's skinny Brazilian friend (who earlier would not stop complaining about the first fish he almost caught but then bit the lure clean off the line, so we'll call him Violet Beauregarde) incredulously asks Tommy what the hell he thinks he's doing. The world goes into slow-motion as I realize that Tommy is maybe not-so-sane. Tommy reels around (slowly), one hand still on Ernest's throat, and pull out a black piece of plastic. He flicks his hand and a 6-inch blade pops out of the plastic. The knife's blade gleams in the sun as Tommy lays it against Beauregarde's throat. "I'll fucking slash your throat!" he yells. For a brief moment I am sure Tommy is going to cut Beuregarde's throat and the blood on my shirt will no longer be indicative of the fresh fish dinner to come, but fright and violence and tragedy and murder. Somehow, Beauregarde and another friend manage to grab Tommy by the arms; Ernest spits and guffaws, trying to catch his breath.

Tommy's friend, so stupid and pumped up on steroids that we'll call him White Mike Tyson, charges through two of the other four friends before getting caught. He,too, is screaming threats of murder. (QB and I have by now slinked off to the bow of the boat, out of the reach of the fray.) A few punches are thrown before two large 6'4", 250lb, uninvolved twins and the boat's crew come over to pull the tangle apart.

White Mike cannot be calmed down, "When we get back you're fucking dead! You're DEAD!" His voice lowers, but his blood does not, "Don't know who you're fucking with. I just make a few calls I'll have a whole crew there waiting for you. Don't know who you're fucking with!"

White Mike and Tommy are pulled off to the other side of the boat and the rest of the boat shakes their collective head in disbelief. The boat is not large; we hear bits and pieces of the story for the rest of the day: Tommy DeVito has a brother. His name is Joe. (In case you didn't know, Joe is a very uncommon name.) Tommy overheard Ernest as he bad-mouthed his co-worker over the phone all morning. Ernest's co-worker's name is Joe. Now, if that isn't a coincidence, I don't know what is. Naturally there is no reason to calmly ask if the Joe who Ernest is yelling at is the same Joe who is DeVito's brother, because there can only be one Joe in New York State.

The trip ends without further ado. I do not win the pool. Men offer to help me get my fish cleaned and filleted because QB is knocked out and it seems girls can't get fish cleaned on their own. How they would help me? Would they stand in line for me, tell the boat-guys to clean my fish, and then tip them a whole 4-bucks? My saviors!

Police and their cars crowd the dock when we arrive. Meat-heads and obnoxious guys are isolated and questioned. We drive back to Ardsley, and PapaQB - whose cooking I can't get enough of - is nice enough to grill the largest fish for us.

Yes, the fight is most exciting story to tell, but it was the rest of the day that I really enjoyed. So thank you, QB, for a fun, out-of-my-ordinary day.