Fishers of Men

The late-May sun was setting over rooflines down the street. Dormant chimneys served as grim reminders that they'd be needed again someday when the months grew cold again. We were tossing his tools into the back of his work truck when he remembered to confront me about his recent discovery.

"You wrote 'Jesus Saves' on the back of my truck, didn't you?" Dave asked with a smirk that tried its hardest to seem angry. There were two cross-shaped cuts in the rusted steel bumper of the beat-up box truck he'd recently purchased. It seemed only fitting to take the chalk I used to mark pipe with and scribble some religious slogan underneath.

"Yeah, it was me. The old lady found it?" In a subtle attempt at humility I laid the power drill I had in my hands down more gently than the last thing I'd loaded. It was bad enough I busted my employer's chops all day; there was no reason to break his tools as well.

"No, it was a potential customer. I went to look at a job yesterday and he asked if I was a brother in faith while we stood near the back of the truck talking business. I had to agree even though I didn't know where he got that idea from. Then I noticed your handiwork on my bumper, you bastard."

I couldn't deny either of the accusations in his last sentence.

Dave's tone never changed while addressing me, even if he had reason to be miffed. His constant demeanor was something I admired about him. It made the man a pleasure to work for, as well as an easy target. In typical mischievous apprentice fashion I prodded a little further.

"I was considering putting one of those Jesus fish on the back of your truck, too. Consider yourself lucky." I turned to look for a reaction that wasn't coming. Dave's face lit up with the same excitement a child gets when he's about to tell a story.

"When I was a kid I used to pry those off of people's cars. Half the Bible thumpers in our trailer park had the gray outline of a fish where the glue from the thing had stayed on the paint of their cars. The stubborn ones had two fish scars," he said, taking a moment to bask in the glory of the amusing term he'd coined. "I used to stick them on the wall of my bedroom. I even took some blue paint from my father's shed and painted a pond around them. I had no idea what they meant at the time. I just wanted some pets."

He gave me the simple, country-boy grin that his darling wife must've fallen in love with fifteen years ago. I couldn't help but feel the same. Dave was one of a dying breed. The innocence in his slate blue eyes couldn't be faked. I smacked him on the back of the shoulder, called him a thieving heathen, and let loose a wide-mouthed laugh. It wasn't just the money that made me crave those side-jobs.

We finished packing up the tools in sweaty, tired silence. It had been a long day of gritty pipe replacement and both of us were ready to go home. After he paid me for the day's labor we plodded towards our respective vehicles and pulled away from the curb. Dave was hoping he'd get that next big job that the Holy Roller was dangling in front of his face on the previous day. I was hoping I wouldn't be alive when his species finally goes extinct. Hoping is half of a plumber's life, one way or another. Hoping and fishing.