Tommy Lightfoot

Lightfoot Tommy
By Kennesaw

I grew up with Tommy Lightfoot. He was an American Indian and claimed that the only thing, other than his name he got from his dad was his prominent nose and a propensity to drink. He was my fishing buddy for a time.
The pond lay deep in the woods, far from the nearest road. I’d never been to it. The farmer who owned it preferred no one to fish in it, so those who dared were rewarded with the true meaning of fishing. Stories drifted around town of the spirited bass that could be caught there, they being well fed and strong. Not only were they big, but they could put up a hell of a fight.
“I don’t know about this Tommy. What if we get caught?”
“Relax man, he’ll never catch us, we’re a long way from his house out here.”
I looked behind us warily as we moved through the woods. The shadows from the trees above us played along our path. Tommy moved along stealthily ahead of me, only his wife’s youngest brother, walking along between us separated us. Choo choo, they called him. He was only about six and quiet. Tommy had been charged with keeping an eye on him and he went fishing with us often. I loved kids, but failed in all my attempts to befriend this young boy. He was slightly towheaded and just oddly aloof.
He walked in front of me, head hung low, hardly paying attention to where he placed his feet. He stumbled occasionally; I reached out, steadied him and set him back on course. Soon we broke from the trees into a field of tall grass, it running off down hill towards the pond. The pond sitting at the base of a hill was large 10 acres possibly. Surrounded by a sea of yellow grass is sat there like a jewel. The water was turquoise and vast shade trees bordered its banks. One lone dock jutted into it from the right side.
The morning was cool, but just a bit, the birds sang in the trees and a rabbit skittered away from us in the grass as we moved through it towards the pond. This farmer had a little slice of heaven right here on his little part of the earth.
We moved down to and out onto the dock, having a seat.
“I could sit here forever.”
“Me too,” I said, leaning back and watching the clouds slip across the sky. Fishing isn’t always about fishing, it’s about talking and enjoying nature sometimes. Choo choo lay back and watched the sky as well, a simple smile danced on his face. It occurred to me that maybe being a little thick had some advantages. I’d never heard him complain, he had no cares, all in all he was a good-hearted kid.
“See that tree on the other side of the pond.”
“Which one?” Tommy asked, sitting back up to see it.
“The one with all that brush under it.”
“Yeah so?”
“I’m gonna go over there and pull a big ass bass out of this pond.” I said.
“Good luck,” He said.
I got my things together and made my way around the pond, fishing as I went along. Tommy and Choo choo sat and watched my progress. My catching a few small bass, that I threw back, made their decision for them. Tommy set up Choo choo on the dock and then moved off to attempt to catch the biggest fish of the day. I soon arrived at the appointed tree and started using my limited bass fishing techniques to do the same. The breeze blew the sweet smell of left over honeysuckle across the field, I could smell the yellow hay as the wind whipped at it. What a beautiful day I thought.
I caught what would have been a keeper, but threw it back. We had too far to walk to keep anything short of a stuffer. Tommy caught one on the other side of the lake that looked good. I caught and released three more. Choo choo caught one, he threw it on the dock and let it flop as he went back to fishing. Tommy caught another, held it up, threw it back and moved down the bank a little more.
I had a seat and watched from a distance as Choo choo caught the biggest so far. He held it high over his head and danced, the whole while smiling brightly. At that moment Tommy hooked a big one. I watch as he fought the fish trying to get it to the bank. This would be the biggest of the day fore sure. After what seemed like eternity he pulled it from the water. It was too big to lift into the air with the line, he’d done it. After unhooking it he lifted it high in the air in triumph. I shot him a thumbs up and watched as he turned towards the dock to Choo choo.
The fish fell from his hands in slow motion as he started to run slipping in the wet grass on the edge of the pond. Glancing towards the dock I saw Choo choo flailing in the water. I was too far away to be any factor in the outcome of what was happening, but I broke into a dead run instantly. My heart raced as I did so. I watched helplessly as Tommy dove into the water and swam past the dock frantically. I watched as he dragged Choo choo to the bank and worked desperately to revive him.
Tommy lay across his body crying as I fell into the mud beside them.
“He’s dead.” I checked his pulse, there was none. He lay there still looking simple, but at peace. Tommy picked him up and started to run back toward the woods the way we had come. I tried to keep up, but even in as good of shape as I was in he outdistanced me. When I broke from the woods, out of breath, his car was gone.
It was a long walk home, one that was infused with sadness for the simple little boy named Choo choo, who had never hurt anyone. With the sadness for my friend who had failed his small brother in law in the worst way and for his wife who doted on Choo choo. Tommy Lightfoot never spoke to me again, in fact he quit the job we shared and never even looked me in the eyes. The weight of his failure was too much for our friendship to bear.
Two weeks later the newspaper called it an accident. Tommy fell asleep at the wheel and hit a tree, killing himself instantly. His wife knew it wasn’t true, I could see it in her eyes at the funeral. I knew it wasn’t true, I could see it in his eyes that day that Choo choo lay there lifelessly in the mud. Tommy Lightfoot was my friend and for a time he was my fishing buddy.