The fisherman was coming from the pond after a tough day with no bites. His car was in the empty parking lot except for one other car. The other car was parked next to his with a man he would learn is Charlie B.
Drinking a plastic gallon of water with his trunk open, Charlie B stood at 6”4. He was old but not senile. He was someone unlike anyone else the fisherman had ever met. “Any fish in there?” He asks.
“I didn’t have any luck today,” the fisherman says.
“Well, you know, 30 years ago I used to be just like you.”
“Very cool.” Says the fisherman, 17 years old.
“I am Charlie B, the world's greatest philosopher.” He says, matter of factly. Who is this crazy man, thinks the fisherman, how could he be the world's greatest philosopher? This man does not seem like Socrates or Plato or Aristotle.
“Do you ever catch any trout?” Charlie asks.
“Well, upriver I caught almost 10 this weekend.”
“That’s very cool, brookies?”
“A few brooks, some rainbow, and one brown,” the fisherman says.
“I used to live in White Plains and I would come here to catch trout. Do you know Lake Ave?”
“Yes, I live right by there.”
“Well, if you go to Butternut Hollow, there is a reservoir with some really big fish.” Charlie tells the fisherman. “One time, I went out on a beautiful summer day, like today. Well, maybe it was in June actually. It was dark, 8pm maybe, and I was throwing a black artificial worm. The water was smooth as glass. Then I saw the biggest splash,” He gestures with his hand his whole wing span, “Was just his tail. I dragged him all the way to the weeds and he must have been 10-12 pounds.”
“That would have been a state record?”
“Then with one jolt, he snapped my rod and my line, swimming free into the night sky. It was some crappy trout rod, you know.”
“Wow that is crazy” The fisherman says, trying to end the conversation.
“I used to be a taxi driver for 30 years. For 10 of them, I worked 7 days a week and in the limo division. I never saw my wife, maybe that is why we have lasted so long.” Charlie says. The fisherman still doesn’t know why this man is the world's greatest philosopher.
“I drove around Micheal, he was Ray Dalio’s neighbor in a limo. Isn’t that crazy?” He asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” says the fisherman.
“You know, Charlie B is big up on superfoods.”
“Like an avocado?”
“You know what an avocado is?” Charlie asks, surprised.
“Yes, I really like them.”
“Well, you eat well right? I won’t bore you with super foods.”
The fisherman nods.
“I am working on a book, ‘Romeo’s Walk.’ It is about my Shitzu who died, Romeo. The first few days when he died were hard. He had been in my life for 12 years when my daughter asked me to babysit him and never took him back. I couldn’t bring him anywhere with all of the ticks, I was always at home.”
“I realized his death freed me, I had to celebrate his life. I think when a person dies, it frees you even when it hurts.”
The fisherman nods again.
“Well, Charlie B always keeps his quotes on him,” he says, pulling a mess of crumpled and stained papers from his breast pocket on his button down shirt. It contained barely legible words and many creases from countless folds. After examining his papers, “Well, I don’t need these anyway since I remember all of my quotes.”
“Before you go, let me leave you with one thing,” Charlie says to the fisherman, backing away.
“Here is one of my quotes, `I am an artist, but I can’t draw, my art is in my heart,” he brings his hand to his chest.
“That is good shit, right?” Reaching his hand out for a fist bump.
“Yeah,” the fisherman says, reluctantly fist bumping this strange old man.
“One more thing, if you ever meet a magician or someone else, and they perform a small miracle, like turning water into wine--that would be pretty great right?-” “That would be great”
“-I always give them a bow, because who knows if they are the one,” Charlie proceeds to bow. “That is some pretty good shit, right?” Putting his hand out for yet another fist bump.
“Yes,” the fisherman says, giving the peculiar man another fist bump.
“I remember when I went up to Kenisco Reservoir, have you ever been around there?” “Not yet.”
“I put my last worm on this little hook. The worm was on its last breath. I threw it all the way out. Bum Bum Bum,” Charlie imitates the rapid bends of a rod during a bite, “And he flew out of the water with my worm. It was the biggest smallmouth bass I have ever seen. Last worm of the day too, that’s pretty good shit, right?”
“Yeah, that’s awesome, how big was it?”
“Must have been 4 or 5 pounds, I think. You know, my son is a cop in Long Island, more of a detective I think. They make good money,” Charlie pulls out his wallet, showing an old expired police license, “See there he is. And he is married to a wealthy blonde Russian who worked at Bloomberg, that’s the life, huh?” The fisherman nods again. “Well, when they were dating, she asked if he was dating her for her 800 credit score. Could you imagine that?” The fisherman shakes his head. “My kids will have a few million, I wish I knew about all this when I was younger.”
“Well, when Charlie B’s plan works out, I am going to get myself a midnight blue Carrera with white leather seats for the lady. And, if that doesn’t work out then I will just go fishing since that makes me happy too. It was nice talking to you.” “Nice talking to you too.” The fisherman gets in his car, leaves, and calls his friends to tell them all about Charlie B.