The Big Bang Theory

“Here’s the deal,” Corky Ferguson told Squinty McGillis and me over gas-station breakfast burritos one morning. “It’s been five years since I dug that trout pond on my property, and I’m convinced I have a problem.”

Of course, Corky didn’t actually dig the pond himself. He paid Harold Firkus to dig it for him. But digging a pond is like remodeling a kitchen or pumping a septic tank. When you bring it up in a conversation, you don’t have to say the part about someone else actually doing it. That’s understood.

Corky had our friend, Professor Earl, survey the pond for him. Now, unlike digging a pond, you do need to say who did the surveying because not all surveyors are equal. Professor Earl wasn’t a school-trained professor like the folks at the university. But he was one of the smartest self-trained people we knew.

Professor Earl said the pond was plenty deep and cold enough to be comfortable for trout. Better than comfortable, really. He said the natural springs kept the oxygen level in the sweet spot—about nine somethings per something—and the pH level hovered right around seven. No somethings per something like oxygen. Just the number seven.

“Like Euclid’s golden ratio,” Professor Earl said, “the pond is perfect.”

Each year since he’d dug it, Corky had the best dry-fly fishing in the state after the guys from the Watersmeet hatchery dumped a batch of new fish into his pond. But even though Corky threw back most of the fish he caught, the situation always deteriorated in a month or two into something worse than bad. At first, Corky wondered if there was a tunnel from his pond to somewhere his trout would rather be. An Underground Railroad, so to speak.

Corky didn’t know all the sciencey things Professor Earl knew about ponds. But he knew one thing for sure: When you dig a pond on your property, it’s essential that all the people who know about it—especially the ones who are old enough to drive but still too young to be tried as adults—know the part about it being your property and how that makes it your pond.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” Corky said between bites of burrito. “Those Anderson twins must be stealing my fish.”

“Did you see them do it?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Did someone else see them do it?” Squinty asked.

“Nobody saw them,” Corky said. “I’ve known those boys since they were tit high to a field mouse. They’re good at stealing trout from other folks’ ponds.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I taught them how to do it,” Corky said. “How else do you think I’d know? Plus, someone’s been feeding Sal peppermint candies.”

Sal was a 1,500-pound Missouri pack mule that stood about 17 hands. The local chiropractor had diagnosed Corky with lumbar equipmentitis from carrying too much equipment on his fishing trips. Eventually, Corky tired of the biweekly adjustments to his spine. Rather than cut back on his accoutrements, as he called them, Corky bought Sal from a Missouri pawpaw farmer.

“Peppermint?” Squinty asked.

“Yeah,” Corky said, “she’s pooping out the wrappers. Them boys must be feeding her to keep her quiet while they’re stealing my trout.”

“Mules like peppermint?” I asked.

“You bet your last nickel,” Corky said. “Two weeks ago, she tore up my Carhartt jacket when I left a tin of Altoids in it. She’s really looking for mints now. If you have any, leave ’em in your car when you come to visit. Better yet, leave ’em at home.”

“So what are you going to do?” Squinty asked. “Have you called the police?”

“They said some hockey-squat about needing means, motive, and opportunity,” he said. “I told them I taught those boys how to steal fish, so I knew they were the ones doing it.”

“How’d that go over?” I asked.

“They told me it was best for me to leave and not risk doing any more incriminating,” Corky said. “Come back when I have solid evidence, they said, which apparently doesn’t include me teaching them to steal.”

“Have you considered that your trout are hunkering down at the bottom of your pond?” Squinty said.

“Trout hunker?” Corky asked.

“Like bullfrogs in mud,” Squinty said. “They like to hang out where the oxygen has more somethings per something. Professor Earl says that can be at the bottom of a pond. Especially in summer.”

“How can we tell if they’re hunkering?” Corky asked.

“If they’re really hunkered,” Squinty said, “they probably won’t bite, not even worms or trout fat. You could dive down there with a mask, but they’re pretty good at moving around and evading.”

“Even when they’re hunkered?” Corky asked.

“Especially when hunkered,” Squinty said.

“So how can we tell?” Corky asked.

“Let’s take a ride,” Squinty said.

Taking a ride with Squinty usually means Marty’s. Especially anytime after 10 a.m., which was when Marty’s opened for breakfast. Steak and eggs were the specialty. Steak being a hot dog. Eggs being two of the pickled variety.

Because we’d had gas-station burritos for breakfast, I figured Squinty brought us here for another reason. I figured it right.

“Squirrelly Temple,” Bun yelled from across the bar. “What brings you here so early?”

Bun was as big as I remembered her from the day she played Squinty’s wife on the scout team to help me practice for my first time as a guide. Bigger, in this setting. The shadows amplified her presence. Daunting, kinda like a Yooper version of Brigitte Nielsen in Rocky IV. She didn’t sit on one of the normal stools at the bar. Instead, she perched atop an old pickle keg with the words bun’s barrel burned into its side.

“I’m thinking you might be able to help us with a problem my friend, Corky, here has,” Squinty said.

“Corky’s cute,” Bun said. “What can Bunny Bun Bun do for you, Mr. Cork?”

Corky’s eyes begged for Squinty’s help.

“Corky has a trout pond on his property,” Squinty said.

“Yummy,” Bun said, winking in Corky’s direction.

I’d never seen Corky sweat like that before. Not even in a sauna.

“He thinks some kids are stealing his fish,” Squinty said, “but there’s a chance they’re just hunkered at the bottom of the pond. The fish, that is, not the kids.”

“I think I know where this is going,” Bun said. “You want to do a survey of the pond, don’t you?”

“We do,” Squinty said.

“And you want to know if I have some quarter sticks to bring those fish up?”

“Well,” Squinty said, “last time we were together, you said you had some in your Mini.”

“I used those on a mailbox,” Bun said. “A fella says he doesn’t want a second date with Bun? Well, he can just pick up his mail at the post office after that.”

I asked the bartender to get a glass of water for Corky. He was losing a lot of fluids, especially through his armpits.

“I have some more at home,” Bun said. “How many do you need, Corky darling?”

Corky had a death grip on the water glass and was pouring it down his throat the way Popeye used to throw down spinach.

“One should be enough,” Squinty said. “Shouldn’t it?”

“Let’s go then,” Bun said. “Corky, you ride with me. You guys go on to Corky’s. We’ll meet you there.”

“Do you think Corky will be okay with Bun?” I asked Squinty.

“He’s pretty tough, you know,” Squinty said. “Remember that time he spilled the whole bottle of Buck Fever Moose Juice on himself? Riding with Bun can’t be worse than that turned out, can it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That moose didn’t have opposable thumbs like Bun.”

When we got to Corky’s place, Squinty and I flipped Corky’s jon boat and hauled it to the edge of the water. Smoke billowed from the windows of Bun’s Mini as she and Corky bounced down the dirt road to the pond. Corky only smoked when he was nervous. Now, he was going after those cigarettes the way Sal had been going after mints.

I didn’t know much about quarter sticks—still don’t, really—but a tsunami of relief washed over me when Squinty caught the one Bun heaved at him as she sprang from the Mini. Corky fired up another of Bun’s cigarettes before getting out.

“You keep puffing like that,” Bun said, “and you’re gonna owe me a couple of packs of smokes, Cork Screw.”

“I’m wondering,” Squinty said, “how you go about surveying a pond, Bun.”

“The same way anyone does it,” Bun said.

“Yeah, me too,” Squinty said. “But for these other guys, can you explain it?”

“You just tie or tape a brick or a rock to the quarter stick, row out to the center of the pond, light the fuse, count to three, then drop the whole thing into the water.”

“That’s the same way I do it, too,” Squinty said. “You guys got that?”

“Whoa now, Squinty,” I said. “I’m not going out there.”

“Well, I can’t do it,” Squinty said. “I need to hold this docking rope so I can pull you guys back in if anything goes wrong.”

“That boat ain’t big enough for old Bun,” Bun said. “It’s gonna have to be you and Corky Pooh.”

Corky was lighting and smoking cigarettes one after another.

“You need to save at least one match for us to light the fuse,” I told him.

“Too late,” Corky said. “But we can use this cigarette if we hurry.”

Corky and I rowed out to the center like Bun said. Well, I rowed while Corky smoked. We forgot to bring a rock or a brick, but fortunately, the boat contained an old milk jug filled with cement that served as an anchor. I used one of my shoelaces to tie the quarter stick to the milk jug. Nerves overtook me, so I had to sing a song just to remember how to tie a bunny ears knot.

Bunny ears, bunny ears
Jumped into the hole
Popped out the other side
Beautiful and bold . . .

“Light it,” I said.

“Just in time,” Corky said. “I’m two drags from finishing off this lung dart.”

Once a few sparks were flying from the fuse, I counted to three and dropped the anchor bomb overboard.

“Did you remember that last loop and tug?” Corky said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You didn’t finish the bunny ears song,” he said. “You stopped before the part where you set the knot.”

“I did?” I asked.

I’ll never forget the sound a quarter stick makes when it hits the underside of a boat after coming loose from a milk jug anchor and floating up from the bottom of a pond. It’s a dull thud that must sound the same as a last heartbeat. I don’t recall the actual explosion. Just the feeling of weightlessness. And the smell of burning hair.

To his credit, Squinty must have thought we were still in the boat because he never let go of that rope. The gods must have been smiling down on him, though. He landed square in the middle of Sal’s hay pile.

Things could have turned out far worse for Bun, but Sal had smelled the Junior Mints in her pocket and pinned her to the ground right before the quarter stick went off. Sal’s rooting must have tickled her mightily, as she giggled throughout the entire episode.

Corky and I reentered the pond before too much of our hair had burned away. Despite the stick exploding under the boat, the shock wave must have made it to the bottom, because Corky and I swam with some of the biggest trout we’d ever seen. The fish must have been hunkering after all.

Our eyebrows grew back after a few months. Until then, we painted ’em like old movie stars and pulled our caps tight down over our foreheads. Bun lost interest in Corky but still visited his place three times a week, her pockets always full of Junior Mints.

The Anderson twins turned out to be older than Corky remembered. Both had left home four years before with scholarships to Caltech. They went there to get away from the winter and study astrophysics. Both smart as whips, the college dean said. Their specialty being the origin of the universe.