A Fish Tale
I was in my late 20s, working at a small town weekly newspaper near Chicago.
My unofficial job title was 'jack-of-all-trades'.
I wrote feature articles, covered some courthouse politics, took photographs, and sold advertising.
About the only thing I didn't do was sweep out.
We had a building custodian for that.
He was union.
On Friday afternoon, at the end of my first week of employment, my boss, the editor/publisher, stopped by my desk. We'd just put the paper to bed for that edition.
"Wanna go fishing?"
"Uh, sure. When? Tomorrow?"
"Nope, this afternoon."
"Oh, OK. I need to go home for a few minutes to change clothes and get my fishing tackle."
"Nope, I've got everything you need. Come on."
I grabbed my sport coat and followed him out the front door.
We walked across the street to the commuter train station.
And into the bar.
We sat down and he ordered a beer.
I ordered a beer.
The beers came with a good sized bowl of pickled herring.
"NOW", he said, "This is MY kind of fishing."
My kinda guy.
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