I found it. I got what I was looking for, the Great Northern-- letter opener? That wasn’t right: I was confused. For sure I was finally going to catch the Pike I was fishing for all these years. Yet, it was nowhere to be seen. I cast my line again waiting for a tug, a pull, a nudge, a sign of life beneath the surface of the murky waves, something, anything. I felt a dragging, a pulling on the line. With each tug and each pull I gave in response, my heart grew within my chest: Could this be it? It had a good weight to it, unlike my last haul. Aha! It was caught at last: the Great Northern-- no, Great American-- … typewriter? Enraged, I heaved that forty pound filthy typewriter back into the depth where it belonged. My final cast of the line only retrieved a rusty coffee tin just like the one sitting in my canoe I had used to sustain my energy throughout this terrible day turned night. I gave up. “You got me this time you so-called Great American Pike. It’s no wonder no one has ever caught you.”