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I stopped by our local bait shop, Gone Fishin'. I pulled up hoping the owner wasn't in, but there he was hanging his cardboard, handwritten sign in the door. It read, of course, Gone Fishin', but I knew that they weren't closing yet, he just loved annoying his son and partner, Tom. Even more, he liked to watch customers come up, stop with their hands on the doorknob, read the sign, then shade their eyes and peer in the window to see if anyone was in. He'd laugh and wave them in for Tom to explain the joke.

Virgil had a stroke a few years back, so Tom really ran the business. The stroke stripped Virgil of the ability to speak intelligibly, except to those of us that knew him well, but it didn't rob him of the ability to read my mind, or his desire to mess with me.

"Hi Virgil." I greeted, too innocently.

"Mmmhhff" He grinned back with a wink.

I turned to Tom. ""Uh, do you have any grub larvae?"

He looked blankly at me, hooked a thumb to the rear of the store without a word, and went to take down the sign. Tom didn't inherit a bit of his Dad's personality.

I walked between the churning tubs of minnows, back to the worm and grub cooler. The rear of the shop was dimly lit and the air cool, and just past pungent. They only had half-pint cartons of grubs, so I returned to the counter.

"Do you have any bigger buckets, of grubs like a gallon or so?" I was almost whispering to Tom.

Virgil exploded in a laugh and a cough. "Ya mfedn mulls?" (Virgil speak for "You feeding moles?"

I lied quickly. "Uh no, it s my kid's science experiment."

I took my big bucket of grubs and left for home with a scheme taking shape in my mind and a vague feeling that things were starting to spin away from me.

I woke at three A.M. that night for my usual nature break. When I came out, my wife didn't stir, so I slipped on some shorts and crept down to the basement for the grubs. Outside, the cool dew on the lawn made bits of leaves and bark stick between my toes, and reminded me that I forgot to put on slippers. It was still and quiet out, and so late that even the trees slept. I remembered my bare feet again when I stabbed my left heel on a cracked walnut shell left by a squirrel. I hobbled, hopped, cursed and set off someone's Basset hound. His baying started other dogs and soon there was a chorus. A deck light came on down the street.

I squatted down behind a bush and waited. Soon the light went out and it was quiet again. I got up but one leg had gone to sleep, and I stumbled and dropped the grubs. More cursing as I knelt down and scraped grubs and dirt back into the bucket, feeling the dirt lodge under my nails and a little larvae crush between my fingers. Once the grubs were collected, I found the series of mole runs at the border of my yard and the neighbor's. I started there, and made a trail of grubs over into his yard. His security light came on and I panicked, ran back and forth, then darted behind an oak. I wondered if he'd seen me, recognized me, and if I should show myself and come clean. Then the light went out and I realized I'd set just off the motion sensor. After a few minutes, I backed away about twenty feet, and made a wider arc into his yard. I used about a quarter of the bucket on the trail, and planted a mole feeding field on the far side of his property with the rest.

I cleaned up and got back in bed, but was too keyed up too sleep. I lay there listening to my wife's heavy breathing, thinking about greener pastures and mole migrations. I re-played the commando mission in my head, feeling shrewd, but a bit unscrupulous. I guess I'm a scoundrel, but then all's fair.

Learn more about this author, Jim Mcinvale.
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