HOW TO TRAIN FISH TO CRY!
Ric Polansky ©
Exactly 1,362,922 days ago I was a substitute school teacher. I was very young then and hadn’t learned that what you did in life wasn’t necessarily what you are in life. Now that I have grown older, I recognize some indelible truths: that most men that call themselves “plumbers” are not necessarily that. And I certainly have met a lot of builders that haven’t as yet learned to distinguish which end of the hammer is for using and which for scratching their heads.
Nevertheless, I was a teacher in a renown town in the rolling and verdant hills of south central Iowa. The place had an erudite name: Newton. If that doesn’t ring your bell-- it should-- if you know about boxing or washing machines.
Yes, it is in this fair village that if you are employed by the Maytag corporation, you produced one of the finest top loading washers in the world. Everyone in Iowa knows that. And although there are few fights between employees, it was there in Newton, Iowa where the great Rocky Marciano, the only undefeated heavyweight champion of the world, met his ultimate KO. His light aircraft bounced off some trees near the airport. The Rock has been revered ever since even though the place of his demise is little known.
It was in this fair city that I was sent in my senior year of university to assistant in teaching and possibly obtain a degree to enable me to enter the portals of the lowest paid, best educated, white collar slaves in the world.
If school teachers are underpaid, assistants are lower than whale poop at the bottom of the ocean. Hence, my assigned housing was just one level above the best sub-standard accommodation in town complete with bare light bulbs, one sink, but indoor plumbing which one could brag about if the opportunity presented itself.
The owner liked to have people living in. When he wasn’t working at the Maytag factory, he was in the bar crying and when he wasn’t there he was home wailing. Burt Bigme was a small and untidy man whose wife had left the royal confines of the family mansion and run off with the garbage collector. It wrecked Burt. She took nothing with her, not even the pride of the house, a large Motorola phonograph that blared out sick and sad songs morning, noon, and night.
Now Burt had a son. A nice boy of ten who was slowly being taught to grow up a manic depressive and learn the words to every Dean Martin song ever warbled. Billy Lee Bigme’s life was hell. No other sounds were allowed in the house. When the dad did speak, it was the simple denigration of all the garbage collectors (now known as sanitary engineers) in the world. Never was a word mentioned of the loving hussy that had left them both on the door step of psychotic remission.
Son Billy Lee had but one thing that kept him mildly sane. He possessed a huge fish tank full of various colored, sized and finned fish. He knew the names of each, their characteristics and evolutionary track record. Billy Lee was besotted by those fish and they made little noise too.
Now, even if you had just won the lottery to a tune of fifty million bucks, when you walked in that house, you were greeted by the blare of Dean Martin announcing that he was “so lonesome that he could cry” while the patron was in the corner sobbing great wounded tears. Son Billy Lee would appear from no where to take your hand, lead you to the fish container and therein regale the story of the fish and what the fish did all day. How much mischief three gold fish and the odd assorted pratts could get up to in the confined space of two feet by one foot was amazing, and not a nuance, nudge nor nod was missed by that observing boy. Having no TV, his aquarium was just that, and like all youngsters, he logged in his required eight hours per day viewing.
School teachers are genetically gregarious. Together they can moan and be justified within their group. They drink, play, and attend all events with others of the same convivial and educated ilk. Outsiders are introduced, but are always viewed with great suspicion, especially if they make money or display the tiniest vestige of glitter. It was at just one such gathering on a Friday afternoon “happy hour” that I won the dice shake of the day: 666. Custom required that I buy the traditional first round but after that all the other cash is yours to keep, spend, or throw away. It is usually a tidy sum of nearly twenty dollars. Four hours later, with a beer swirled smirk on my face, I stumbled out into the parking lot with a bulge in my trouser pocket bent on doing good, once I could find my car.
Now what to do with such a wad of mana is a perplexing riddle to one not accustomed to such wealth. But having been brought up in the totally incorrect fashion of thinking of doing some good with it, I inherently conjured up the idea of going to the local pet store and buying little Billy Lee something special for his late night viewing.
If you don’t know about small fish, the kind that can be carried in a clear plastic bag, you have much to learn. Foremost is how expensive they can be. This is especially true if viewed as a complete neophyte. The more obviously extravagant, colorful, or shaped the fish appeared to be, the more costly he was. A couple more gold fish was out of the question. There would be no new parameters for interesting talk? So after many questions and a whole lot of interrogation I decided upon two longish, blackish, extra belligerent, Siamese fighting fish. They constantly created havoc within the confines of the stores enormous tank. The bell for closing time rang twice before they could be netted and bagged. I felt very proud of myself.
Giving is the reward of the good. I dumped the fish into Burt’s aquarium without a thought of remorse for my fabulously won and lost twenty smacks and careened off the walls and up the stairs to bed to dream the thoughts of the righteous.
Earlier than usual, I was awoken by the sobs of not just one person but young Billy Lee too. The racket was worse than a Gypsy wake. My attendance was obligatory. Bangey head, blood shot eyes, and a mouth that tasted as if I had licked the bottom of a parrots cage, I woefully crept down the stairs.
The father was on the sofa holding a picture of his wife and rocking back and forth weeping (nothing unusual about that), but poor Billy Lee was traumatized. Bug eyed, his nose pressed against the glass, his mouth agape, floods of tears were streaming down his face. He gulped huge intakes of air as he tried to talk, but his mind was perplexed by the vision that he beheld.
Large chunks were missing from two of the gold fish. All the pratts had been gobbled, and the other smaller variety were gone too. In their place were those knightly devilish Siamese fighting fish chasing each other around the tiny tank slowing down just enough to take a nip at the remaining gold fish. Something frightfully bad had gone wrong. The kindness of my gesture had metamorphosed into a cauldron similar to rolling boiling water with sharks fins surfacing, whipping their tails and creating whirlpools that then transformed into gnashing teeth and more missing scraps of flesh.
The situation was irretrievable. Nothing said or done could undue the harm created by that misspent sourbuck ($20). That boy had been ruined forever.
As young Billy Lee continued to push his face across each possible edge of the aquarium to garner a better view or possibly shed some light on the mystery of the events that had transpired, he continued to guzzle in air to refresh his mind to the ancient pastoral and serene chimes of his fish tank just the day before. His mind was cranking so loud I could here it. I feared eminent death from suffocation for the poor lad. Nothing could stop his stuttered stammering as he gasped for breaths in astounded amazement.
“Well,” I somehow blurted out. Miraculously, they both stopped weeping simultaneously and focused their attention on me. “Well, I did see a garbage truck outside earlier than normal this morning, and thought I heard the door open”.
All hell broke lose. All the fiendish demons and their screeches and yowls from the very inner part of the earth where the most evil clamors cacophonous and harsh lamentations are stored burst forth to my ears in a shattering roar. Uncontrollable weeping, then sobbing, gnashing of the teeth by both and then irreverent chants. I believe the fish were crying too.
I wheeled about on my heels and headed back upstairs, knowing full well, the ill-gotten twenty dollar note had to have come from hell as well; or at least Siam.
