Dead Fish Afternoon

In the usual swelter of an August afternoon, a man returned to his home and faced an uneasy feeling. The man -- a spry, sun-beaten gentleman with calloused hands of the name Zobal -- noticed upon his first step into his kitchen that something was amiss. Watchful, he crept inward, sealed the heavy door behind him, and crouched on the adjacent carpet to unlace his worn, steel-toe boots.

From his position, he scanned the environment, familiar, yet somehow lacking what made it so. The curtains were unmoving against closed windows, and the menagerie of greenery seated atop each sill grew wildly in their mugs. Zobal moved his eyes to the kitchen table at the far end of the room. As they were the day before, the table and chairs were all in place, with placemats strewn about the tablecloth. Perhaps the sink? Full of miscellaneous pots, pans, glasses, plates, utensils; grime-ridden dishcloth hanging from the faucet; garbage disposal uncleaned; everything was ordinary.

Boots untied, he kicked them onto the carpet and moved farther into the room. Passing his microwave, decrepit and abused, he approached the window directly above the sink and peered outward behind his house. Neat and well-trimmed, his backyard shone a vibrant green against the unhindered sun. Beyond that laid a thin strip of woods, chipped thinner each year to expand one of the countless farm fields that surrounded his home.

“Nothing unusual here,” he whispered to the scenery.

Dissatisfied, Zobal analyzed the unswept floor, the ceiling tiles, the dusty stovetop, the corner television on the counter, the trash, but nothing struck him.

Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, he simply gave up the search. Everything that resided in the kitchen resided exactly where it should, so, logically, there was nothing by which Zobal should be vexed. So with all the effort he could exert in his exhausted body, he turned out a kitchen chair from the table, and accepted that whatever was wrong proved to be incorrigible and permanent.

While he struggled with this, another thought occurred: what if the problem was not caused by something being out of place, but rather something else?

Before Zobal could could reinvestigate, his doorbell sounded off in its dull, electronic ring. In response, he rose, replaced the chair, and walked out of the kitchen whence he came. Through the glass pane of the breezeway door, two gentleman stood in Sunday attire, carrying books under one arm while waving with the other. Zobal eased his expression, straightened his workman’s jacket, and opened the door for his guests.

“Good afternoon, Brother!” exclaimed the first man -- a youth who appeared to be half as old as Zobal, but just as tall.

“Hey there.” He examined the two visitors as the second man -- three times his companion’s age, and quite tall -- said the same as the first.

The younger of the two continued, “Allow us to introduce ourselves; my name is Quentin Bowers and this is my associate, Allan Waters. Have you given any thought on Jehovah recently?”

“Has he given any thought on me?” Zobal remarked. “Come inside and we’ll talk about it.”

The trio relocated to his kitchen, sat down at the table, and the men asked about the name of their host.

“Me? I’m Christopher Zobel, but I go by my last name. Sorry I didn’t clean up the place; I don’t get a lot of company. Can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

“Water for me, please,” replied the younger man. His associate politely refused.

As the three of them sat and talked, Zobel realized that the uneasiness he felt earlier had disappeared. Mid-sentence, he stopped to ponder what the cause might be.

“Mr. Zobal,” the younger visitor inquired, “are you alright?”

“Shush!” Zobal looked all across the room, but it was exactly the same as before. Soon, the creeping feeling that something was awry returned, vanishing when his older guest shifted in his seat.

It was the motion that dispelled that vexing feeling. Motion, motion, motion... that’s it! The room was too quiet, too still, too motionless!

Immediately, Zobal, once again, began to check, and recheck every detail of the room for something he may have overlooked. The two guests, unsure of what to do with themselves, stood and followed their host as he moved with methodical care. Maybe the stove? No, that never moved. The curtains? No, the window always stayed shut because of the humidity, so they never moved either.

Zobal and his guests moved from object to object, and were about to let it be, when they stopped at the fishbowl on the counter, next to the television. Here, something was definitely missing; the water was still, yet cleaner than the rest of the room.

“Mr. Zobal,” said the younger of the two guests, “where is your fish?”

In a contemplative silence, three pairs of eyes studied the empty vase for a long moment.

“There’s no fish in there.” Zobal blinked, rubbed his eyes, even moved closer to examine the water, but the vase remained fishless.

“Alright Gentlemen, it couldn’t have gotten far. Let’s go find it.” Without another word, each man started in a different direction. One checked the cabinets, but found only pots, pans, plates, glasses, and utensils. Another checked the dishwasher, but found only dirty pots, pans, plates, glasses, and utensils. They scoured the room, turning over the carpets, tablecloth, looking under the chairs and table, peering into the refrigerator and freezer, digging through the trash, picking through the sink, but nowhere was the fish to be found.

“Maybe a cat got it,” offered the older visitor.

His host shook his head. “I don’t own a cat.”

“Hey guys, I think I found it!” called the third man.

All three gathered around the corner of the counter, staring at the television next to the fish vase. A bit crowded, the younger guest reached behind it and pulled out a dry, crumbling, purple crunch that vaguely resembled a male betta fish.

“I think the fish went and killed itself,” he uttered in disbelief.

His companion frowned. “How’d it do that? It had to have jumped out of the vase and flopped itself all the way underneath the television!”

“Nevermind how,” followed Zobel, “why would the little guy do that? I kept its vase cleaner than everything else in this house?”

The first and younger associate looked from his friend to his host and consoled, “At least he’s swimming in the pristine pools of Heaven now.”

“Is he?” countered the second. “Jehovah denounces suicide. The fish murdered itself, therefore he is barred from Heaven’s gates. Regardless, he isn’t even a Christian, so he can’t be one of the Anointed to rule in Heaven.”

Zobal interrupted before the debate could continue. “It doesn’t matter if he’s going to Fish-Heaven or not; let’s just clean him up before he starts to get crispier.”

At this, the three men opened the trashcan, disposed of the betta, and after a moment of respectful silence, Zobal said, “I just hope he doesn’t end up in Fish-Hell.”

The older guest gave him a critical expression. “What do you mean? There’s no such thing as a literal Hell -- let alone a ‘Fish-Hell.”

“It was just a little joke; I didn’t mean he’s actually going to Hell.”

“Brother Allan,” began the younger visitor, “does any of this even apply to fish? I mean, they’re ignorant of Jehovah’s existence anyway.”

“Good question,” replied his companion.

Zobal crossed his arms and furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you saying my fish isn’t worthy of salvation? He was a really good fish; I never even saw him sin once!”

“No, no, no, Allan is right; fish can’t go to Heaven. I’m sure of it. Only humans can be granted a seat next to Jehovah,” concluded the younger guest. The other agreed.

“Well,” started Zobal, “I thought God was--”

“Please,” the younger visitor interjected, “call him ‘Jehovah.”

The host began again. “Well, I thought God was merciful and kind, regardless of who or what we are. If you guys won’t let my fish into God’s house, then I don’t think I’ll let you into mine.”

With some awkward gesturing and a slight bit of pushing, Zobal directed his guests to the breezeway and ousted them. Sharing disappointed looks, the two men embarked for the road in their little SUV and drove onward toward the next house. Alone again, Zobal locked each door on his way inside, and turned on the television while he poured the fishless water into the sink.

“Damn,” he remarked, “now I need to buy a new fish.”