Transitions: Rob Tuska

Rob Tuska

Time: 12:48 p.m.

Date: Jan. 19

Location: Lake Calhoun
Rob Tuska spits a sunflower seed into a fishing hole as he holds court with two friends, a manic discourse on work, college, Chinese restaurants, this, that, the other thing.

Tip-up traps in four nearby holes, a thin layer of ice around each one. He’s no serious fisherman, he admits it. His first time out here in two, three years. He’d rather chew seeds and pace his territory than sit in his folding chair and work a hole.

He’s here because he has a day off and he’d rather not be somewhere else.

"Last night I said, ‘I’m going to go ice fishing tomorrow,’ and she said, ‘What? What do I get to do?’ She’s a stay-at-home mom. We have three kids, twins who are a year-and-a-half. She’s a little, you know, not too happy."

He’s here because of this interminable space, this landscape without sharp relief, just fog and drift and nothingness for a well-paced mile.

He stops talking and turns a slow circle until he faces the skyline, shrouded in patterned snow.

"You can take it all in here. It’s a beautiful city. This panoramic view."

He looks at the pale sun, high in the sky but already drifting imperceptibly toward the horizon.

He looks back at his friends and asks:

"So what was I saying again?"