We got back to my place with a sack of perch we caught through the ice on Simcoe. As ice fishing goes, it was a good day. The plan was to fillet them up and package them for the freezer but mom wouldn’t let us use the kitchen. You’re not bringing those slimy things in here. Go on, take them downstairs.
It was Dad’s bridge night, a weekly event that moved from house to house, basement to basement, involving modest wagers, a cloud of cigarette smoke and a bottle of CC. They were three quarters through the bottle and half in the bag when we got there. We ignored them as best we could, laid out some garbage bags on the old chest freezer, spread out our catch, and sharpened up our knives.
G was dummy, so he got up for a stretch and came over to inspect the perch.
Good for sauce.
Sauce? What are you, crazy? We’re going to fillet these up for frying.
Naw, don’t do that. Too much waste. You want to use them for sauce.
Look, we caught them, we’re going to fillet them.
Naw, na, na, don’t do that. Look, you just scrape em, gut em and eat em.
Listen G, it’s a crime to toss prime Lake Simcoe perch into tomato sauce. We’re not going to do it.
Forget fillets. Just scrape em, gut em and eat em, scrape em, gut em and eat em, that’s it.
Son, why don’t you put a few of those perch aside for G and let him do what he wants with them.
Yeah, alright we can do that.
That wouldn’t do. G wanted them all.
The Canada Club was doing its job. G started grabbing perch and stuffing them inside his suit jacket, one after another. He was always a snappy dresser.
Hey, what are doing, cut it out man.
Scrape em, gut em and…
G, cut it out, the boys are going to give you some perch already. Leave them alone and stop causing trouble in the subdivision.
Listen here Joe, I don’t have to listen to you.
He crammed another perch down his shirt.
Come on, enough already. Get back to the game.
Listen here Joe, I’ve had goddamwell about enough of you already.
Look, you filled your pockets and your shirt and your jacket with fish, don’t you think you’ve had enough?
I’m the one who decides when I’ve had enough.
I’m telling you its enough.
You’re telling me? You’re telling me? Well I’ve had enough. Enough of you my friend. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.
You can’t ask me to leave.
Who the hell says I can’t? You and who else?
I’m telling you you can’t ask me to leave. It’s my house.
27th Street 
Nice story, 27th!