Man of Distinction
By Ed Zern
From How to Catch Fishermen published by
Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc. New York (1951)
In a society which emphazies such essentially dull virtues of
intelligence, hard work and ambition, and actually puts premium
on sobriety, I have a difficult time merely to survive, much less to
achieve any slight distinction. Yet because my ego needs massaging
as much as the next man's, I am obliged to cherish any distinction
I am able to attain, however piddling or fortuitious.
The only such distinction I can think of at the moment is the fact that so
far as I know, I'm the only trout fisherman in the world, or at least in
lower Westchester County, New York, who uses a pair of Stork Club
suspenders to keep his waders up.
These suspenders, handed out by Mr. Billingsley to favored male habitues
of his saloon, are bright red in color and of brawny construction excellently
suited to holding up waders. Actually I got the suspenders through no
free-spending merits of my own, but by way of a pub-crawling friend from
whom I swiped them one while while he was in his cups, leaving him to
keep his pants up the rest of the evening as best he could.
Ordinarily I don't go around rolling drunks, but in this case I was tolerably
desperate. I had hunted all over New York City for a pair of old-fashioned
fireman's suspenders, but with trout season just around the corner I had been
unable to find anything sturdy enough to fill the bill. Possibly this was
because Mr. Billingsley has a corner on the entire output; in any case, if you,
too, have difficulty in finding a good pair of wader suspenders, you have
only to catch the next bus to New York and hang around the Stork Club,
wining and dining and scattering largesse among the help until the headwaiter
slips you a pair of red galluses with the compliments of the house. You may
then call for the check, turn pale, pay it, and (if you have bus fare left) return
home and attach them to your waders.
Naturally this would destroy my sole distinction among men, but it's better
than having your waders fall down while you're running downstream with
a five-pound rainbow. And as a matter of fact, come to think of it, I
believe I'm the only surf fisherman in the world who got three flat tires on
a borrowed beach-buggy in one evening and is still on speaking terms with
the owner.
When the time is ripe I'll lend him my Damascus-barreled shotgun and a
handful of super-X shells. ~ Ed Zern
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