Fish: A Story of Unforeseeable, Unexpected, Unthinkable, Unbelievable, Unimaginable, Inconceivable, Incomprehensible, Indescribable Violence
I guess it was around 8:45 and I was thinking about death. I had just finished dinner and James had recently left. I can’t remember what we had talked about. Politics? We certainly didn’t talk about death, I never talked about that kind of stuff with him. Actually, maybe we had talked about my fish? He always loved them.
For as long as I can remember, James and I never really spoke about anything serious. Which is odd, because we had been fairly close friends since we were in seventh grade. I guess eventually I realized that he and I spend such an immense amount of time together, but somehow never ventured from the topics of sports, light politics, or movies. It’s not that I didn’t like him, I do. He and I have just never broached any more unwieldy subjects. Death is a fairly unwieldy topic I suppose.
I was sitting on my bed, my mind wandering aimlessly as I gazed into the gargantuan wine-glass fish bowl perched atop my bookshelf. I really need to clean the tank, I thought to myself. They—the fish—were named after my uncles. I find myself wanting to use the present tense, they “are” named after my uncles, alas. Christopher and Larry, I’ve always been tickled by their names. A Jewish family, and yet my uncles were named Christopher and Larry. Christopher. Oy vey.
I loved the fish. They were two betta fish, world-renowned for their inability to live with others, yet there they were. I had bought Larry around my nineteenth birthday, a memorable one. Christopher did not come into my life until a few months later. A friend of mine (an ex-friend) deposited his fish (Christopher) into my tank as a “prank” because he wanted to see them fight. I was not present. What at first seemed to be a tragic incident of intentional animal cruelty turned out to be a blessing. The two became the best of friends and never once fought.
I’m 25 now, making them both at least six years old. Apologies, they were both six years old. I had considered contacting Guinness to discuss the age of my fish, I assume it was some kind of record. All of my friends knew about my old fish duo. It felt like everyone I met was aware at least to some extent. Honestly, it was one of the first things people knew about me. Oh, Abe, the guy with the fish? I worry I am coming off as a dreadfully boring person. Only distinguishable by the mildly interesting antiquity of my fish. Perhaps that was my only distinguishable characteristic.
Laura was the first person I ever fell in love with. I remember the night. James and I were at a bar, one of those terrible dive bars. You know the kind where you think touching the soap in the bathroom might make your hands even dirtier? A dirty soap kind of bar. James was always bringing me to bars like that, he loved them. I guess I simply tolerated them. It was probably around midnight. I had had three drinks, the exact number to inaugurate me into the world of tipsy. I remember vividly how she approached me (women never approach me at bars, so it was curious) and asked, “Are you Abe?” I nodded meekly and she exclaimed, “the guy with the fish!” Yes, I was the guy with the fish. We fell in love after that, and the fish played an increasingly smaller role in our following romance.
I digress. This story is not about Laura. Laura, after all, is still alive. I am really just trying to impress upon you the powerful linkage between me and my fish. Christopher and Larry.
It was after dinner, around 8:45 P.M. (I’ve never been much of an 8:45 A.M. sort of person). It actually may have been 8:50. I was thinking about death, as I had come to do a lot over the preceding weeks. Death rarely reared its head as a topic of conversation for me, but it was always on my mind. I wasn’t really hung up on its inevitability, but more the nothingness it introduces. Death is followed by a void, and it happens to people all the time. Everytime you read about a death in the news, a family member dies, a dog dies, they are succeeded by nothingness. I wasn’t even really sad about it, I guess I was fascinated by it. Fascinated sounds too positive. Let’s just say it intrigued me.
So around 8:45 (or 8:50), I was sitting in my bed, gazing into the fish tank. But not really seeing it. Perhaps I dozed off for a minute? When I woke up, the time was 8:52, that’s when it happened. I remember the exact time. The image of my dim little clock’s red geometric letters reading 0-8-5-2 is etched into my mind. But, again, I can’t remember if I had been gazing into the tank at 8:45 or 8:50, and I had no witnesses to know if I had been dozing or not. At 8:52, I watched my dear, dear Larry unhinge.
I’ll elaborate. Larry was always the calmer of the two, nothing like that wildcard Christopher. In the pet store, six years ago, the shimmering red of Larry’s dorsal fin had flashed in my eyes from across the aisle. You know when you were a kid and someone shined a laser pointer in your eyes? It was like that, but less traumatizing. There he was, a regal king amongst plebeian fish. I wasn’t even at the store to buy a fish, but he had captured me. His red scales streaked through his tiny tupperware prison. I actually wrote a campy poem about him that night:
Glittering crimson,
It was truly scary,
The ruby of Petco,
a new friend, Larry.
A beautiful piece to this day. Larry’s beauty was only outweighed by his grace. He was a wonderful, pacifist fish. He accepted Christopher into his tank with open arms (fins) and they never bickered. A remarkable friendship that anyone would be lucky to attain.
But, at 8:52, Larry unhinged and the water of the duo’s home ran red. What was once a mildly foggy chamber of domestic bliss now trickled with opaque, viscous red. It was a horror. I glanced from the crimson tank to the blood red alarm clock, click, that’s when the image of the alarm clock printed itself in my mind. 8-5-2. My eyes panned back to the aquarium, hoping it was a vision. I was tired, I told myself. But the glass prison pulsed deep red. Dirty red blood trickled through the tank. It was like smoke backlit by fractured light. When parted blinds allow distinct segments of bright white to enter a space. That’s when you can most vividly see smoke. Rivulets of blood swirled through the tank until they formed a cohesive sheet of opaque red. I could no longer see my fish.
I witnessed this horror. I did nothing. I just sat in bed. My breath slowly accelerating to hyperventilation. After four minutes (it was now 8:56), I finally managed to climb off of my bed and saunter over to the bookshelf. One single fish remained in the tank. Larry, Christopher’s former best friend and partner, was floating alone atop the tank. The murder scene. His body was engorged, dead. There was no sign of Christopher.
I should call Laura.