A Plain Animal of Catfish Swain

He had not been expecting a letter. The girly brocade of handwriting on the milky paper was as impossible and foreign as Victorian England in Catfish Swain's worn hand.

When covering stories, even of the mundane human interest sort, inexperienced television news reporters will sometimes become overwhelmed, personally affected, randomly obsessed. It catches them by the tail. In the business, it's referred to as "over-interest" and "self insertion."

Those are kind terms. They bring a sense of professionalism to mind, not the opposite and more accurate images of post-adolescents, far too skinny and lost on their futons, with no hope for the release sleep would bring, save for the tipped over container of Ambien on the nightstand. If such a scene were captured in black and white, on real film, it would look a lot like an antique crime photograph.

Young reporters think like this; they're always hanging right outside the frame, getting the real story from 90 degree angles. They eat tortellini salad from the ceiling fan. They whiten their teeth while relaxing in the rain gutter. They purchase bunches of organically grown basil and apples from legendary tunnels under the city that may only possibly exist.

Catfish Swain won the largest-ever jackpot lottery. Like most big time winners, he opted for the one-time payout. For a few days, news vans and plain white trucks with satellite dishes and masts had rinked around the public access roads near the old man's property.

Amanda Hand made it inside on April 13^th, 1997, eight days after the winning numbers were claimed. She interviewed Catfish Swain; she was a bright bunny sitting up straight in his thorny brown recliner. After the interview, the cameraman spent half an hour taping a range of reaction shots of Amanda in the recliner. There were understanding nods, knowing smiles, and thoughtful, blank stares. This kind of façade is standard practice. There must be plenty of appropriate responses to choose from in the editing room.

Through the years, Amanda has carried that old interview memory as three precise images-- Catfish Swain's dusty overalls, a cracked, delicate porcelain tea cup she saw in his sink, and an ancient, black matted mutt that emerged gently from a shed, slowly wagging his tail. There was a loosely knotted rope around his collar. As the old dog came forth and stopped suddenly, Amanda saw the other end of the rope was tied to nothing. It was an unnecessary matter now, after a lifetime of restraint.

This old man is so alone, so lonely. The rotted grief of it affixed itself right under her lowest ribs. She feels it try to come up every now and then, and pushes it back down, resolving that all the money cancels everything out. Millions and millions, it was a life-changing amount. Amanda had daydreamed so dark and rough about it.

Now, years later, there's a need to confess. Or validate. It's all so undefined. She will be approximating an apology of some sort, giving and taking between the lines. Just a short, friendly letter, touching base, empty and filled with well wishes. This letter could make up for anything. Amanda Hand begins the letter to Catfish Swain. Pen in hand, she stretches out atop a street lamp, above the tallest neighborhood treetops, blue-soaked in the powder of moonlight.