A Fish Best Served Cold
For my birthday one year, she gave me a silver ring with the words “You are my sunshine” engraved on it. The rest I remember, though not in any chronological order, a jumble of memories, a Slaughterhouse-Five picture of time. When I was five, while going through church donations, I found a white stuffed animal dog that when wound up played the song,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are grey,
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
Apparently, I was enamored with the white dog, and although my mother said I couldn’t keep it, I threw a tantrum and got my way. I remember I couldn’t sleep without the white dog, and winding it up and listening to its music put me at peace with the world. The only other memory I have of the white dog is a strange one. I was with my two aunts, and they were singing with the music, except they knew another verse. A second verse. It’s the first verse, but I didn’t know that at the time, I only knew the chorus.
“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.”
Upon hearing those lyrics, I immediately burst into tears. I remember I was sobbing uncontrollably, full body sobs that left me shaken and disturbed. My aunts shared a strange glance; they were overly concerned and asked why I was so upset. I replied I did not know. I would eventually learn the meaning of those tears years later, but, of course, the world would have to end first.
Revenge is a fish best served cold. Albeit, of course, after you’ve waited an ample amount of time; let the fish suffocate to death, making sure you gut her and then slowly pull her skeleton out through the incision you have made from her head to tail. How I longed for that moment. I had enacted it in my mind many times. After all that time, it did not feel sweet, it felt sour. I honestly never believed I would get to exact my revenge. I remember how badly I wanted to hit him. While driving the car. I had visions of my fist slamming into his chin. Fits even. Spasms. Seizures of rage. I’d be driving along, when without warning, all-of a-sudden I’d jerk my arm violently to the left, as if I was hitting him in the face. I dreamed of knocking his teeth down the back of his throat. Watching him spit his teeth out like a slot machine paying off, that was what I dreamed of. Nothing would be more satisfying. And it was all because of her, that shy, little red-haired jezebel who had moved in with me and then started seeing him behind my back. When I discovered her undisclosed relationship, I made a big deal. She defended herself, explaining that she was merely friends with the man who had been writing her love poems behind my back. I reflected years later that if that had happened when I was eighteen and not yet a man, I’d be in jail for murder, killing him and possibly her also. She was lucky, or so I thought. She moved out, and I never saw her again, well, that is, until the sun got blocked out and we heard rumors that the Great Night was upon us.
For the life and time of me, I can’t remember the sun being blocked out, and yes, I’m completely aware of the irony of the ring and the whole situation. My friend Malakai has suggested that I’ve repressed the memory. It was far too traumatic. I remember I lived in a dwelling with a spacious yard and little shrubs along the front. I do remember the tumbleweeds and the dust storms; after several weeks of darkness, the shrubs and all the vegetation shriveled up and died, and soon the town I used to live in became smoldering ash. The air had a pungent smokiness to it. Civilization crumbled slowly at first, and then very rapidly. There were riots, and then the food ran out. I do remember the hunger and starvation that overtook the town; one cannot fathom the desperation of a person being so famished he’ll do anything for life. When the fires started, there was a mass exodus toward the coast. On the way, I got word of a surviving town that had fresh springs, fish, and the best part was this town was walled off from the rest of the outside world. The journey was long and arduous; we ran into bandits as well as cannibals. I saw things that I’m not permitted to speak of. Out of a sickly and sorrowfully decrepit group of over fifty that started the journey, only seven made it to the fabled town. We were out of rations as we approached the spiked ironwood gate for the first time. I wondered who built it. I must say I was a little bit intimidated. There were all these bones hanging from it, shattered cervical vertebrae, a pulled apart spinal column. Some of the bones looked fresh and were still caked with dried blood. We were asked a series of questions about nationality, ethnicity, education level, sexual preference. I didn’t care, I had doubted the sanctuary would even be there. I had presupposed it was a myth. Shockingly and perhaps most fortunate for myself, it did exist, and most importantly, we were permitted to pass within its walls.
The place wasn’t much of a hole in the wall, certainly no town; some grass huts sheltered against the side of a towering mountain that seemed impenetrable from the bottom. We lived like brutes, but it was certainly better than the alternative: cannibals, marrow traders, starvers and scavengers. Would we live out the rest of our days here? I didn’t know, but it seemed considerably better than things I had seen which I’m not permitted to speak of. Though darker days loom ahead, I mean that literally; the sky continues to grow considerably darker every week. I remain convinced the Great Night is upon us. There are dust storms that blow off the mountain, but we are still able to pull fresh catch from the mountain spring. Mostly shiners, suckers, darters and lampreys, but if the river maintains its bounty, Watertown, as it has been dubbed, will continue to be fruitful for its inhabitants.
The gate can be a rather dangerous and terrifying prospect at times. It’s lined with desiccated bodies, some still in the process of rotting, some skeletons and skulls, a tibia here, a fibula there. All sorts of intimidating artifacts to try to scare the various starvers, thieves, murders, cannibals and bandits who arrive at our gate seeking sanctuary. So many desperate or dying people. Many lie about their identity. It’s a harsh world outside the gate; what little I did see of it was full of death and destruction. About sixteen months ago, there was a raid, and Ayyub, the gatekeeper was murdered. We awoke to find him disemboweled and hung upside down by his large intestines from the trading post outside the gate. Most fortuitously I was given the honor of manning the gate, but it was in truth because no one else wanted it. I just hope I don’t end up like poor Ayyub, hanging from my entrails. When visitors arrive, of which there are fewer and fewer these days, it is my job to assess whether they’re worthy of entering. It is also imperative that I turn away all those hazardous to our refuge. A few years back starvers, infiltrated the camp and the results were disastrous. Within a few months, the population dwindled down to less than a dozen, but eventually we expelled them and sustained the harsh blow.
I never do much to evaluate them; I can usually feel whether they’re dangerous. I can tell if a visitor is a starver just by looking at him. On a whim, I might ask them a riddle about fish or sunshine, but that would be more for my amusement than his evaluation. Most do not gain access, but I have let a few healthy through now and then.
We do have defectors, also, simpletons that choose to leave and venture outside the gate. Poor saps. If they could see what was out there. Most don’t make it far, before they’re eaten by starvers.
It was a slow day (at least I think it to be day), it was tough to tell with no sun. There had been no movement outside the gate that I was aware of. The visibility was almost zero, but one could barely make out the trading post creaking slowly in the wind. I think I nodded off and then Malakai was nudging me awake.
“We got us here…a looker.” He nudged me again. He pronounced here like hea.
He was winking, though it was hard to tell because his eye had a jagged scar.
“Starvers?” I questioned.
“Don’t look like it.” He paused rubbing his face. He pronounced it like et.
He spit, “a hot bitch…and a male, take a look see,” he added. I looked out through the small peephole in the gate. It did not seem real. I could scarcely believe my eyes; I thought I was dreaming. I rubbed my eyes and took a second look. Of all the gated sanctuary communities, at the end of the world, she had to saunter up to my gate. There was a mini cyclone blowing in the corner where the gate and mountain met so it was hard to see, but it was her. She was unkempt and her hair was knotted and even butchered in some spots, but it was her. She was malnourished and dirty as hell, but she still looked young and beautiful and I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t feel anything when I peered into her eyes. The male she was with, was it him? I had seen pictures online before the internet and civilization had crashed and burned, but it was tough to tell. He was tall, dark and handsome; he fit the certainly description of the man she had left me for. I wondered, and it all came back to me in a flash, as if it had been yesterday. How cold she had been, how unforgiving. I remembered the last time I saw her when the Earth was still green, the air was still clean and the sun had not been blocked out. I remembered our last argument. I asked her about her ‘friend’ point blankly. I inquired, “What makes you think you can trust this guy?”
“I mean, he didn’t respect our relationship, so what makes you think he’ll respect yours?”
I got no answer.
“This is the guy you want to be with?” I questioned.
Again, she didn’t answer, but a smirk appeared on her face. It was the smirk that irked me; in fact, I never wanted to hit a woman so hard in my life. I restrained myself, but again would have violent fantasies that in that moment I reached out and struck her.
Malakai was all giddy over my ex-girlfriend. She was all dusty and dirty, but she still looked cute. I wasn’t sure how to proceed. He was whooping and hollering like some yokel.
“WhooooEeEEee,” he hollered back in the encampment that was Watertown. We don’t get many visitors.
“What say you, starver?” I grunted over the gate. I tried to disguise my voice. I was sure she wouldn’t know it was me, but somehow, she knew.
The male spoke up. He was the exact kind of guy she left me for. “We ain’t starvers…No what I’m sayin’…” my ex-lover grabbed hold of his arm and he stopped. I was instantaneously jealous.
“Joey,” she squinted through the dust, “Joey, is that you?
I felt blood flush to my face and years of stewing shame, as I wanted to pretend I was someone else. Anybody. For years, I’d thought about what I’d say to her. I had expected that I’d run into her around town, but never did. I had always rehearsed what I would say to her. Sometimes I would be proud and somewhat mean, other times I’d be sad and maladjusted.
“No Joey here, da name is Iokepa,” I grunted. I pronounced it hea and Yo-ke-pa.
She squinted up toward the gate. “But you used to be Joey…I mean…we were…um…before…” she stopped.
It seemed as if for a moment she had forgotten how it ended between us, and then it came crashing back to her and she put her head down in shame.
“We ain’t together,” the male put his hands up in defense. “She’s just a friend.”
I once again felt my face go flush. Weren’t those the exact words she had used to describe her relationship with the man she had left me for?
“We ain’t got enough fish,” I explained harshly. “You keep searching.”
“Please,” the red-haired harlot pleaded.
Malakai was back with a group. There was a conjugation of commotion, as they were all lining up to peek at my lost love.
“Where is she?” I heard them whisper. They pronounced it wea.
“Who is she?” they muttered.
“Is that Iokepa’s love?”
With everybody watching, she leaned up against the gate and whispered to me (which was tough to do because the gate was made of fifteen foot spikes of ironwood), “May I speak with you privately?”
With everyone watching, I admitted them into the interim, a small passage just inside the gate. Everyone could overhear our conversation, including her male traveler, but there was nowhere to be alone.
Can’t do it, I mouthed quietly to her.
She pouted and I felt invisible forces draw us closer.
In my best cowboy voice, “Well ain’t this the very definition of a pretty picture,” I shrugged.
She had a fire in her eyes. “Joey, for Christ’s sake, do you mean you’re not going to let us in? How can you… I can’t even…” she stopped.
“We git no room,” I explained.
“You have to let us in…we was….I mean…lovers,” she said at long last with a tear in her eye.
I felt all eyes on me, but didn’t say a word.
“Is this about how I ended things?” she asked. “That was so long ago.”
It didn’t feel like long ago, to me it felt like last week.
She touched my arm, twirling her ratty hair. “I was seeing someone but he…he…” she didn’t finish but I knew something horrible had happened to him.
I tried to be cold and give her a small taste of what she had given me. “We built us a stable community…two people could completely throw off that balance.”
She glanced at her companion. Was she thinking of abandoning him like she had abandoned me? I hoped so.
Her companion called me over, “Pssss, yo paisan.” Did she tell him that I was Italian?
The tall, dark and handsome man was in truth very annoying, ignorant even, and I wondered again, if he was indeed the paisan she had left me for. “I want you to know, we are not together. Nothing has happened between us, I promise.” He said this in broken English, and I’m paraphrasing.
“Nothing?” I questioned, momentarily forgetting where I was, but shook it off.
He nodded, “And what we can offer you is so much.” I didn’t like the way he said we.
“You have nothing I want,” I informed him.
He smiled smugly. “Well, that’s not true . I have one thing you want.” Except he said it in broken pidgin Ebonics.
I almost said something; I was honestly enraged. I informed them both that any decisions about letting anyone inside the gate to Watertown had to be approved by the council of elders. What they didn’t know was that there was no council of elders, which meant that any decisions about who would be allowed inside the gate was up to yours truly.
In truth, there was an adequate supply of food and water, but as mentioned before, it was dangerous to let outsiders into Watertown. I left them in the interim while I tried to figure out what to do with them. They had nothing to eat, so I threw them a cold fish from the river.
I kept a careful eye on her male friend and he made no move to touch or grope her. Perhaps he was telling the truth, still I didn’t trust him. They had stayed in the interim a fortnight, though technically it was always night, and, yes, I admit, I was taking little trips down there to see her. Finding excuses to communicate, for whatever reason. More than a few times, we had rather lengthy conversations. We spoke about people we had known and things we had done before the sun was blocked out, but after we had parted ways. At times, it felt like we had never parted, I whispered sweet nothings in her ear and I began to feel a blossoming in my bosom.
After nearly a month of being fed table scraps like the family mutt, she eventually began to press me with, “When are you going to let us in?”
I stammered, “Well…I…I…I already told you I can’t let you in.”
Her body rubbed up against me. I felt more than just heat as her limps suctioned on to me. “Can’t you just let one of us in?”
I looked at her naïve eyes, the same naïve eyes that had tricked me.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’ll be worth it.”
“I can’t…I…I…I’ll see what I can do,” I stuttered.
That night, as I left the cold fish out for them, I thought about what it would be like to be with her again. It would be weird, no, after all these years? Still, I couldn’t lie. After all she had done to me, I still loved her, and part of me would always be split in half by her selfish actions.
I went back to the huts to inform the residents of Watertown that we would be admitting the female but not the male. Honestly, I didn’t think the mostly male majority would have a problem with it, and they didn’t. I just didn’t know how I was going to inform her male companion. I mean, what if he refused to go?
As the sky turned from dark to gray (there was never really any light since the sun had been blocked out) I peered down on the wall to check on my lost love.
In the darkness and dust, it was tough to see anything. I experienced a brief glimmer of confidence, as I hoped maybe she had done the favor for me and told him to scram in the night. I have never been so lucky. I looked again, but was having trouble seeing her. Had she moved? Where was she? I opened the gate and climbed down into the interim, which was technically against the rules, but she was no longer there. She was gone, along with her male companion. They had even left the cold, dead fish there, I’m not sure why. You would’ve think they could’ve used the sustenance.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, because love is blind and we see what we want to see. I would say I find it interesting and a tad nihilistic; she had chosen the apocalypse over me. Sometimes I sit on the wall and speculate that my lost love and her companion most likely died a horribly painful death at the hands of starvers or cannibals, and I think about that fish and try to justify that she got what she deserved. I sit on that wall waiting, nay praying for the Great Night, and I take the silver ring with the words, “You are my sunshine,” engraved on it out of its secret hiding place and slip it on my finger and try to cure my amnesia of the day the sun was blocked out. Forgiveness is not always divine, sometimes forgiveness should be served on a cold plate with a dead fish.
