My immortal fish
Somewhere along the way, I have become the keeper of the office fish.
Several months ago I walked into work and there sitting on a table behind my desk was a fish tank.
"What," I said sternly, "is that?"
"Your fish!" CiCi told me.
I eyed the two goldfish. They swam around lazily. One was tiny, shiny, electric orange. The other was mottled white and black, belly round and swollen; she looked pregnant. "Oh no. Nonono. Why are they on my desk?"
"Sara went on maternity leave," Cici said, as if that explained it.
I sat down, grumbling. For the rest of the day I eyed them warily and complained to everyone passing that I did not want the fish. "I do not want these fish!" I yelled out in vain. People kept coming by to congratulate me. "Hey, nice fish!" and "Those fish look so happy!" and oh, also, "Fish Mommy!"
A week later, when I dunked my hand to the bottom of the tank and swished water around the rocks to clean it, I realized I was a sucker.
After that I gave up, and made a sign:
"WELCOME ESTA AND SEYMOUR TO YOUR NEW HOME!"
It had a cute border with multi-colored umbrellas. Esta and Seymour seemed pleased. I silently wished they'd just die already.
I kept waiting for Esta to have her babies, but she never did, so eventually I started telling people she had a tumor. I was sort of embarrassed for her, because she perpetually looked like she was about to pop. She liked to skulk around the top of the tank. "Esta, you're a pig," I would say to her. "Let Seymour eat for cryin' out loud." Seymour stuck to the bottom of the tank, most likely too weak from lack of food to muster the energy to swim to the top.
And oh yes, the sad part is that I began talking to the fish. "Good morning Esta! Good morning Seymour!" I'd sing-song. "Would you like a treat? You want your food now?" If I forgot to turn on the light in the tank: "Oh my goodness, are you in the dark? You want to see now?" Every time I caught myself doing it, I vowed more strongly to somehow find a way to kill the fish with my mind.
People would stop me in the hallway to ask: "how's your fish?" It was the office joke, really, everyone snickering because of course they didn't want the damn fish either. "This is not in my job description!" I would protest every now and then, but nobody listened.
A few months passed, and these fish stubbornly hung on to life. I have never seen goldfish live this long before. It's like they were taunting me. I took to only cleaning the tank every two weeks as punishment. I didn't tell anyone that I'd cut back on their food allotment, either.
"Wow, that tank is dirty," said Jack.
""Why don't you clean it then?" I retorted. He laughed, like it was funny. I gave him the stink-eye and looked at Esta and Seymour. "Come on, die already," I told them.
I plucked them both out of the tank and placed them into a smaller bowl, a holding area where I always put them while I cleaned out the big tank. But then, because I'm -- oh right, at my job, I got busy working and it was several hours before I remembered that I still needed to clean the tank.
"Alrighty, ready for..." I began, turning around to look at -- OH MY GOD. I was struck silent, in part horror and part glee.
For there, on her side and quite sunk to the bottom of the tiny round fishbowl, lay Esta. DEAD.
"Oh my GOD," I yelled, "Esta is DEAD!" I put just enough sincerity in it to be convincing.
Seymour was swimming frantically around and around in circles at the top of the bowl, like he was about to jump out. I suspect he was really thrilled to finally see the top of the bowl. I gently scooped around Seymour's joyful squirming to get Esta out. I put her in the first thing handy, a paper cup. From there I proceeded to walk into Every Single Person's office who had teased me, stuck the cup under their nose, grinned big and said, "Tell Esta goodbye!".
Then I went into the bathroom and flushed her down the toilet. One down, one to go.
Later on that day, as I walked down the hallway, I heard someone hiss something behind me. That -- they couldn't possibly have said.... I turned around. "What did you just say?"
Pete looked at me, very seriously, then whispered:
"Fish Killer."
After that, word spread that I had deliberately killed the fish and I had to launch, no joke, a campaign to convince people that either a) She died of a tumor, or b) Seymour killed her in a fit of rage. And I think point b) has been quite proven, since Seymour has now doubled in size since he's able to actually eat the food.
There is still the occasional "fish killer" whispered at me down the corridor. Some even shorten it to just "FK", as if it's some kind of cutesy nickname. Jack likes to walk in and act surprised: "Seymour is still alive!"
Right now, Seymour is swimming around a very clouded tank. I've cut his meals to one feeding per day. My standard answer, when someone asks me what's for lunch, is "fish."
Several months ago I walked into work and there sitting on a table behind my desk was a fish tank.
"What," I said sternly, "is that?"
"Your fish!" CiCi told me.
I eyed the two goldfish. They swam around lazily. One was tiny, shiny, electric orange. The other was mottled white and black, belly round and swollen; she looked pregnant. "Oh no. Nonono. Why are they on my desk?"
"Sara went on maternity leave," Cici said, as if that explained it.
I sat down, grumbling. For the rest of the day I eyed them warily and complained to everyone passing that I did not want the fish. "I do not want these fish!" I yelled out in vain. People kept coming by to congratulate me. "Hey, nice fish!" and "Those fish look so happy!" and oh, also, "Fish Mommy!"
A week later, when I dunked my hand to the bottom of the tank and swished water around the rocks to clean it, I realized I was a sucker.
After that I gave up, and made a sign:
"WELCOME ESTA AND SEYMOUR TO YOUR NEW HOME!"
It had a cute border with multi-colored umbrellas. Esta and Seymour seemed pleased. I silently wished they'd just die already.
I kept waiting for Esta to have her babies, but she never did, so eventually I started telling people she had a tumor. I was sort of embarrassed for her, because she perpetually looked like she was about to pop. She liked to skulk around the top of the tank. "Esta, you're a pig," I would say to her. "Let Seymour eat for cryin' out loud." Seymour stuck to the bottom of the tank, most likely too weak from lack of food to muster the energy to swim to the top.
And oh yes, the sad part is that I began talking to the fish. "Good morning Esta! Good morning Seymour!" I'd sing-song. "Would you like a treat? You want your food now?" If I forgot to turn on the light in the tank: "Oh my goodness, are you in the dark? You want to see now?" Every time I caught myself doing it, I vowed more strongly to somehow find a way to kill the fish with my mind.
People would stop me in the hallway to ask: "how's your fish?" It was the office joke, really, everyone snickering because of course they didn't want the damn fish either. "This is not in my job description!" I would protest every now and then, but nobody listened.
A few months passed, and these fish stubbornly hung on to life. I have never seen goldfish live this long before. It's like they were taunting me. I took to only cleaning the tank every two weeks as punishment. I didn't tell anyone that I'd cut back on their food allotment, either.
"Wow, that tank is dirty," said Jack.
""Why don't you clean it then?" I retorted. He laughed, like it was funny. I gave him the stink-eye and looked at Esta and Seymour. "Come on, die already," I told them.
I plucked them both out of the tank and placed them into a smaller bowl, a holding area where I always put them while I cleaned out the big tank. But then, because I'm -- oh right, at my job, I got busy working and it was several hours before I remembered that I still needed to clean the tank.
"Alrighty, ready for..." I began, turning around to look at -- OH MY GOD. I was struck silent, in part horror and part glee.
For there, on her side and quite sunk to the bottom of the tiny round fishbowl, lay Esta. DEAD.
"Oh my GOD," I yelled, "Esta is DEAD!" I put just enough sincerity in it to be convincing.
Seymour was swimming frantically around and around in circles at the top of the bowl, like he was about to jump out. I suspect he was really thrilled to finally see the top of the bowl. I gently scooped around Seymour's joyful squirming to get Esta out. I put her in the first thing handy, a paper cup. From there I proceeded to walk into Every Single Person's office who had teased me, stuck the cup under their nose, grinned big and said, "Tell Esta goodbye!".
Then I went into the bathroom and flushed her down the toilet. One down, one to go.
Later on that day, as I walked down the hallway, I heard someone hiss something behind me. That -- they couldn't possibly have said.... I turned around. "What did you just say?"
Pete looked at me, very seriously, then whispered:
"Fish Killer."
After that, word spread that I had deliberately killed the fish and I had to launch, no joke, a campaign to convince people that either a) She died of a tumor, or b) Seymour killed her in a fit of rage. And I think point b) has been quite proven, since Seymour has now doubled in size since he's able to actually eat the food.
There is still the occasional "fish killer" whispered at me down the corridor. Some even shorten it to just "FK", as if it's some kind of cutesy nickname. Jack likes to walk in and act surprised: "Seymour is still alive!"
Right now, Seymour is swimming around a very clouded tank. I've cut his meals to one feeding per day. My standard answer, when someone asks me what's for lunch, is "fish."