Fish Still Fear Him

I began immediately kidding my brother-in-law when I saw the shirt he was wearing the summer morning we were all heading to Holiday World in Santa Claus, Indiana with our families: WOMEN WANT ME, FISH FEAR ME. It was a cartoonish bass and buxom women. Too happy buxom women.

“Are you really wearing THAT?”

“Yeah, it’s my new T-shirt.”

“I can’t believe you are wearing THAT!”

“What? You don’t like it? What’s wrong with it?” He grinned.

I didn’t think that question deserved an answer. It was obvious! And he seemed pretty proud of that stupid shirt, not embarrassed to have it draped over his chest in public. I was embarrassed enough for all of us.

Every summer since their two oldest grandsons could walk, my parents took my sister Geri’s and my families to one of the Midwest’s most popular amusement parks. By the time we had five boys between us, the trip was the highlight of everyone’s summer. We would pile into two vans. My husband Jim and our brother-in-law (let’s call him Big Rich, to protect his identity) went in one vehicle with two or three of the oldest boys. Geri and I were happy to get away from sports and fishing for awhile and always rode in the other van with Daddy, Mother, and the younger boys. Our two-hour drive was loud and fun. There was singing, laughter, and storytelling. The boys were bubbling over with excitement and kept us entertained the entire way.

As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, the eleven of us and that ridiculous T-shirt had looped around the paved paths together, stopping to ride roller coasters and other holiday-themed rides, drink lemonade, and slather on more and more sunscreen. It just enough time for everyone in the park to see and envy that shirt. Even the late-comers. When we had seen and done everything we had hoped to on dry land and the heat became unbearable, we went to the attached water park to cool off. Each family changed into swimsuits and put our belongings into rented lockers. Finally. The T-shirt was stuffed into a locker. Or so we thought.

We splashed and played on slides and rode water rides until we felt we would keel over from too much sun, while Maw Maw and Paw Paw took it easy under shade trees. The boys denied they were tired as we drug them to the changing rooms. We divided kids into manageable numbers for all of us and disappeared into the dressing rooms. When Big Rich came out, he checked his family’s locker again. He was searching high and low, with no shirt on. Hmmm, his precious T-shirt was missing. I began to laugh. Then he accused me of taking it. If I had thought of it, I would have. It would have been a perfect prank, but he was giving me way too much credit.

He kept whining about the shirt, telling me to give it back. I really did not take that ugly shirt. If he truly put it in the locker without losing it between the changing room and locker, then someone stole it. Wait. They would have to know it was in there in the first place and then pull the 2 XL size through one of the five 1/4″ slits in the door. And that means the perpetrator would have seen it on him and followed him to the locker. Highly unlikely. And they would have admired the hideous thing. Even more unlikely. That means some random person had the same high standards as my brother-in-law. Impossible! He had to have dropped it before reaching the locker. Or the employee with the master key thought it was too great a prank not to pull.

“Did you check the trash cans?” I said, thinking that was the only logical place for it to be.

“I know you took it. You hated it.” He was more than annoyed with me, and expected me to hand it over.

Big Rich checked with Lost and Found, but he knew in his heart of hearts the culprit (if there really was one besides me) would never turn it in; it was far too valuable. We eventually made our way through the park toward the exit in our dry clothes. All except Big Rich. He was clinging to a wet towel pinched tightly together at his sternum. I felt a little bad for him, but it didn’t last long.

Big Rich claimed the T-shirt was newly purchased when he chaperoned the high school senior trip to Florida that year. One of the senior boys he fished with, who had similar “taste” suggested he buy it, so he did. Again, I almost felt sorry for him, but he may have made that story up to try to make me feel bad.

For the next twenty-five years, I told Geri one of these days I would find him another WOMEN WANT ME, FISH FEAR ME T-shirt, because while I would never admit it to him, I did have a heart and would have loved to find the exact shirt for him. But those were the days before Etsy and Amazon. Everytime I went into a sporting goods store, I checked the clothing racks. I secretly hoped I’d find one on clearance, not wanting to pay full price for that foolsih shirt.

When Big Rich retired, I didn’t want to miss my chance to both roast and surprise him with a replacement. I ordered one off the Internet and it was to arrive before the retirement party. It didn’t. My PayPal account was soon credited because the company I ordered it from no longer existed. I don’t think it ever did. So, I did the next best thing. I printed out a picture of the non-existent T-shirt and safety-pinned it to an old, holey and yellowed, plain T-shirt of my husband’s. At the retirement party, I told the story and presented him with the cruddy old T-shirt. It was perfect, in my opinion. And I still maintained my innocence. I don’t have a heart of stone.