25.3 – Pacing the Cage

Despite all the crap he had to deal with (both literally and figuratively), Marty enjoyed his menial job at Aquarium Beautiful.  More often than not, he could do whatever he wanted to.  As a young teenager, he had been bossed around by Pat and Bob, but he always had a plan.  He calculated that if he learned to do everything better than they could, over time they would leave him alone.  After Pat passed on to the great hamster wheel in the sky, Bob practically disappeared, spending all his money on drugs and loose women, leaving Marge and Marty to keep the store running.  At times it seemed as if they were the only ones who cared about the animals, anyway.  A pet store wasn’t like most other kinds of retail enterprises, because some of the inventory could actually suffer and die.  Bob simply bemoaned the loss of income, but Marty took very seriously his responsibilities to the lives of captive creatures.  In particular, he was drawn to providing excellent husbandry for the tropical fish, who had varied and specific needs.  Some of them were still captured in the wild and transported halfway around the world, only to be dumped in an enclosed glass container, and slowly poisoned to death in their own waste.  Without constant, well-informed maintenance, they would simply be exotic and expensive fertilizer.

 

The saltwater fish were especially delicate.  Marge taught her son the techniques she learned in the wholesale tropical fish business, which was like applying biology, chemistry, and veterinary science all at once.  The filtration system was simple: a hollow base created a space under the gravel for bacteria to grow, and the water was circulated constantly through that artificially cultivated ecosystem.  The bacteria multiplied and gorged on the fish waste, of which there was plenty because they were fed well to stave off the wasting effects of the chemicals used in their capture.  The ethical (but most expensive) way to collect fish in the wild was with small hand nets.  Instead, many unscrupulous hunters poured cyanide in the water to temporarily knock out the fish, after which they could be easily gathered up like floating leaves from your pool, only to revive again a few hours later.  But their kidneys were usually damaged permanently, and they wasted away in the aquariums – if they lived long enough to reach one.  Or, poachers might use dynamite to concuss the water and stun the fishes in great numbers.  One way or another, the dazed and confused former denizens of the reef wound up at Aquarium Beautiful, and it was Marty’s job to keep them alive long enough to sell them to the unwitting customers.

 

There were no refunds on saltwater fish.  The customers had to trust their aquarium store, and execute the careful protocols of a dedicated hobbyist to keep them alive, so they might decorate their homes or offices for a brief time.  Despite all the effort, chemicals, and technology deployed in the fishes’ elaborate journey from reef to aquarium, the longest Marty ever heard of a saltwater fish living in captivity was a blue tang that made it a year.  The nearly-dead commodities were shipped in Styrofoam coffins covered with customs labels from their countries of origin, and trapped inside inflated plastic bags that bulged like balloons partly filled with water.  They nearly always arrived in toxic shock, and many were dead on arrival.  Those were promptly sent back to the wholesaler (along with others that were hopeless).  Marty was the one who inspected the incoming fish, and those that had a chance he accepted readily, knowing that sending them back meant they would surely die, and the outrageous violation of their natural freedom would have been for naught.  It was his challenge – his duty, even – to give them their best shot at living long enough to have a few fishy moments of relative peace.  He would have preferred that the store didn’t order saltwater fish at all, so as not to encourage their capture, but they were very profitable, and Bob wouldn’t hear of it.

 

Marty carefully acclimated his charges by mixing clean aquarium water with the toxic bag water gradually to avoid shocking them.  Upon release, most fish hunkered down in the dead coral or rocks and wondered how they wound up in a Kurt Vonnegut novel.  The more robust specimens swam restlessly in the aquatic version of “pacing the cage.”  The adaptable ones made the most of their new situation, and went about their instinctive genetic programming with no apparent awareness of their plight.  Their beautiful colors glowed beneath the fluorescent lights, but their brains were in darkness.  The sensitive types freaked out completely, lolling their eyes, darting to and fro, and – in a reverse imitation of Leaping Larry – would commit suicide by jumping out of the tanks if they weren’t completely covered.  Marty kept a darkened aquarium in the back for these poor disaffected creatures, where some rested long enough to regain their senses, while others just gave up and expired.  The similarity between the captive lives of fish and humans was not lost on Marty’s sensibilities.  He knew that humans used to live a more natural existence in tune with their environment, gradually separating themselves from it until they wound up imprisoned in the artificial habitats they created for themselves.  Some of them went about their business unaware that anything was wrong, while others tried desperately to escape.  Eventually, he concluded, the humans will die from the toxic effects of their own waste… if they didn’t kill each other first.

 

At school, Marty did his best to maintain a cheerful countenance around Michelle, but inside he was dismally disillusioned and losing his grip.  She was so beautiful to look at, and she “liked” him, but they just couldn’t get together!  How crazy was that?!  There was nothing sadder or more pitiful than one half of a great relationship.  She spoke to him a few times, when classroom duties required it of her, but there was no hint of the intimacy they had shared on their date, as if she was still embarrassed for telling him her secret, and wanted to forget it ever happened.  There seemed to be a glass wall between them, which gave Marty the impression he was looking into an aquarium, admiring an exquisite companion he could never touch.  Or was he the one trapped behind the glass?

 

In the redwood canyon where Marty lived, the land was slowly recovering from the big flood.  The creek subsided – as it always did – and the raging fury became an echo of a memory.  The most striking effect was that the thick carpet of redwood duff had washed away, exposing the mud-skinned underbelly of the forest.  Standing on the banks, he tried to imagine the sheer volume of water that had been flowing all around his home just a few months before.  There was flood debris above his head; stuck in the branches of trees.  Shredded plastic bags, bits of rope, and jagged sticks were woven into the underbrush that survived.  New leaves peeked out from the stems, checking to see if it was safe to come out.  All up and down the bank were broken bits and pieces of people’s lives.  Something that used to be an aluminum chair poked out of the gravel like a goalpost.  He pulled out a submerged cooler that was filled with rocks and mud.  A twisted bamboo bird cage was stuck on a branch.  He found a plastic alarm clock half buried in the muck, and smiled grimly at the metaphor: wake up, Marty!  The prodigious love that once coursed through his veins had slowed to a trickle, and he was left feeling washed out and ravaged by its passing.

 

Marty needed to talk with someone clean and dry to gain a perspective from outside of the mud, but he was afraid he’d get them dirty.  He was painting a sad portrait of Michelle in art class, inspired by an Al Stewart song called The End of the Day.  It showed a young woman on the edge of a desert canyon, turned away and looking at the setting sun with the wind blowing her hair and coat in a forlorn way.  A small house in the canyon beckoned with a single light, but the woman did not see it.  He was struggling to render the coat, which more resembled a bathrobe, when Chas looked over his shoulder.  Marty turned and faced him with eyes like the windows of an abandoned house.  “Man, you need to get out of here,” Chas prescribed decisively.  “Come on, let’s blow this taco stand.”

 

Marty followed him glumly with his tail between his legs, like a dog with a guilty conscience; cutting classes for the day.  Chas asked if he was okay to drive.  Marty nodded without interest and launched the aging Apollo out to the Valley where they could escape the polluted atmosphere of human problems with a hike in the woods.  The most practical place to park was in his driveway (in one of the spots that wasn’t too muddy), and he grabbed a few things from his house before they took off on foot.  He and Chas crossed the Inkwells on the pipe, and headed up to the Bolinas Ridge to get away from the noise of the creek and cars.  The forest was respectfully silent as little birds peeped softly, and the only other sound was the crunch of their shoes on gravel.  As they walked, Marty told his younger friend what Michelle said about her brother, and tried to defend the depth of his feelings for her by explaining the connection they enjoyed on Valentine’s Day, and during the magical night of Vincent (before he ruined it).  Chas listened respectfully, matching Marty’s pace up the steep fire road; waiting for the right moment to cross-examine his foolish heart.

 

“Look, man, I know she’s special to you, I get it,” he said between breaths as they rested.  “But no girl is worth this much pain, dude.  You have to move on.”

 

“Move on from what?” Marty contended, “She said ‘Let’s see how it goes’ – isn’t that a beginning and not an ending?”  He was clinging to a thread, and he knew it.  “She could be in trouble.”

 

Chas took off his jacket and tied its arms around his waist.  It was getting warm as the trees thinned out near the top of the ridge.  “Yeah, but you gotta take care of yourself first, man.  You can’t save someone else if you need rescuing, too.”  He was gaining traction in his argument, and continued, “Her family sounds really conservative, right?  You said her dad is a square, and her house is all perfect, and she’s Christian, too,” he rolled his eyes and checked the mocking tone in his voice.  “Her brother’s just protecting her from the riff raff, and she’s probably too nice to tell you that it’ll never work out.”

 

He had scored a hit, and Marty lashed out defensively, “Thanks,” he whined sarcastically.  “It’s nice to be called ‘riff raff’ by your own friend.”

 

“You know what I mean,” Chas soothed confidently, “Besides, you’re too good for her. You’ll find a girl who loves you for what you are.”

 

Marty shrugged, outwardly conceding the argument but inwardly fencing off a private part of his feelings.  There was something about Michelle that Chas would never understand; something real and vulnerable that was a call for help, or at least an entreaty to be patient and wait for her.  Marty wasn’t very good at waiting.  As they walked on, he daydreamed about storming her house, trampling the tulips, knocking out her hulking brother with a single blow, throwing her over his shoulder, and carrying her away to the wilderness to live like Tarzan and Jane, while her parents wrung their hands and gnashed their teeth.

 

“What?”  He shook off the comic book fantasy because Chas said something.

 

“Let’s visit the Grandfather Fir,” he repeated.  They hiked along the ridge for a bit, dipping down into the dell where the huge tree spread its unusually large and accommodating limbs; more like an oak than a fir.  Chas ceremoniously lit a joint while lounging on its wide branches, and Marty inhaled the sweet, spicy smoke deeply, untangling the emotional knots in his brain.  There was something bracing and comforting about the ancient tree that made him feel like it was time to grow.

 

Driving to school the next day, Marty channeled his inner Lord of the Jungle and plotted his new campaign.  The journalism class was busily preparing the next issue of the Jolly Roger, which focused on Marin County.  Michelle was planning a review of The Serial, a movie that came out recently about their county’s wacky, liberal cult of material possessions.  Written by a local columnist over many years, it satirized the wanton spending and lack of commitment that was rampant in the community.  Marty again offered to draw an accompanying illustration so he could work closely with her.  (Hopefully, much closer than would normally be required by the conventions of journalism.)  She professionally agreed, and after school they went to see the movie together. 

 

It was a casual outing; more like an assignment than a date.  She offered to drive, and it was fun for Marty to be a passenger in her little orange VW bug, which was a perfect car for her personality.  On the way, he steered the discussion deftly away from mundane school topics like basketball, and together they explored the mysteries of the universe instead.  He would have preferred to sit in her car and talk for hours, but they were supposed to watch a dumb movie based on a Hollywood writer’s interpretation of what Marin County was like.  The high cultural ideals of their conversation were interrupted by lame jokes about hot tubs and peacock feathers.  In the darkened theater, he could sense her nearness like a wood-burning stove, and longed to share her warmth.  He thought about placing his hand on her thigh again, but decided that would be uncalled for.  Instead, he grabbed her hand when they laughed together at a funny part, leaving it there to see if she would pull away.  She didn’t.  After the film mercifully ended, she drove him back to his truck, as they continued their discussion of their shared beliefs and existence on this planet together.  Marty was seeking an opportunity to guide the discussion deeper into intimate territory, while she parried his romantic advances with adroit defensive deflections.  By the time they got to where he’d left his truck, both of them were exhausted from the effort.  There was no spark of affection to justify a kiss, so they shook hands like colleagues and went their separate ways.

 

All the way home, Marty rebuked himself for the lost opportunity, agonizing over the 15 million things he should have said.  Poof!  The little devil reappeared on his shoulder and berated him mercilessly.  “You idiot!” he sneered, “You had a perfect chance to score with the sexiest girl in school, and you dropped the ball! A handshake? Are you kidding me?!”

 

The little angel materialized in support on his other shoulder, assuring him, “You did the right thing, my son. You gave her some space and showed you were thinking of her needs before yours.”

 

“Yeah, I got what you need right here!” the cynical devil leered, and vanished like a fart into thin air.

 

“Don’t give up hope,” the angel was fading, “For only with hope can there be true love…”  The violins rose to a crescendo, but Marty was startled out of his reverie as the truck’s headlights illuminated the garbage cans in his driveway.  His body had somehow auto-piloted the Apollo safely home, while he was completely absorbed in his own thoughts.  Chagrined by his lapse in concentration, he got out carefully and looked up at the few stars that shone through the opening between the tall trees.  The eye of the night sky stared down unblinkingly, with a hundred cold points of light that pierced his soul.  Unfeelingly, he sensed he had lost something that day, but was afraid to admit what it was.