Fly Shop - By Mike Kallok

 

"Can I help you with anything?"

 "Yes, I was wondering if you had any Isoperla Perlodidae?"  An older gentleman in a tweed suit asked.

 "We don't speak Latin here, but we do have plenty of Yellow Sallies.  Biggie's Long Tong Sally has been hard to beat this spring, but we've also got plenty of Mormon Girls, sizes 16 and 18."  I replied, realizing how preposterous the last part my statement would sound to someone who wasn't familiar with the jargon of a fly shop.

"Are you heading to the Stone?" I asked.
"Yes, I though I might." Replied the gentleman.

"Might want to change your plans, I talked to Parks this morning, and he said that the Lamar has been dumping mud for the last two days, I don't think you'll be able to get ahead of it."

"Any other suggestion?" The man inquired.

"The Upper Mad has been fishing well, Mac to Varney."

The man thanked me, and as he headed out the door I answer the phone on the fourth ring, "Biggie's Fly Shop this is Joe."

"Heyyyello," a voice says in some indistinguishable redneck drawl, and after a pause asks, "Y'all sell rifle scopes there."

 "No sir this is a fly shop." Click!  And, as soon as I hang up the phone rings again, "Biggie's this is Joe."

"Yes this is Diana Rockefeller, and I was calling to inquire about your guide service.  My husband and I are going to be staying in Big Sky this August, and we would like a guide for five days.  We used a guide from another shop last year and we were very disappointed.  We had both decided that we wanted only the best guide available this year, do you think that you would be able to accommodate us?"

 "Let me see if he's available, which dates would you like to book?" I asked hoping she wasn't going to ask for a name.

"We are planning on fishing the week of the fifteenth." She replied allowing me just enough time to see which guides were already booked. "And what is your number one guides name?"  I stalled a bit too long double checking the reservation book. "I'm sorry?"

 "I asked you what the name of your best guide is?" Mrs. Rockefeller asked again.

"Oh I'm sorry." Trying to sound stupid and dignified at the same time.  "His name is Ryan Acres." I said confidently.  "Let me give him a call to double check his availability."
"I will expect a call from you this afternoon."

God! I hated dealing with people like her.  Ryan picked up on the third ring.  "Hello." Ryan said, sounding like he had a rough night.

"Get up shithead! This is Joe."

"Oh hey Joe. What’s up?"

"I got a five day trip for you."

"Cool, what's the catch? They're assholes aren't they?"

"Probably, you want it?"

"Yeah, I'll take it, got to work my way up the list somehow don't I?"

"Alright, I'll put you down for the week of August the fifteenth."

"Thanks man."

"Don't mention it."

Mrs. Rockefeller wasn't home, so I left her a message letting her know that Ryan was available, and that I was looking forward to seeing her and her husband this summer.

Milling about the store was a ruddy little man, browsing through packages of Metz Platinum rooster capes.  Each time he picked one up to examine the price, he would let a small whistle escape from around the toothpick that was keeping his mouth otherwise busy.  I called this type of customer "the whistle pisser."  This is the type of guy that drops his wife off at the hair salon, moseys on over to the local sporting goods store in his immaculate late model Cadillac, and affirms his life long abstinence from fishing by examining the prices on what he believes to be the over priced and esoteric elements of the sport before asking directions to the bathroom.

"Can I help you with anything?"

 "Nope nope, just looking around.  Nice place you got here.  Mind if I use your restroom?"

 "Go ahead, just through the back door there."

I never minded the whistle pissers.  It is the people that come in looking for something that we don't have and that they don't need who really get on my nerves.  Usually it goes like this.  Someone that fishes once maybe twice a year comes in from out of town, and they did well with a very specific fly last year.  They feel their fishing vacation is in definite peril if they cannot locate this specific fly.  They will ask desperately something along the lines of,  "Got any female Adams?" Shocked at a negative answer they will continue "What, how can you not carry any female Adams?  I've been all over town and nobody has them." (What you would like to say at this point is that the Adams is a very general May Fly pattern, and you would be willing to bet all the shit in their brains that they couldn't find a fish in the entire state of Montana that has a true gender preference in regards to eating the Adams.)  However, what you end up saying is, "I'm sorry sir, but I believe that the standard Adams will probably work just fine."  To this they will inevitably scoff and look at your answer as an admission of their superior fishing expertise.

The phone rings again; it is Mrs. Rockefeller calling back.  I take down her information and thank her once again.  As I am finishing up the call Phil walks through the door.  Phil is a regular, and his company was always the highlight of my day.  He is a true addict, and a veritable encyclopedia of fishing tales and knowledge.    

            "Hey Joe."

            "Hey Phil, what's new?"

            "Not much, went out yesterday, smacked a toad."

            "How many inches?"

            "Just over twenty-three."

            "Wow! Get him on a streamer?"

            "Yup."

            "Where's Biggie?"

            "Fishin."

            "Yellowstone?"

            "Blown out."

            "Been Fishin?"

            "A bit."

            "Any nice ones."

            "Not for a few weeks."

            "Madison?"

            "It's been O.K."
 

            "They been guidin' it?"

            "I think Johnny was out there the other day, he said it was alright."

            "Could his people fish?"

            "I didn't ask."

            "Huh."

This interjection almost always marked the end the preliminaries, and I knew that for a while I wouldn't have to answer any more questions.  Phil would stand back look at the pictures of fish on the wall, and then stare out the window.  There was something in his unfocused attention that let me know he was searching.  It was almost as if you could see him replaying all of his days on the water, looking for the right one to share with me.