I found the fish on the top shelf at a school supply store. There were several, the tops of their boxes sticky with dust. "Create-a-Fish!" the box read, in bright orange capital letters. The side of the box listed its contents: one fish, one glass bowl, one bag gravel rocks. The instructions—pour gravel into bowl. Fill with lukewarm water. Insert fish and watch it grow!
At home, I tore open the box and took out the bowl, the rocks, the fish. Set them side by side near the faucet. The bowl was the size of a Magic Eight Ball, and the gravel could have been found on any unpaved driveway. The fish itself was as light as the cardboard that made its box, and felt like slate: gritty, smooth. I turned it over in my hand and thought of the fish crackers I used to get in my Star Wars lunchbox with a PB&J sandwich. That was how small it was. But it would probably puff up when I wet it, and I was uneasy about giving it so little room to roam, in that Magic Eight Ball bowl. I remembered seeing fish recently at a bank, one on every desk as decoration. I'd complained to the clerk helping me that the fish needed to be able to swim around, and he'd said that they had plenty of space, for the type of fish. Too much room wasn't good for them.
I turned on the faucet and held the fish in one hand and used the other to test the temperature. Lukewarm, I needed, but no matter how far I turned the hot water handle, the goddamn water stayed cold. Could it really matter so much if the temperature was a little off? I could just wet the fish thing—a little—and watch it turn into something while I waited. It wouldn't hurt. It would only be for a minute. Fish didn't come in boxes, after all. Nothing was likely to happen, and I'd have to take the whole thing back, anyway. I could use the ten dollars. Ten dollars for a fish that didn't work. I shoved it under the water.
It didn't take long. It swelled like a sponge, not growing much bigger, but just... filling out. And the color changed, from brownish-gray to an opalescent white. Scales popped out of its sides, eyes emerged from the head, and the texture became that of the strange sticky-rubber wads found in grocery store toy machines, the ones that stick to windows and walls if they're thrown hard enough. The lips, plump like a flounder's, opened and closed like my kid sister's did when she was a baby and hungry, and its small black pupils shifted back and forth until they rested on me.
I tested the water. Still cold. Its lips moved more insistently, its eyes pleaded. I flicked some water on the fish and closed my hand around it gently, hoping I could keep it damp enough to keep it alive. In my rush to grab the bowl I knocked it on its side, and it rolled to the edge of the counter.
I lunged for the bowl and the fish moved in my palm. Pulsated. Shifted. It wouldn't wait anymore. I filled the bowl. Dumped in the rocks. But the box said to dump in the rocks, then fill the bowl. Didn't matter. The fish was jumping, getting bigger, trying to get out. It felt dryer, stiffer. I set the bowl down and tested the water again and hoped it wasn't too cold. It felt too cold. But the fish had grown well enough with the water I'd splashed on it. It would be okay. Was there enough water in there? What if there wasn't enough? Didn't matter. I had to get it in the water.
I opened my hand and stared. I knew then I'd done it all wrong, had been too impatient. I picked up the box and studied all sides. Nothing about what would happen if instructions weren't followed exactly. There had to be something. I looked inside the box—maybe there was a folded page, a step-by-step list with a warning asterisk. But there was nothing. I threw the box into the sink.
The fish was naked. Arms and legs lay against my palm, relaxed, breasts spread and fell to its sides. Dark brown hair fell to its shoulders. It looked just like a Barbie Doll my sister used to use for hair-cutting practice. It, in fact, could have been a Barbie doll. I looked at the bowl, then at the fish. There was no way it would fit. The fish-to-bowl-size ratio was all wrong. I couldn't take it back, now. They would know I hadn't followed the instructions. Simple, they would say. All you had to do was what it said on the box, they would tell me before making me leave without my ten dollars. They wouldn't even give me another fish to try, I knew.
The two did come together, though. The fish would have to fit in the bowl. I would make it.
I tilted it so its head pointed down, and tried to shove it in the bowl.
"I won't fit," it said, its voice bubbling on the surface of the water.
"But this is the bowl you came with. You have to fit." I thought of other ways it might work. Maybe if I folded it knees to head and put it in butt first. It was flexible, and bent with no problem, but when I tried again, arms and legs dangled over the sides. Its head rested on the rim of the bowl, like it was getting a shampoo at the barber shop.
"You can't keep me in here," it said. "I told you, I won't fit. I need a bigger bowl."
"And I'm telling you, this is the bowl you came with. There has to be a way."
It sighed and raised its hands, then let them fall against the glass.
I said, "I mean, this is your bowl."
"And the water is too cold," it said. "My butt is getting numb. Can you take me out? We'll think of something together."
"I don't see how," I said, but took it out, anyway. It didn't seem to need water the way it had before, so I let it sit on the counter. "What if I fill an empty ice-cream bucket with water? Will that work?"
"Is it clear glass?"
"No. It's white. Plastic."
"I won't be able to see out of it, then."
"Well, no. But fish don't have very good memories, so every time you remember you can't see anything, you'll forget."
"But I'll be reminded, don't you see? Every few seconds of my life will be a fresh disappointment. No, it has to be clear glass."
"I have a clear glass coffee mug."
The fish touched its temple with a finger. "Hmm. Is the mug bigger than the bowl?"
"No. Smaller."
"Hmmm."
I was starting to not like my fish. "Look, if I want to, I can let you swim in the toilet. How would you like that?"
"Fine." It held its hands out, warding me off. "But speaking of water..."
I hadn't turned it off, yet, and when I tested it, it was lukewarm.
"Is it cold?" it asked.
"No. It's okay." I picked it up and held it under the water. "Okay?"
"Yes. That's enough. Thanks."
I put it back on the counter. It sat with its legs hanging over the edge.
"So, what now?" it asked.
"I don't know," I said.
"You could ask my name."
"I'm sorry?"
"My name," it said.
When I was five, I had a black goldfish named Blackie. I had to come up with something more creative.
"Opal," I said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your name."
My fish stood weakly and climbed into the sink. "My name is Carol," it said. It tested the water with a foot, first, then submerged its entire body. "Oh, this is great. Standing under water is like taking a breath of fresh, crisp, mountain air, isn't it?"
"I've never been to the mountains."
I plucked the box out of the sink and looked again for a manual, then looked for small print under the directions on the side. No directions, but there was a phone number.
"Stay here."
My fish crossed its ankles. The water was still running. My utility bills were already outrageous. I reached out to turn off the faucet.
The fish puckered its lips. "No, please" it said. "I'll need that."
"Fine. But stay where I can see you." All I needed was to lose the goddamned thing. As it was, I might be able to salvage my ten dollars. The people at the number on the box probably knew something.
It rang ten times before a woman named Lucy picked up and identified herself as a box-fish representative.
"Lucy, hello. I bought one of your fish today, and something happened."
"Didn't work?"
"Yes. Well, not exactly. You see, it's too big for the bowl."
"Oh, that's impossible," she said. "Maybe we gave you too many rocks. Did you take some of the rocks out?"
"No, that's not it. It's just—it's too big. I tried to bend it, but—"
"I'm sorry. You bent it?"
"Well, with the legs and everything, it just got to be too lo—"
She hung up.
I called my friend Rick. He had an aquarium in his living room, and knew all there was to know about fish. He said he'd come over tomorrow, and to keep my fish in the sink until then.
"Are you going to be okay in there?" I asked. It was treading water over the drain plug.
"Well, your sink is aluminum, and studies have found a correlation between aluminum and Alzheimer's."
"So don't drink the water."
It raised an eyebrow at me and clucked its tongue.
"You already have a bad memory," I said.
It turned away. "You're right. When it's bad, what's a little worse?"
I think it might have cried, but I was tired, and I'd done all I could do. "Good night," I said.
From my bed, I heard tiny bubbles popping in the sink. It was soothing, like a fountain, and I would have been happy to have it live in there for good. It was a double-sided sink, and I only needed half of it for dishes.
I fell asleep quickly and dreamed of guppies and clown loaches.
I woke up to voices in the living room.
"It would fit right there." That was Rick's voice.
"Oh yes," said my fish. "And I'd have a view of the whole room. You're so brilliant."
It said it in a way that meant I wasn't brilliant. I put on my pants and went out to the living room. I stopped.
There had to be some manner of recourse in this whole fish incident, someone I could sue. If not for big-time compensation, then at least for my goddamned ten dollars. Not only could I not let it live in the sink, now, but it would take more water than I wanted to think about to keep it satisfied. Overnight, it had grown. Four, five feet, maybe. And it was right there on the couch with Rick. Rick sat on the cushion, and the fish sat on the arm of the couch, one foot on the ground, the other on the unclaimed cushion next to Rick.
"Hi, Brian," said Rick. "I was just talking to Carol, here, and I think we've come up with a plan."
"Your name is Brian," the fish said, looking at me. "Hm."
"What? What's wrong with Brian?" Goddamned fish.
"Oh. Well, nothing."
"And your name is Opal." This was getting out of hand.
"Hey, hey. Calm down, man." Rick turned to goddamned Opal. "He's never in a good mood in the morning. Brian, man, there's some coffee in the kitchen." To the fish again: "I knew I'd better make some. Did I call it, or what?"
The fish smiled at him. It might have winked. I took a breath so I couldn't talk and got some coffee. The fish passed by on its way through the kitchen and said something about wetting itself in the bathroom.
"Whatever," I said. I sat with Rick and we waited for the fish.
"It's a beaut," he said. "I don't have any like that."
"No?"
"Never even seen one."
But that had to be good. To have a fish no one has ever seen, right here in my apartment. It might fit in a baby pool. I said as much to Rick.
"Nah, man. It'd be right in the middle of your floor."
The fish came back and sat right back where it was, before. It was soaking wet, dripping all over my couch.
"We were thinking," it said, "about putting an aquarium right there." It pointed at the big wall by the window.
"Like a ten gallon?" I could handle that. Get a nice stand, teak, maybe, and put some plants in it. Plastic ones, because fish always eat the real ones, and I'd have to go buy more every month, or so.
Rick and the fish both laughed. But the fish, when it laughed, turned its head so its hair would fall on its shoulder. Rick eyed it in a way I wasn't sure I liked. He already had enough goddamned fish.
"Okay," I said, "What, then?"
"Brian, man, a tank for this one would have to take up the whole wall."
I looked at the fish. He was right. It would need the whole wall. Rick could afford the whole wall. Me, I sold credit card insurance. I could afford to knock out a windowsill. Maybe.
"I don't know," I said.
"Oh," the fish pouted. "Brian, sometimes, the money isn't what's important. Quality of life is something you just can't put a price on."
The fish got up, then, and went to the middle of the living room. It did this watery dance, everything moving like waves, graceful as an eel. I'd never seen anything quite so beautiful, and I knew that if I had this fish in my living room I could sit on the couch and watch it for hours. I could run an ad and charge people who wanted to see it, and that would pay for the aquarium, over time.
I was sure of it.
It kept dancing, and when I looked over at Rick, I was convinced I was onto something. His face was slack, like he'd just come out of anesthesia, and—not that I looked, but—well, I'll just say I knew I could get some good money out of this. It would cost at first, it would cost a lot. I'd have to take out a loan. But I could do it. My ten dollars would end up being the best investment I'd ever made.
"Okay," I said.
The fish stopped and looked at me. "Really?"
Rick licked his lips and turned to me. "Cool, man."
The fish sat back on the couch and it and Rick started talking about the wall.
"It could start there," the fish said, pointing at the corner where the wall started, "and end there." It was pointing at where the wall ended. What was that, twenty, thirty thousand dollars? I'd never made any home improvements. I had to check with the landlord. Had to think about whether or not I wanted to end my lease and buy.
I would have to.
Rick got up and went over to the wall. "So, it would be the whole wall. You'd have room to swim, and you could even add stuff."
"Oh!" the fish said.
I didn't like that.
But the fish went on. "We could put pretty, shiny stones at the bottom—gemstones, quartz, agate."
"Maybe a unit for you to swim into and out of, like in my aquarium at home," said Rick. Goddamn Rick.
"Let's just stick with the water, okay?" I said. "It'll have room to swim, water to live."
The fish looked at me. "Room to swim? Water to live?" It and Rick exchanged a look. "Brian," it said, "a fish needs more than water to swim in. It needs plants, mirrors, colorful rocks to please the eye and enhance the swimming experience. Simply living is not enough. Don't you understand?"
"Hey, man," Rick said, "if you can't do it, I can probably handle it."
I didn't know much about the needs of fish, but I knew Rick didn't have mirrors in his tank, or colorful rocks and things at the bottom. He had plain brown rocks, and a plain brown wood thing in the middle. It had holes in it, and his fish would pop their heads in and out, and chase each other through crevasses.
"I need more, Brian," said my fish.
That night I took it for a drive through town, past the pet and fish stores and out onto the main highway. I took it to where I knew it would have all the room it needed, all the color it could stand. I took it out to Coco beach. Threw the goddamned thing in the ocean.