The smell of uncleaned bird cages stretched from the "Open" sign in the front to the dog kibble bags on the back wall. Uric acid; waste filtered. The food I usually get is 'bottom-shelf' in its purest form: I have to listen to the sound of my ankles popping when I kneel to grab it. Happy Chow only costs 82 cents a pound and it breaks up easy so the filters don't clog. Also I don't have a dog so taste isn't first priority. While I was knee-deep in the canine aisle I heard a pair of boots clonk around me, attended by a mumbled "s'cuse me, miss."
So, if I buy this I'll have about 6 bucks for some milk and pasta, which can take me to Thursday if I skip lunch. After I hoist the sunshine-hued bag up and walk towards the fish I can almost hear the other customer comparing brands behind me. New dog. People really buy in to the whole designer dog food trend so much that they pay 2.34 a pound for gluten-free cat-shaped cheerios. Or I'm just jealous because I'm broke and I don't have a dog.
Mike and Jeanie's store has about 10 different type of fish for sale and they're almost all domestic. Two exist naturally in the Amazon though, which makes no sense considering water from the Hudson, and consequentially New York, is basically acetone to them. There's three dead ones resting on the tank's bottom, blowing against the filter, pale green, while their friends congregate up above in a confusion of "who's next?"
When I get to the counter I see Mike talking to someone in a hushed tone, and Jeanie in the backroom with her hand on the phone, watching. From what I could tell his friend looks like he should be burning up considering the weather: black jacket, black jeans, black shoes. I smiled at Jeanie, and I saw her mouthing something in the background when I turned to the counter. "Hi Mike" I plop my yellow sack on the counter and grin at him, only to see his friend's large purple bag of Lifetime Canine fancy cheerioes, hidden by his looming coat. "Oh! I'm sorry." I cradle my bag again, looking up at him with an apologetic smile, only to be met with a resting scowl. I retreat and look down, taking a deep step back and waiting my turn. Jeanie's watching us with a firm awareness, her eyebrow's fixed so low it could replace the lid. I was bobbing my knee so I had something to focus on, and I wasn't sure what to do when Mike's guest gave me a glance and grabbed his bag with one hand, stepping aside. After switching my gaze back and forth between the two I made a move back to the counter. Mike finally met my eyes and tapped away at his pre-Y2K register.
"Fancy feast, huh Kell?" He chimed, brow glistening with sweat; it's the same line I get every time I drag my cheap sneakers across his 'Wipe Your Paws' welcome mat. "Har har. You know they don't care what it tastes like." I catch my words right as they pass my front teeth. Incisors; from Latin incidere "to cut." Mike's friend casts a sour glance at me and I have to cover my ass so I don't look like a fur trapper. "Oh, I don't have a dog." His eyebrow twitches down and he shifts from the Happy Chow in my clammy hands to me. "No no, I buy this for the lobsters. It's, um, it's cheaper than fish food, and really anything else." He's still giving me a sideways glance so I go in for the overkill, intimidated and red-hot. "I say they don't care, because, you know, they're…" I cleared my throat and looked at Mike, trying to smear a smile across my face. "Work the system." Mike's joke offers me an escape, and I give him my second to last five dollar bill after telling him to keep the change so I can retreat as soon as possible. With my cheeks still on fire I sweep out the front door and into the humidity, my yellow bag crunching as I adjust. I look back just to make sure my bag didn't rip like last time and I see Mike's friend outside, looking my way. My hair clogged my vision, but I nodded back his way before cutting a right on Perry to get back home.
That night while I'm writing Steve's check I see someone else is dead in Meatpacking District: two men in their own apartment, five blocks away from me. I can imagine the city buzzing in a confusion of its own. 'Who's next?' I catch the imprint of the checks' numbers on my textbook and rub it mindlessly. 6 more sessions, 4,000 more dollars. Right as I endorse it I look up and see the white letters on the screen in allcaps. PUNISHER.
NEXT WEEK
The kibble takes a few minutes to get soggy before the lobsters can catch it. Since their pincers are wrapped up they have to wait for the food to float down, like chicken-byproduct manna from Heaven. Chela: modified organ; Arthropoda. I usually get customers to cut them on their own time, but the occasional touristy housewife will ask for a 'live demo,' which basically fucking sucks. They're the only thing I sell live and cutting them while they're still kicking is traumatic. I was dropping pellets in the tank when the bell rang against the glass on the front door. Thank God, money; maybe lunch isn't impossible after all. Three too-tall blondes sauntered in with dripping Styrofoam coolers, smiling shiteatingly at me. Well, nevermind.
Shtolen brothers, in all their German glory: they're my shipping client. I doubt they're involved in the actual fishing or shipping process, just the money-making and shit-talking side of it. "Hello Lynnie" Markus beamed, plopping the cooler at the front counter, some of the juice and ice water splashing on my textbook. "Jesus Moe you could have some decency." I flung the droplets off my page in haste, gingerly placing the book behind me as I grabbed my cash. "That's not my nickname, is it?" He said with a lilt, and I gave an empty hearted smile. "Oh of course! You are the three Shtooges. It fits." It's not my joke, actually. It's my sisters. She came up with it when she used to run front counter. She'd been memorizing her acronyms for an exam when they made a drop and came across SHT and OOG. Sarah's firecracker brain just made the connection; Moe gave her a black eye right across the counter afterwards and still overcharged us. Systematic HyperTension; Ovarian Organs and Glands; Carver & Wright 1985 13ed.
"Oh, Classic." Carl's turn to chime in, or 'Curly' rather. "So, do we have all of it today?" Markus chortled at me after I handed him the cash, counting it with German precision. I opened the coolers and pulled out a flank of shipjack tuna, eyeing it just as accurately, but without the Aryan attitude. "Did you check the Mercury levels in these?" I asked, reaching for my indicator till the other one grabbed my forearm. Third stooge: I don't know his name because he's not wordy enough to need one. "They're fine, Lynn. Wild caught, farm fresh." Markus didn't even look up over my cash, and I jerked back. The angry blood whooshing in my ears prevented me from noticing the bell had rang a second time. Hot in the face and neck, I stabbed the tuna with the prong and watched it light up. "Those are two opposites, Markus. These tuna are worthless, I can't sell any of this." I pushed the cooler back over the counter and held my hand out for the cash, which he'd already folded and placed in his jacket pocket.
"That's not going to happen. We caught it, cut it and delivered it to you, Lynnie. You owe us for labor and handling. You're going to have to sell it and when we come back you're going to buy more. Understood?" Markus loomed over me, talking in a hushed voice, his hand reaching back to his belt loop. I stepped backwards, the tuna falling from my hands onto the counter, splashing blood and water onto my shirt, my apron ironically unscathed. The Shtooges giggled at this, and Markus brought his hands together in a clap. "Great doing business with you! See you in two weeks, give Uncle Steve my regards!" They walked out in a line like soldiers and I brought the wet coolers onto the other side, salvaging the useful meat and sliding open the ice shelves, defeated, again. The dirty ones could go on display, at least. My head was level with the glass case when an all-black ensemble appeared on the other side. I yanked my torso out of the shelves, grazing the crown of my head on the way out. Calvaria; skull cap.
"Oh! Hell-o." I trailed off, seeing the same man from Mike and Jeanie's place, clad in the same sweat-inducing outfit from before. He didn't smile, but instead of staring villainously like the last time we'd semi-spoken he stared at the tank. "Those your dogs?" He nodded at the lobsters, and my mind buzzed for something to say. "Oh, yeah. They love some Happy Chow." I tried to laugh but saw he wasn't budging. I looked around the store for something to provoke a civil conversation, or rather make me less uneasy. "Are you…looking for something in particular?" My knuckles drummed on the counter before I remembered the tuna on it. I reached behind and grabbed a rag so I could at least keep myself productive-looking while he viewed the 20x20 store. "Yeah, you know who those guys were in here earlier?" He met my eyes head on and I felt my face reheat. Not in general social anxiety, not in a distrust of strangers. Just in real panic. A butterfly bandage peaked out from behind his jacket collar. With a deep breath I pulled back from the counter and glanced down at the 12-gauge just two feet under my textbook. People come in looking for names, information, trouble. Had that been what he was talking to Mike about? What had Jeanie so wary? I reminded myself that I knew how to do this. I watched Steve do it dozens of times, Sarah even did it before Emory. My back arched and I looked at him, deadpan. "Just my shippers. I buy their fish." I'm trying to hide my knee, bobbing furiously behind the counter.
His gaze didn't falter, and he looked around another time. "Okay, how about… tuna." He nodded at the fresh (albeit toxic) flanks and I gritted my teeth. He must have overheard us. "Uhm, yeah, that's" I walked up to the tuna and reached for it. Should I say no and risk going broke or say yes and poison someone? "That's actually not a very good batch. Sorry, just, um, faulty packaging." I retreated from the window and dared to meet his eyes. Surprisingly he just pursed his lips and nodded, looking around the store. "Are the lobsters faulty, too?" He said simply, and looked back, unexpectedly warm. I perked, and walked towards the aquarium tank. "Uh, no! No. They're perfect. Raised on dogfood and tap water." I attempted a laugh again and didn't feel as prickly when I looked back at him. I rolled up a sleeve and dipped my hand in the tank, fishing around for the lucky tribute. "You just reach in there and grab 'em?" He asked, watching the crustacean flail its segmented arms as I put it in a bag on ice. "Yeah, they're not as vicious as long as they're cold." I chuckled, a real smile, finally. When I looked back he was staring at me, and I wrapped the bag in a tiny knot, the ice moving slightly with the lobster. Class Malacostraca. "Do you…know how to cook them?" I added, finally comfortable enough to stop clearing my throat.
He looked at the bag that I handed to him, squirming in both of our palms. His eyebrows immediately furrowed and he made an unsure sound before snickering. I eagerly followed, maybe a little too eagerly. "You just, um, you put him in a pot of ice water and salt, and slowly heat it up to a boil. This way they sort of fall asleep." He stared at me again and seemed surprised at the information. "Didn't know there was a nice way of doing it." I laughed again, and he seemed to respond. "Yeah, you're not trying to punish them." Again, the words left my lips too fast, and he studied me with that scowl a second time. I took a step back and bobbed my knee. "So, it's um, it's 11 dollars." I didn't bother weighing it. I just wanted the awkwardness of my own creation to end. He broke eye contact and placed a 20 on the counter. "Keep the change." He turned to leave and paused a few feet from the door. "You know, I've got a question." He turned back and watched me again, and my belly went slick. When I said nothing, he approached the counter and placed his elbow on the glass, looking around once more. "What's your real name? Guy at the pet store called you Kell, but the gymnasts back there called you Lynn. You just deal out a new one every time?" I looked down when I laughed. The Germans were pretty svelte, like douchy trapeze artists.
"No, uh my mom had two sisters named Kelly and Lynn, and she didn't want to hurt any feelings when she named me, so, Kellyn." I saw his eyes lighten a bit, and he chuckled silently, his head bobbing. "Kellyn." He said simply, and nodded, raising his bag of lobster to me. "So I know who to call if he attacks." He chimed, walking out of Steve's Seafood and west towards Greenwich. I stood behind the counter, grasping the soppy rag and moving it in mindless circles. I didn't learn his name; not that I could use that information in any way, but it would be nice to know I can get someone's name, know people, maybe not people so iniquitous-looking, but still. I grab the textbook and place it back on my tuna-soaked counter and read some of Sarah's notes scribbled in the margin. Carapace: modified cuticle; protective surface. Ex. Shrimp, crayfish, lobster.