Sharks Might Live on My Block

OR Familial Fish Lore I am concerned with OR Deep Bathtub Water Thoughts

I am aware that the majority of things that I write begin with a question and that this self-aware meta commentary does not.

I have no open backlit window barely covered by sheer curtains through which to tease my neighbors’ thoughts and goings on but I imagine that most people in my zip code aren’t concerned about whether or not fish can scream. Do tuna yell for their mommies as a barracuda halves the distance to their tail in less than 6 seconds and then halves them? 

Oh, there’s a question. Here’s another, If fish do scream, could we hear it if we were close enough? Or is it like the guttural utterances made by cats when they are with each other and not in the presence of a human? Maybe a fish’s last cry for salvation is outside of our range of hearing. Do fish sigh? Whisper? Grunt? Moan? Or is their communication strictly corporeal? I imagine tail fin flicks and pulsing gill bellows mean important things to the fishdom. There are so many questions I could probably find the answer to on the internet but sometimes I just like wondering. 

I hadn’t wondered about the fact that fish don’t actually breathe air through their mouths until my son Alex mentioned it in passing. He said it as if it were a natural thing to think about on a Tuesday afternoon. “That’s what their gills are for.” But, when fish go to the surface and suck at the air, bubbles come out of their mouths. I say that maybe it’s like gargling and rinsing after a meal for them.

When Alex was 3 and I had trouble getting him to bed I would warn him that he better fall asleep soon because sharks can swim in the dark! Parents are lucky that their children don’t realize that while this may be their first time learning about the world and the place of nocturnal land sharks in it, it is our first time too. It was my first time being frustrated while trying to figure out how to get a preschooler to shut the f*ck up and go to sleep. 11 years later and he knows I am full of sh*t a lot of the time. The silly lies I told him have been replaced with brutal honesty about my humanity. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.

I have a manufactured memory of us peeking out the window and watching a Great White orange light zigzagging parabolically over the double yellow line in the middle of Maple Street. I saw it through his big brown windows with dark lashes in the place of curtains. 

Sharks are a natural predator to men but only if the men find themselves in the ocean. Men are a natural predator to women but only if the women have to find one to procreate with. Oh wait. F*ck!

Our oldest pet, a murderous kissing fish, is our only pet without a name. After 7 years, I’m afraid to name him because I am convinced that a name could only detract from his power. Furthermore, what if he hates the one we choose for him and figures out how to swim up the stairs at night to our bedrooms so he can nibble on our toes with his tiny but razor sharp rows of brown teeth? Bubbles? Ghost? Whitey Bulger? The kissing fish is referred to by his qualities and actions, not an arbitrary name we have contrived. I think he would appreciate that if I told him. That is of course if he could hear me. I would say that I think he looks like a cute little marshmallow and he might give me cutting kiss on the cheek.

The other day, my other son Fred wondered out loud if sharks know that cats exist.

Alex, always quick on the draw, responded, “Not collectively.”

Hey buddy, they know you exist and which bedroom window is yours. Better close your curtains tonight.