Fish Therapy

In which the water looms

Paul is a fish. He lives in an aquarium. The aquarium has been too bright for as long as anyone can remember.

Paul isn’t sure what to take seriously anymore. He’s a very tired fish. He’s swimming all wonky and he isn’t sure why. He stares at the algae for hours. He’s hungry, but he doesn’t eat.

The Little Hands keep plopping fistfuls of cheap food down from above. The fish rejoice as a matter of course, but as the years have come and gone, their enthusiasm has waned. The water has become toxic.

Paul rolls. He yaws. He tries to make sense of “up” becoming “down” and of “down” becoming “up”. He can’t.

He writes a poem. He sings the songs of his youth. He is an hot little alienation engine. He gets laid off. 

None of the fish feel well. They’ve all seen better days. But they keep doing what they do. They lean into love. They get by.

“How’s the job hunt going?” says the old catfish.

“I haven’t been thinking about that” says Paul.

“Oh?” says the old catfish.

He scribbles something on his little yellow legal pad.

“Because I am a fish,” says Paul. 

“Mmm,” says the old catfish.

Paul is pitching. Slowly. End over end.

Up. Is down. Is up. Is down.

“We’re all fish,” says Paul. “And we’re all sick.”

The catfish waggles his whiskers. Scribbles more notes. Adjusts his glasses.

“I don’t follow,” he says.

“Isn’t my job… to be a fish?” says Paul. “Isn’t that all of our jobs? Just… be fish? Do fish?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” says the catfish.

“I am?” says Paul.

“Yes,” says the catfish. “You are.”

“I don’t think that I am,” says Paul.

“You’re a business analyst by trade? Yes?” says the catfish. “Were you not satisfied in that line of work?”

“We’re all fish,” says Paul. “And we’re all sick. And the water...”

“What about the water?” says the catfish—the catfish, who is wholly in and of the water.

“What do you mean, ‘What about the water’?” says Paul.

“Was there something you wanted to say about the water?” says the catfish. “Something more?”

“It’s everywhere,” says Paul.

“Mmm,” says the catfish.

“I mean, it’s just fucking everywhere,” says Paul. “It’s poison. I’m sick. I can’t think straight. You’re sick too.”

“I don’t feel sick,” says the catfish.

“But you are sick,” says Paul. “How can you just keep coming in to work day after day? We’re all in danger. We need to take better care of the aquarium.”

“The Little Hands take care of the aquarium,” says the catfish.

“No,” says Paul. “They don’t. They just keep dumping more and more garbage food in here. I don’t know what their goal is, but I really don’t feel like they are particularly interested in taking care of us.”

The catfish sets down his little yellow legal pad. He slurps up a bit of detritus that floats by. Paul winces. He’d close his eyes if he could. It’s all too much.

“Sometimes,” says the catfish, “when I’m overwhelmed by things that are beyond my control, I like to take a moment to honor my overwhelm and cultivate gratitude.”

“But the water,” says Paul, gills on fire with pain.

“What about the water?” says the catfish.