Fish Tales

November 1, 2017

Fish Tales

          The Auto-Press 3500 was eight feet tall, weighed three thousand pounds, had chipped paint the color of puke, and was as loud as two freight trains making love. Six days a week and for eight hours a day Peter Walsh fed sheets of galvanized steel through its gaping maw to be smashed into the shape of shovel heads. When he was first wed to the monster, Peter would wonder how many shovels the world needed; He had decided there were a lot of holes to be dug and even more things to be buried, but the longer he stood and fed it, the less he cared about either.
         The 3500 stood at the east side of the factory and faced a bank of windows. Peter would pass his time looking out of the dirty glass watching the cars that exited the highway stop at the convenience store across the road. He wanted to know where the people were going or where they had been. The faceless bodies hurried in empty-handed, and came out of the store with cigarettes and milk and six-packs of beer. He would imagine himself walking across the road, kicking off his boots, tearing away his overalls, and getting in the car with anyone that would take him as he was, naked and free. The strangers would light cigarettes and crack open beers and laugh as they peeled out onto the highway. The breeze would blow through their hair, and they would barrel into the dark night, smiling as the factory shrunk away in the rearview mirror.
         Peter was watching a young blonde girl get into her Ford with a bag in her hand when a loud and harsh voice startled him out of his day dream. “What’s the number?” asked John Smith, the day shift supervisor, who had walked up behind him. Peter pulled his ear protection back and said “What?” He knew what he was asked, because John asked the same question every time. “What’s the number?” John asked again, exasperated from playing a stupid game with Peter.
                   “Sixty-four pieces, John,” Peter gave John Smith a toothy smile and put his ear protection back on. John’s brow furrowed and he wrote the number on the clipboard that was leaning against the smooth stump at the end of his right arm. The hand that was once attached to that arm now belonged to the Auto-Presser 2500 and infamy. Peter couldn’t understand how John continued to work in the same place that maimed him, but, was impressed that he had not only taught himself to write with his left hand, but learned how to wipe his ass with it too.
         Peter had completed the minimum amount of pieces required so John had him relieved for a break. Peter went to the lunch room to get away from the roaring, banging, and hissing of the factory floor. The room was an oasis that had Formica tables, a Linoleum floor that smelled of pine cleaner, bright fluorescent lights, and vending machines.
                   “What’s the number?!” Frank Martin yelled as he burst into the lunch room and stood next to Peter. In his best John Smith impersonation he asked Carl, who was already seated, taking his lunch from the paper sack his wife had put it in, “How many pieces, Carl?!”
                   “Sixty-four. Sixty-four, John!” Carl laughed as he took a bite of his bologna sandwich. “When I started here, the number was fifty,”
                   “When you started here, you had to tie your horse to the post outside,” Frank roared. “You’ve been here so long they should give you a Cadillac,”
                   “The only Cadillac I’ll get to ride in is the one that will take me from Steward’s Funeral Parlor to the cemetery,” Carl said. He was the only one laughing at his joke.
         Peter and Frank sat down at the table and were quiet for a moment. Peter began to take his lunch from a paper bag. Carl was probably right, and that was more than they could take. Frank was staring through Peter when a smile swept across his face.
                   “I think tomorrow I will do sixty-three, no sixty-two pieces,” Frank said as he took a potato chip from the bag Peter had left open on the table. “What if I got crazy, and I did seventy pieces? What would happen to John Smith if I did six extra pieces?”
                   “He’d be so happy he’d give you a hand job – with his left hand of course,” Peter said, laughing at his own joke.
                   “No, way, I’d choose the nub! It would be a nub rub!” Frank shouted. Carl laughed so hard he spit soda onto the floor and table. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, Frank, but I’d probably watch!” Carl said through his tears.
         The trio finished their lunches, cleaned up the room, and went back to the floor. Putting some food in their stomachs and having a good laugh would help them get through the rest of the shift. When John Smith approached Peter to get the afternoon number, Peter began to laugh so hard his shoulders were shaking. John asked for the number, Peter said what, John asked again, and Peter offered a toothy smile with tears running down his cheeks. Peter had to compose himself – He didn’t want to give the 3500 the chance to make him wipe his ass with his left hand.
         At the end of the shift Peter punched his card and walked out into the cool Saturday evening breeze. Summer was coming to an end and the August nights were pleasantly cool. The air was filled with the sweet smell of fresh cut grass and grilling meat. Carl patted Peter on the back and said “See you Monday, Kid,” as he walked towards his faded red Chevy that had just turned over 130,000 miles. “See ya, Carl,” Peter replied as Carl’s salt and pepper head disappeared behind the hedgerow that grew between the factory and the parking lot.
         Frank came out of the doors next and grabbed Peter by the arm. He wanted Peter to go to the bar with him, but Peter resisted. He wanted to fit in with the guys at work so when he was invited, Peter usually went for a drink after the shift. He would sit on a stool and drink cheap tap beer and listen to the others banter about their kids, mortgages, and sports. He would nod along and laugh on queue and was content to be one of the fellas. It was Time, that old retched bastard that began to wear him down, and scrubbed away his patience. Peter grew tired of the stories about women once laid, the glories of high school football, and the complaining about work. Peter told Frank he would see him tomorrow. Frank smiled, “Okay, it’s your loss, Pete,”
         The next day Frank went to Peter’s place to watch the Sunday afternoon baseball game. They sat on the sofa and talked about the game and ate chips from a bowl on the table. When their beers were empty, Frank offered to go to the fridge to get more. On his way to the kitchen Frank made a comment about how nice it must be to live in a bachelor pad with no nagging wife and kids. Peter said, “You bet,” because he thought that was the correct response. Frank handed Peter a cold beer and went to sit down but paused when he caught a glimpse of the few pictures that Peter had hung on the wall. Frank looked them over like he was searching for clues about Peter.
                   “That’s some fish you got there, that was what, a fifty-pounder?” Frank was pointing to a picture of Peter and a group of tan and smiling people. They wore Polo shirts and white shorts, and sunglasses hung from strings around their necks. They were posing with the fish, squinting in the bright sun in front of a white boat.
                   “Yeah, it was about sixty pounds. I yanked that poor bastard right out of the water. We had it for dinner that night, and it was delicious. That was a great day,” Peter was smiling at the TV, remembering the day in the sun, the mist of the ocean on his face, and the feeling of victory when he finally pulled the fish on board.
                   “That’s some boat! The guy who owned it must have some big bucks!” Frank said exasperated.
                   “That was my boat. ‘My Nautical Girl’, ‘Naughty’ for short, Peter said. Frank looked at him puzzled. Frank was trying to figure out how a guy that had his own boat, caught sport fish, and wore expensive clothes, was now his co-worker in a factory that made tools, two-hundred miles from the ocean. “I had a lot of money then,” Peter finished.
                   “And, by the looks of it, some very pretty friends, especially that brunette. This picture doesn’t look that old,” Frank stopped, thinking that he might have said too much.
                   “When you have money Frank, there is never a shortage of pretty friends. The brunette is my ex-wife, Kate, and she is beautiful.”
                   “Hey, I am sorry, Pete, I didn’t mean to pry. I shouldn’t have said those things,” Frank’s face was red. He sat on the sofa and looked at the television.
                   “Listen, don’t worry about it. That was a great day, and that is why I hung the picture up,” Peter smiled and put his beer out for Frank to cheers. Frank tapped his beer against Peter’s, but he was still uncomfortable. The two men sat and watched the game and emptied their beers.
         When Peter thought Frank wasn’t looking, he snuck a glance at the picture that he had not paid much attention to since the day he had hung it. It was a snapshot of his former life, one that he had run away from, and talking about it with Frank made his mind race. Living in the cacophony of the factory six days a week and smashing metal so hard it shook him to his core, left little time for his thoughts about the past to creep in. At that moment he couldn’t remember why he took the picture with him when he left, or why he chose to put it up, but now the past was flooding back in.
                   “When I was young,” Peter said in a low voice, “I thought having money was everything. My Father spent his life chasing it, and so I thought that was what I should do. Things were always tight, but he made sure I had a good education, and because of it I landed a good job. I spent every minute making sure I was earning his sacrifice, and I found success pretty quickly,” Peter looked at Frank and smiled sheepishly. He didn’t know if Frank wanted to hear his story, but as the words came out, Peter knew he wanted to say it aloud. Frank was listening intently.
                   “I had a hectic job that kept me away from home a lot. I thought if I was making money, then Kate and I would be happy. I bought a big house, a Mercedes, that boat, and I had too many friends to count. On the weekends I was home, we ate at expensive restaurants, drank over-priced wine, and danced the night away. I bought Kate anything she wanted; but what she really needed was me and I was never there. I would be in my office and watch the sun rise and set while I was in front of my computer banging the keys or yelling into the telephone. I would find myself looking out of the window at the buildings wondering what the rest of the world was doing on the other side of the glass. No matter how hard I worked or how much money I made, Kate and I were not happy. Kate wanted a family, kids, a dog, the PTA. I wanted to keep pushing, and I wanted her to be satisfied with the things I bought.”
                   “So, how the Hell did you wind up here?” Frank asked looking around Peter’s bare apartment.
                   “When the fighting between us got really bad, I left and stayed in a hotel by my office for a while. I sat at the bar, staring at the neatly arranged bottles and drank until I was numb. When I couldn’t afford to stay at that hotel anymore, I stayed in cheap roadside hotels and I drank in the dark. I would think about all the people that had slept inside the four walls. I thought about the types of trips they were on, the sex they had on the bed, or the filth they had washed down the drain. I thought about everything but how to make things right with Kate. Drinking made me an angry asshole and eventually I lost my job, my friends, and my family. When it finally sunk in that I had lost Kate forever, nothing else mattered. I kind of imploded and wandered around until my money was all gone and I landed here. This place is so damn far from where I came from,” Peter paused for a moment, and said, The funny thing is, even in the factory, I am still standing on the wrong side of the glass,”
         Frank nodded like he understood. “That’s a much different story than mine. I was born here and I’m going to die here. The end.” Frank sighed and took a swig of beer. “I got the family, and all that goes with it. I even have a mini-van. I’ve been standing in that factory for as long as I can remember, and I’ll be there, until the end, just like Carl. Thank God for beer and baseball, right?” Frank and Peter shared forced smiles and watched the baseball game a little longer.
         On the screen the pitcher was hurling the little white ball at the batter and Peter thought about Kate, and of her anger and sadness and how she raged at him and her scathing and vitriol release had struck him like a wild fast ball. He was suddenly stung with the memory of the hurt in her words and her eyes.
         Peter wanted to change the mood so he suggested that he and Frank head out to the carnival that had popped up overnight. Frank readily agreed and the two grabbed beers for the walk and headed out. The pair walked a rarely used side road and talked about work on their one day off from work.
         As they got closer to the carnival the sounds of the calliope, clanking rides, and screams of laughter grew more distinct and changed the course of their conversation. Frank began to reminisce about going to the carnival with his family as a boy. His face lit up as he talked about his father taking the family on the first Sunday the Carnival was in town. His father, Frank Sr., who had been a factory man also, would spend all of his Sundays trying to make up for the Mondays through Saturdays. Peter wondered why Frank was at the carnival with him, but he didn’t ask.
         The smell of fried foods permeated the air and they had become suddenly hungry. They weaved through crowds of people that moved through the open spaces like schools of fish. Haggard men and women with greasy hair and shoddy clothes, operated rides, sold food, and stood outside red and white striped tents attempting to allure the passersby to spend a dollar to win a prize. Vacant eyed stuffed monkeys and lions hung from hooks overhead with the hope of going home with the lucky sucker that knocked over the milk cans or popped three balloons with as many darts. Small children were pulling dads by the hand towards the chance of their lifetime to win a prize.
         Moms in tight jean shorts that were squeezed around thick pale thighs pushed strollers side by side as they gossiped and herded the children that were free to walk. Everywhere people were eating greasy food from paper plates and drinking from large white Styrofoam cups. The people who stood for forty-eight hours a week in hot and bustling factories were pulling their hard earned dollars out of their wallets and laying them down for a little relief.
         Peter watched as a pack of awkward teenaged boys with greasy hair and pimples took turns shooting a basketball at hoop that was set far back and just a bit too small. They insulted each other and bragged about their basketball skills as one after the other missed. They spent their hard earned paper route and allowance money trying to impress a group of young girls that stood by watching, undulating, whispering to each other and tossing their hair. In a few short years those boys would become broad shouldered men working the factories and the farms and the skinny, smiling girls would be the overweight moms taming the home front and raising the children.
         Peter and Frank sat at a picnic table with their paper plates and large white cups. As Peter ate his hot dogs covered in chili and cheese he watched the crowds come and go. Peter dressed the same as the others, worked at the same job, even began to speak like them, but he knew he stood out as a foreigner. He didn’t grow-up in the town or any one near it. He didn’t go to high school there or play football and didn’t have family that worked in any of the factories. He looked younger than his age and his skin was a shade darker than milk-white. He didn’t speak much, avoided gossip, and generally kept to himself. He attended all the town events and even went to the high school football games to cheer on his co-workers’ kids. He was accepted in the group because he was a factory man, and toed the line. He stood, as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, sweating and proud.
         Frank finished his third hot dog and burped, letting everyone around him know he was done and satisfied. It didn’t raise any eyebrows and Peter soon realized there was a chorus of satiated men expressing their satisfaction in belches. Peter chuckled, truly impressed with their volume and vibrato.
                   “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean to be a jerk about the picture. It’s just that you don’t talk about yourself much, and I guess I was trying to figure you out, you know, without actually asking,” Franks said nervously.
                   “I understand. I had a very different life before I moved here and I guess I have tried to forget about it. It’s been a tough adjustment for me,”
                   “Well, you seem to fit in here just fine,”
                   “I like it here Frank, and I even like your awesome burps.” The two laughed and bumped fists. When they were finished with their beers they set out to get more and wander with the crowd.
         As they walked they ran into other guys from the factory and they said hello to their wives and children and Peter said it’s nice to meet and see you tomorrow. The wives would eye him suspiciously and wonder if the rumors were true. Peter was an unknown and so he had become the guy that their husbands knew from the factory that lived alone in apartment on the edge of town, didn’t have a wife or girlfriend they knew about, and never showed up at church. In their imaginations Peter had probably been released from prison, was a murderer, or worse, a homosexual.
         Frank professed his love of dessert and stopped to get a funnel cake while Peter stood off to the side and waited. Looking around, Peter spotted a young girl trying to convince her Dad that she knew she could throw the ping pong ball into the fish bowl and win a real live goldfish. The little girl with blonde curly hair and a narrow face spotted with freckles, watched in anticipation as her father handed the money over the guy in the Rolling Stones tee-shirt running the game. With ball in hand the girl closed one eye to aim, concentrated with her tongue out the side, and tossed the balls, narrowly missing each time. Her father, a man Peter recognized from the factory, but didn’t know his name, reluctantly laid down more money and took a shot at winning the fish for the little girl. Three tosses and no luck.
         The girl turned away from the game, her face painted with disappointment, took her Father’s hand and started to walk away. Peter was suddenly nostalgic and clearly remembered being a young boy, playing carnival games, so convinced that he could be the one that would beat the game and take a prize home. Peter could see his father putting his wallet away and offering his hand so they could move on. Peter knew, with every fiber of his being that if his Dad had given him one more chance, he would have sunk the ball and won that game.
Peter stepped up, handed the operator money and took six ping pong balls. As he readied himself to toss, the girl stopped and turned to see, forcing her Dad to stop. The girl saw the man who would win a fish; her Dad saw a man alone with no kids around him trying to win a goldfish and probably wondered why.
         Peter tossed the first ball too hard and it bounced away. When he tossed the second ball he tried to add some spin, and that too missed. The third ball went up a little higher with some arc, it hung in the air, readying for a dip in the cool water, and splashed down next to the goldfish.
                   “We have a winner!” the barker exclaimed. “The fella in the black shirt gets the fish!” Peter turned hoping the girl was still there. She was, and she was beaming. Peter made eye contact with the Dad, and he nodded permission for him to offer the goldfish.
                   “Would you like to pick out the fish, little miss?” Peter asked the girl.
                   “No thank you sir, it’s your fish,” the girl said with a timid voice.
                   “I would really like you to have it, and give it a proper home. You see, I work a lot and won’t have time to give him the love he needs,” The little girl looked to her Father and he smiled his approval and she shrieked. She knew the exact one she wanted and pointed him out to the man.
                    “Thank you so much, Sir, I promise to take great care of him,” the girl said to Peter as she twirled around with the bowl held up high in her hands. The Father smiled and thanked Peter, offered his hand to the little girl, and they walked off.
         Frank walked over, his face and shirt smeared with powdered sugar. “That was nice of you, that little girl sure was happy. Hey, you got another fish! We should take a picture!” Frank laughed at his joke and returned to licking his fingers. Peter smiled and was ready to walk away when he realized he had three balls left to throw. He laughed and told himself he was going to win one for his eight year old self. The arc worked again and the ball splashed into the bowl. “The dude in black is on fire! He takes another fish!” Peter, Frank, and the goldfish walked away winners for the night.
         The day after Peter won the game, he was standing at the presser feeding the insatiable beast when it occurred to him that the goldfish was home waiting on the table near the window. Peter found himself watching the time, waiting for the clock to strike six and the shift to end so he could get home and feed it.
         Peter arrived home faster than usual, and when he opened the door, he was relieved that he had remembered to leave the light on for the fish. Peter pulled out the jar of fish food he had bought on the way to work and sprinkled a pinch on the top of the water. He sat on the sofa and watched the fish swim up to devour the food. “I bet that’s good little guy. I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sure you were lonely today, wondering if I was coming back. Hey, by the way, I am sorry that you had to see the picture of your cousin on the wall. I never knew a fish before, so it didn’t really mean anything to me to take him out of the water. I promise, I won’t do it again.” Peter stopped, realizing that he was talking aloud to a goldfish.
         Peter sat and watched the fish swam from one side of the bowl to the other for a long while. Sometimes the fish would stop in the middle of the bowl and it seemed that it was looking out of the window. Peter stood and pulled the curtains back all the way and noticed how big the moon looked. Peter had stopped looking at the moon a long time ago, and had forgotten it was there. Peter walked to the fridge to get a beer, but when he opened the door, he didn’t want one any longer.
         Peter went to the front door and put his boots back on. He grabbed the fishbowl from the table and walked out the door. He headed down the road and walked past the carnival that was filling the night with noise and light. Peter walked for twenty minutes until he reached the lake. The water was still and sparkled under the moonlight. Peter walked to the edge of the lake and put the bowl down. He undressed and left his clothes and boots in a pile.
         Peter picked up the fishbowl and walked into the lake, his feet sinking into the soft bottom. The water was cool and it sent a shiver up his back. He held the bowl above his head with one hand and treaded with the other until he was out in the middle of the lake. “I can’t let you live your life looking through a window, Mr. Goldfish. I don’t know if you will survive in this water, but whatever happens has to be better than living in your bowl.” Peter tilted the fishbowl over and the goldfish disappeared into the inky water.
         Peter swam back to shore and laid back on the grass, naked and exposed, and the let the cool air dry his body. As he lay there, under the watchful eye of the moon, he imagined the goldfish swimming back and forth across the lake. The fish was free to see all the lake had to offer and he could swim with the other fish who knew how wonderful it was to be there. When Peter’s heartbeat had slowed and his breaths were long and low, he thought he heard the goldfish whisper, “Thank you,”