The Razor, Andrew Steketee

I own a small house in Livingston, Montana, where I’m able to fish with friends and family, work on failed novels and unleash dysfunctional lines of Labrador retrievers into local watersheds without anyone having to bother me. Last summer, I entertained a divorced, grade school classmate, ostensibly to fish the giant stonefly hatch, but because of high water, his chronic trolling of Match.com and our shared wanderlust, the trip primarily consisted of driving county to county in a beat-up SUV, stopping for Rainiers and wireless connections and mindlessly throwing egg-sucking leeches into dingy back eddies. Other than an enormous brown trout we observed drafting a bridge piling for hours in the rain, our three-day fishing achievement was unremarkable at best.

The evening before my friend was to board a plane back home, I promised a subdued Livingston pub-crawl, hoping to unearth memorable character studies and a qualified female lead for my hormonal protégé. We ate dinner and listened to a mechanic bemoan Montana’s beleaguered walleye fishery at The Murray, made lifelong enemies at The Mint by repeatedly cueing Van Halen and Billy Squier, and finally settled on The Owl Lounge as a suitable playground for his mid-life crisis. I agreed to an hour-long window; he agreed to avoid charges of sexual harassment.

After securing a tallboy at The Owl, I wandered out to 2nd Street, away from the claustrophobic feed lines and into the star-filled evening. Almost immediately, I was approached by a muscular gentleman, flanked by his friends and their girlfriends, in what appeared an uncomfortable tête-à-tête. The young man gripped a mason jar full of beer in one hand, while intermittently massaging his pectoral muscles with the other. I quickly recycled the past three days’ events, hoping to recall an innocuous offense or misunderstanding, but was completely stumped. I decided to break the tension by flatly asking, “Can I help you?”

“I’m The Razor, if you didn’t know already, and I’ve seen you dragging your boat around town for the past week. It’s time we talk about where you’re fishing.”

“You must have me confused with someone else. We’ve just been here a few days, and I don’t even own a …”

“Dude, I’m serious. I’m asking you a question, and I want an answer, or someone’s gonna get their ass kicked!”

After deciding against the idea of placing my open-handed fist somewhere within The Razor’s headspace, I calmly leaned against his left ear and stated privately, “Be careful what you wish for …”

Nodding his head and rubbing a manicured, mustacheless beard, The Razor took a few seconds to consider the statement, then turned to his anxious fly fishing faction and announced with a wry smile, “Okay, this guy’s totally legit!”

And with that, everyone but The Razor dispersed into The Owl to secure more alcohol, or continue their abbreviated conversations. With the appearance of having negotiated some bizarre gang initiation, I now was able to engage The Razor without fear of physical retribution.

I regaled him with tales of stripers, redfish, tarpon, bonefish and Makos brought to skiffs with gaudy flies; he regaled me with tales of carp, paddlefish, midnight Beaverhead floats and a deadly multi-fly rig he referenced as “The Matador.” When I noted “The Matador” reminded me of an east coast umbrella rig, he replied sternly, “That’s the stupidest comparison I’ve eve heard.”

I made assumptions regarding his employment as a local fishing guide only to be lectured around the alleged capitalism and soullessness earmarking the profession. At one point, I even lay my hand on his bicep to gauge its circumference and was charged with latent homosexuality.

In many ways, interacting with The Razor was like interacting with a person strangled by insanity, which I assumed he was.

When my hormonal protégé finally wandered outside to see whom I was speaking, a palpable silence fell over the conversation. My friend introduced himself to the young man and was met with indifference. Openly annoyed, my friend asked, “Who the hell is this guy?”

I responded, “The Razor.”

After my friend registered a deeply perplexed look, The Razor looked at us both and announced, “The name? It means I refuse to marry, refuse to take a paycheck and refuse to get off the river until I die … do you think that sounds crazy?”

First appeared in The Drake.