“Yo Scrawny, get the net, I got a big one!”
“You’re stuck on the bottom.” Ronnie dropped the net and picked up his fishing pole.
Frankie shot a disgusted look at his friend as he stretched for the net, giving up when he realized there was nothing tugging on the other end of his line. Scrawny Ronnie laughed when he pulled up a water logged stick covered in scum from the bottom of the river. Fresh out of bait, Frankie dropped his poll and started kicking over rocks in search of worms.
“Dude, ya ain’t gonna find nothin’ round that firepit.”
Scrawny instead directed him to a rotten log at the edge of a small clearing.
He kicked the top of the log, sending moist wood chips flying. A few more whacks with his heel and the old chunk of tree gave way, exposing several crawly bugs and a few grubs trying their best to get away. Selecting a juicy one, he held it up for inspection before returning to his fishing pole. The skin of the wiggly bug popped as he forced the hook through. Green guts oozed over his thumb, which he wiped onto his jeans.
“Who do ya think’s been buildin’ fires down here?” Frankie asked.
Scrawny Ronnie was a year older so Frankie thought he knew everything.
“My brother and the other potheads. They try to get girls to come down here so they can, you know.” He made a gesture with his hand that either of their mothers would have slapped him for making.
Frankie grew a grin, “Hey, I’m gonna run home and get some matches. Look for some wood. I’ll be right back.”
The boys went through all but a couple of the kitchen matches Frankie swiped, but still no flame.
Ronnie had the next brilliant idea, “Got any charcoal lighter fluid at your house?”