Catfish Wishing Well

by Tucker Leighty-Phillips

We are waiting in line to receive a kiss from the Catfish. The Catfish is in a wishing well, and the kiss is not just any old pearl, but a wish. I want to wish to become a Dollar General. My children, who are also waiting in line, and aren’t old enough to receive the kiss (and as a result, the wish), are in my ear like president’s men, trying to give me any other scheme. Wish to be a country radio call sign, says my oldest and flimsiest child. My younger keeps pulling my pants leg and saying bullfrog hurricane, bullfrog hurricane and when I ask her what such a thing is she says pretty self-explanatory and I tell myself that once I’m a Dollar General, I won’t have to worry about kids anymore, just fully-stocked shelves and the Christmas rush. Bathrooms mopped every hour. You got time to lean, you got time to clean. The whole shebang. When I reach the front of the line, I ramble up to the corner of the well, puckered all lip up-and-out, waiting to receive the blessing. What’s proper kiss-wish etiquette, I wonder. A little peck? Some generous morsel of tongue? The old hand-behind-the-neck? The Catfish has needy lips. It’s over before I know it, the wish rolling around like a marble in my mouth. I pluck it from my tongue and it swirls like a mood ring. I stow the sucker real quick, greedy to protect it, keep it hidden from hungry eyes. There’s dillweeds in line stretched all the way back to Rockcastle County. This ain’t no joke. We walk back and I cup my trophy in my palm, peek it over the edge of my pocket to show the kids, like a captive baby bird awaiting a worm. They ooh and aah and I flip a brick in the sidewalk and go ass over elbows, spilling my pocket treasure into the dirt. The back of the line goes hog wild dogpile, all groping for my wish, all hoping for a balm. My kids, caught at the bottom of the mound, my poor kids. I try to pull them off. I say get your own wish. I say please God not my kids. My poor kids. Then there’s a pop, and from God’s intercom we hear it, like wind in the air, a soul singing: 107.3 WCTT, and the crowd disperses, and my kids are gone, and so is the wish, and it’s just us, me and the dillweeds, and we’re grazing to the tune, lauding the broadcast signal, swinging sunny as the drizzle begins, a slimy toad smacking the meat of my back.

Tucker Leighty-Phillips is an Appalachian writer currently living in Tempe, Arizona. His website is TuckerLP.net.