Dead or Alive
by Jason L. Jablonski

“Dude, where’s the hammer?” my brother asked me with a shit-eating grin on his face. I didn’t want to tell him, “It’s hanging back there on the workbench!” We were practically yelling at each other over the heavy rain and thunder being poured into the fully opened garage door. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asked. Hell no, I didn’t want to do ‘this’. I didn’t even know what ‘this’ was. Hesitantly, I sputtered, “I gotta learn sooner or later!”

* * * *

All day long we had been fishing the Salt Creek for catfish. We started well before noon, and now the sun had been down for a solid four hours. In the middle of summer, that would make the time about two in the morning. We were brothers and loved spending time together fishing and telling stories. But the one story I regretted telling him was how I had never learned to clean a fish. And that I had always found a way to have the other guy do it instead of myself. I was slightly proud of that fact, but never thought that this little bit of information could come back and bite me in the ass.

On the way home from the river he started in on me. “So, who’s gonna gut all these cats for fryin’? I know you’re wife ain’t gonna do it. And I must have pulled something in my hand, so I can’t do it.” I knew what he was getting at. I’ve known the kid my whole life and could spot his sarcasm a mile away. “Alright Tony,” I said swallowing my older brother pride, “Will you show me how to gut a fish?” He just smiled. Smiling in his sinister way, he was loving it, “Of course I’ll show you how. You’re my brother. I love you.” I was shaking my head thinking, ‘This ought to be lovely.’

By the time we pulled up to the house, there were no signs of the rain letting up that had started soaking us before we made it to the truck from the riverbank. Comfortable in our own filth, we silently sat there in the driveway contemplating our next move, mainly because we had said enough over the past 15 hours in one another’s company. I broke the peacefulness with, “So, do we gut ’em alive or do we have to kill ’em first?” He answered with, “I don’t know, how would you rather do it? With ’em dead or alive?” I thought about it for a minute. Being somewhat of a sensitive individual, I figured the cleaning wouldn’t be as mean or cruel if it were already dead. The fish wouldn’t feel the filet knife slicing through its cheek side, all the way down to its tail, knocking against its spine, vertebrae after vertebrae. Its violent convulsions could be avoided from slicing open its belly, extracting every little piece of undesirable fish part I didn’t want. I myself did not want to put one of God’s living creatures through this horrific spectacle of being gutted alive. Confidently I answered, “Dead.” Then my own brother retorted with a quick, “Okay,” to seal the deal.

Knowing what we had to do from having done it a hundred times before, we both jolted out of the truck in a frenzy, impossibly trying to avoid getting less soaked than we already were. I grabbed the cooler full of catfish. He grabbed everything else he could carry from the bed of the truck that we didn’t want sitting outside all night in the rain. Out of breath, we both stood there in the open garage with our hands on our hips and smiles that said, “Job well done, brother.”

Smiles or not, we were hungry and hadn’t eaten in some time. We always tended to eat all of our food too early in the day. Bragging to each other about how we were going to take catfish home and fry up filets did not help. That kind of talk just made us want to eat. If we didn’t consume meat soon we were going to get really cranky. We were home. The truck was parked and locked up. The gear was dried, drained, or put away. It was time to get down to brass tacks. My brother made sure of that. And I could tell he didn’t want to wait any longer.

* * * *

“Dude, where’s the hammer?” my brother asked me with a shit-eating grin on his face. I didn’t want to tell him, “It’s hanging back there on the workbench!” He grabbed it and handed it to me as if it were the Olympic torch. “Well, let’s get to it! Hit it square on the head and kill it!” At this point, if I had a tail it would have been tucked deep between my legs. This did not seem right. “Are you serious?” I asked. With no hesitation he replied, “Yep, hurry up. Let’s go. We still gotta cook the sons of bitches!”

With that lovely piece of encouragement, I got into position. Going down on one knee, I raised the 28 oz. framing hammer up above my head and squeezed the catfish as hard as I could around its belly. It must have been at least a 10-pound cat and strong to boot. Its tail was kicking back and forth, jerking the rest of its body, having no idea of what was going on and still fighting for its life. My heart was racing. The rain was bouncing off of the pavement, lightly misting us both. Tony had suggested earlier we get close to the outside, as to avoid too many blood stains on the garage floor. Time had frozen. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tony laughing, but could not hear him. Every single one of my senses were laser focused on one thing: killing a catfish with a hammer.

I hesitated lowering the hammer. “There’s no way it’s done like this! Screw this, man! I ain’t doin’ it!”

“Let’s go, Sally, I’m hungry!” he demanded.

Alright! Fine! Whether he was messing with me or not, I was going to take my medicine and not let him know it bothered me anymore. My little brother was calling me out. So what? I had never done this before. Gutting a fish was one he had up on me. But killing did not feel at all natural. Just to save my pride, I had to do it. With every fiber of my being I lifted that hammer again above my head. My other hand was now numb from not letting up on the death grip I’d held for so long on the fish’s belly. Back in position, he started to coach me, “Make sure you hit it square on the head, right behind the eyes!” I tried one practice swing, “And do it hard!” He kept yelling. I was envisioning its head splattering all over us and the garage like a tomato. I let out one last breath.

WOMP! TINK! Dead on, but no splatter. The hammer had bounced off of it’s head and onto the cement, not killing it. “Do it again!” Tony belted laughing hysterically, “Harder! You swing like a girl!” At this point I had dropped both the hammer and the fish. My body was shaking from an ice cold chill crawling up and down my spine. I felt sick to my stomach. “So much for taking my medicine,” I thought.

A couple of minutes had passed, and I had regrouped. I looked down at the writhing fish I had just pelted in the head and decided this was way more cruel than cleaning it alive. But the reality of it was that I had to finish what I had started. And I accepted that. In doing so, without warning, I quickly grabbed the hammer and fish. Swinging the tool around my side, I popped it with a WOMP! And then a smashing second, CRACK! This had definitely killed the cat. I turned to my brother and told him to show me how to do this while it was alive because the hammer in the head thing just wasn‘t going to work for me. My brother, dumbstruck by the sudden burst of energy I had displayed, respectfully replied, “Okay.”