Reviewed by Joshua Citrak

Few things define more precisely and colorfully the American male than our intrinsic pursuit of the proverbial “big one.” Whether it be fish, deer or some other game, “the big one,” lurking, just beyond that bush, just under those reeds, is inherited as biological obsession from father to son. We spend afternoons chasing it, years talking about it, and a lifetime dreaming of being the one to bring it home. However, as is its very mystical nature, the “big one” can never be caught, but in story, which we invent for ego, embellish for entertainment and hand down for posterity.

In Les Claypool’s first novel, South of the Pumphouse, we’re served a perplexing and twisted fish tale much like the knotted mess of line and lures at the bottom of a tackle box. Once untangled, the novel shows itself to be the classic story of estranged brothers, family secrets and the genetics of fate. Rifted, diametric Ed and Earl Paxton, agree to hook up after the prolonged death of their father for a reunion fishing trip on the San Francisco Bay. Earl, the oldest, still resides in their Bay Area backwater hometown of El Sobrante, loosely translated in Spanish as “the leftovers.” He lives in a house that used to be a Hells Angels hangout, uses an excessive amount of methamphetamine and has a wife that just left him, again. Ed, on the other hand, lives a short drive South down I-80 in the ultra hip city of Berkeley, is self-consciously married to a half Asian, half black woman and uses an excessive amount of hallucinogens. With a rod, a reel and the faith of fisherman Earl and Ed will once again test the waters of their brotherhood.

“It had been a long time since Ed had even thought about fishing, and as he drove onward, he was beginning to get excited. When they were boys, fishing had been a family passion and sturgeon fishing was the ultimate experience.”

Earl, however, has kept up the family tradition. He owns his own boat, and is a diehard fisherman; a true sportsman who would like nothing more than to hook the elusive granddaddy diamondback sturgeon that calls the watery lair south of the pump house home. Often, as Earl drifts in and out of methamphetamine induced hazes, “the big one” has seemed more real, and indeed more promising, than his wife, whose absence he acknowledges only when he laments that she isn’t around to pack him a lunch.

As they pull up to the dock, Ed is hopeful at the prospects of the day, until he learns that Donny Vowdy, a childhood tormenter and Earl’s best friend, will be joining them. Donny has grown up from high school bully to a full-fledged redneck “El Sobrantarian,” complete with beer gut, large belt buckle and a penchant for racism and misogyny. Ed, with his P.C. sensibilities, naturally finds Donny disgusting. But they promise, for Earl’s sake, an uneasy truce while out on the water.

Cruising towards the pump house, Donny, with Ed recoiled in distain, recaps a hilarious, but crude, night out with a woman, the description of whom seems a little familiar to Earl. Mr. Claypool, architecting their beautifully choreographed banter, is at the height of his writing prowess. He playfully proves that not only is fishing an excuse to drink plenty of beer, but also a great place to tell the raunchiest stories a man can think of. However, as with any fishing trip, South of the Pumphouse does have its dull moments. Once out on the Bay, with the fish not biting, the story drifts into the weeds as Ed and Donny, high on magic mushrooms, weed and beer, engage in social and political arguments the complexities of which, neither fully grasps. Their dichotomized political diatribes on race, sexuality and O.J. slow the book down into scenes where little is accomplished except for uncomfortable discourse.

After noon, riding tremendous chemical highs, the three compromised, flawed men find that their hopes, dreams and philosophies are too grand for one small boat to contain. Donny becomes restless and agitated for greener pastures complaining, “Earl… we got the wrong bait and we’re in the wrong spot.” Ed and Earl, however, seem content to wait for their fate insisting that the area south of the pump house is the spot for the big fish, “the biggest.” Claypool knows that a fisherman’s game is patience and perseverance, much like that of the prey he stalks. And as his writing unwinds the tale of these men like a great fish does a spool of monofilament from a spinning reel, one comes to appreciate the waiting for the company, the surroundings and the beer.