Chapter 8: You Be the Painter and I’ll Be the Critic
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

     “A long time ago,” I began, “before you were born and then some, I spent my salad days wandering from one small town to the next, catching trout and fileting them down into silvery slick trout metaphors. As it happened, these metaphors turned a generation’s worth of madness into a sort of laughable irony. It was a tedious process, certainly, but it wasn’t without its rewards. I was far and away the most famous trout fisherman in America. I even made the cover of Field and Stream.
     “But by the time the Vietnam War ended, nobody had much use for trout metaphors anymore.
     “Even the trout were bored.
     “‘Get real,’ one trout told me. ‘Go pick on a slab of concrete or something. Go drop acid with Bob Dylan.’
     “‘What’s up your ass, mister?’ I asked, carefully gliding the hook out of his oversized mouth.
     “He just sneered, belching up a stream of fetid fishwater that trickled down my arm and held a reunion in the cuffs of my pants. ‘None of your goddamned business you hippy freak,” he said at last. ‘Now if you don’t mind, you’re holding me up here. I have some packing to do.’
     “‘Packing?’ I asked, a little surprised. ‘And just where do you think you’re going?’
     “‘I’m not sure, exactly,’ he said. ‘But you can bet your bagpipes I won’t be hanging around with assholes like you anymore. I mean, what have you ever done, anyway? Raised a little “Social Consciousness?” Big deal. No offense, pal, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, that’s what I always say.’
     “At this point, I was both surprised and a bit crestfallen. After all, I’d built my entire adult life on trout metaphors, right down to the trout oil I mixed in with my Grapenuts every morning. And never once had I even picked up a bagpipe.
     “‘Just one last question then, you ungrateful fish,’ I said. ‘If you’re not going to let me shape you into a metaphor anymore, then what’s left? What on earth will you do?’
     “The ungrateful trout frowned, in that peculiar way ungrateful trout have of frowning. ‘I’ll probably just swim around for a while,’ he began, squirming. ‘Maybe sow some wild oats or something. What difference does it make to you, anyway?’
     “The trout was wriggling violently now, but I was used to this, being the foremost authority on trout fishing in America. I pressed my thumb firmly on his tail, pinning it to his underbelly until he couldn’t move. ‘Don’t you get it?!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘It’s over, man! You’re too late! The Big Orb is pissed off! Mother Earth is drawing up the eviction notice, for Chrissakes! Enjoy the time you’ve got left. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, you dig? Now let me go and I won’t press charges.’
     “So I did, and he didn’t. And then he swam away.”

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Chapter 9