Single Woman Gutted by A Fish. That Story and More, at 11. Back to You, in the Studio, Dick.
Finding love is like trying to catch a swordfish: Your efforts may lead to your true heart's desire, but there is always a chance the event will end in a violent and bloody death.
One beautiful summer day, you head out to the sea with your closest friends in tow. You've decided you want to catch a swordfish. You don't know shit about swordfish. But you've seen these pictures in peoples' homes: The proud fishermen and women, holding their shiny, glossy swordfish, all smug and animated and clenching the aftermath of their socially-accepted savagery tight against them. Plus, you've eaten the damn thing at an Applebee's once or twice, and it tastes pretty good actually. This is the day you're gonna do it. You are finally gonna reel in one of these elusive motherfuckers. You feel anxious and scared, yet confident. After all, how hard could it be? You see these trophy shots in homes of people you know. If they can land the big one, why can't you? The task can't be as oppressive as it seems, right? People tell you all the time how great at fishing you would be, if you only threw out your line. You're encouraged incessantly, in fact. If they believe you can do it, then it must be so.
Everything is set: the boat is chartered; the captain and crew are all about it; the sun is out; the air is clean and YOU, my dear, are about to embark on the adventure of your life! Don't get scared now. Hell. Yes. Strap that pole on me and tell me where to stand!
You are poised, in a tasteful, slimming outfit and in sensible, yet stylish shoes - and you wait. Your pole in hand. The conversation around you is light and hopeful. You feel supported and ready. Peace abounds. Then. THEN. You feel a tug on that fragile, yet capable string of yours. You peer over the side of the boat. OH the majestic swagger of a swordfish. Powerful, yet vulnerable (as all beasts have a soft side, you so foolishly think). Yes, that's him. That's the one. He's the one you are gonna put in your picture frames and brag about to all your friends and mother and feel a deep, soulful connection to forever and ever and fucking ever. He's been spotted. He's taken the bait. Now, now all you have to do is get him into the boat. How difficult could it be? I mean, the fact that you even spotted one you like is a GODDAMN MIRACLE IN AND OF ITSELF.
You gaze into his eyes. He looks like your "kind". But who knows these days, with tons of fish looking one way and actually being rotten and gross on the inside. You are willing to take a chance. And hence, the battle of wills begin. You gently tug on your pole, your body motioning him toward you. Ah! But he resists. Silly little fishy. I know your game. You pull harder, your body strains, but You. Are. Strong. Of course, now he's seen you up close and HE IS NOT REALLY FEELING IT AS MUCH AS YOU. Aw, but you don't care. Here little fishy fishy, swordfishy, quit resisting and get into the motherfucking boat. His strains are near violent now, body flopping around in the water, making a total mess -- getting you all wet and bothered. You're committed though, and won't let go. No matter what, you will conquer the swordfish and get him into that picture you've been hallucinating about. Back and forth. Tug for tug. Bodies thrashing. There is no one there to help you. They've all abandoned you for their own fish. It is just you and that slippery sucker. He doesn't know it yet, but he's a goner. He's a goddamn goner. Then, in one fell swoop! of your untoned arms, you propel his heavy body toward yours. Up, Up, Up He Goes. Soaring... The movement is graceful, resplendent, hotttt...for a moment, you gaze at him in the air... breathtaking and so, so close... and then... and then... he spirals down, straight toward you... and your jubilation turns to total panic. See, it is only then that you see his razor-sharp and pointy impaler-ator, AND IT IS FURIOUSLY RACING, DIRECTLY TOWARD YOUR HEART.
PLUNGE. Pluuuunge. Gasp... gasp... heave. His knife-like appendage has stabbed through your chest. You are down, but not dead. Oh no no, death doesn't come when you want it to ever ever ever. His death-snout is in you, but you are still alive. So you feel it when - out of desperation and his own will to survive - his sharp teeth begin gnawing away at your exposed flesh. And it isn't like you are suffering... just as an uncomfortable inconvenience - NO NO... It is the most excruciating distress you have ever felt in your entire fucking life. Outside of him being himself, with his inherently dangerous, yet quite natural appendage, his writhing body and spastic teeth are making the whole thing entirely worse. HE DOESN'T MEAN TO. HE IS JUST TRYING TO GET SOME FUCKING AIR AFTER ALL, AND IF YOU ARE THE BODY HE HAS TO GO THROUGH TO DO IT - WELL, THEN TOO FUCKING BAD FOR YOU.
You've finally given up. You've relented. You let go of the pole awhile ago. You've accepted your certain fate. Resolution. He's won. He's found his freedom and relief. He's gotten his way; off he flaps his stupid, stinky body back into the ocean from whence he came. And there you are. You are bloodied, clothes ripped to shreds, boobs gone, laying there in the middle of the boat. Alone. You are dying. You are laid out there underneath the perfect sun, in the pure ocean air with the surreal blue sky above you -- and you are dying. Alone.
You feel a calm, a truce exists with the universe. You open your eyes and peer, one last time, at the world around you. You can kind of decipher images of shoes and hairdos and faces, but recognize none. Squinting, you attempt to flash a smile to the young captain you spot on the bow. Then one familiar and perfect face appears an inch from yours. It's your sister, your best friend. She lifts your head and puts it into her lap. She strokes your cheek and you can taste the salt of her tears dripping into your gaping mouth. You know she senses your pain as if it were her own. She starts to whisper, I saw what that fucker did to you. And, I have to tell you, he was kind of an asshole. You consider her perspective for a moment. You muster the words from the back of your throat, Yes, I suppose he was quite an asshole. With her clear wisdom and a refreshingly positive disposition, she replies. I really think you are better off without him, don't you? You know that you know that you know: She is right. You ask, Am I going to die? Without even taking a moment to weigh your question, her answer erupts dismissively, No fucking way! Then she deadpans: There is, however, quite a mess to clean up here... Where are your boobs? You can't help but laugh at the question and beg her to go fetch you a whiskey neat before she calls for reinforcements.
No comments:
Post a Comment