South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool Page B

physically was the one who prevailed, no matter what the issue of debate. And being older and bigger, Donny had always been the dominant of the two.
    But now Earl noticed, and not without some element of pride, that his younger brother could hold his own. Earl had never felt intimidated by Donny. They had always been pretty evenly matched as boys. On one occasion, Donny had pushed an issue just a bit too far, and Earl had gone berserk. He had actually knocked Donny to the ground, bloodying his nose. From that point on, there had been an unspoken understanding between the two friends that, if necessary, Earl could take Donny down. That didn’t stop Donny from tormenting Earl with his smart-ass attitude from time to time, but it did establish a boundary that Donny knew not to cross.
    The situation between Donny and Ed was now becoming a little too tense for comfort. Earl decided that it was time to change the subject.
    â€œHey, Eddy boy, remember that time Pops caught the hundred-pounder?”
    Ed’s mind quickly flashed to an old photo of himself, Earl, and his father standing before a long sturgeon hanging from a hook attached to a scale, with a reading of just above a hundred pounds.
    â€œYep, that was a hell of a day,” he muttered.
    â€œYep,” said Earl, now addressing Donny. “It was Derby Day at the club.”
    Donny shot Earl a curious look. “What club?”
    â€œPops used to belong to the San Pablo Sportsman’s Club down there toward Point Richmond. They tore it all out around ’84. Howard Hughes used to have some seaplanes stored out there right next to the old Ford plant.”
    â€œYeah, I remember that!” Ed exclaimed. “I was thinking of that when we left the marina this morning. Whatever happened to those planes?”
    â€œI don’t know. They got scrapped out or somethin’. Santa Fe owned that land. When the lease ran out, they shut down the club. That’s where they got the new marina now. Anyways, it was Derby Day, and Pops won first prize with that sturgeon. Got him a new Penn spool reel.”
    â€œI just remember it taking forever to get that fish in.”
    â€œWell, he always used pretty light gear.”
    â€œTwenty-pound test,” recalled Ed.
    â€œEighteen-pound test, bro. Eighteen.”
    â€œBullshit!” shouted Donny in disbelief.
    â€œWhatcha mean, bullshit ? Hell, that’s what’s on that pole right there,” said Earl, pointing to his rod.
    â€œYeah? Well, fuck, I’m glad I’m not using your gear then. You ain’t gonna land shit with that.”
    â€œHundred-pounder, bud.”
    â€œYeah, you guys tell some pretty tall fuckin’ stories. Like that 300-pounder you say your uncle caught.”
    â€œBiggest fish I’ve ever seen. I remember goin’ over to Uncle Pete’s. The whole family was there. Shit, the whole neighborhood was there! I was pretty young.” Earl looked at Ed for a moment and then added, “Hell, you were little, bro. I remember Dad carrying you on his shoulders.”
    â€œYeah, I remember that. I thought it was a whale.”
    â€œShee-it! Fuckin’ whale,” Donny laughed as he rose to check his bait.
    â€œYep. I remember the tailgate was down and that sturgeon’s head was on the edge. Its tail ran all the way up the back of the cab.” Earl stared at Donny to make his point. “And that was in the late ’60s, when they made real pickups. Not these midsized, econo-bullshit Japanese trucks.”
    â€œThree hundred pounds?” Donny asked skeptically.
    â€œIt was over 290. He was on the news.”
    â€œWhat’s the record for sturgeon?” asked Ed.
    â€œI think it’s 500 pounds or somethin’ like that. Caught over in Crockett. Right under the Carquinez Bridge. They got it on display there in town at the museum.”
    â€œNo shit?”
    Donny was now fiddling with his hooks, preparing them for