In Brooklyn, there is a path that weaves around the heart of the borough and follows its way along the East River. Gabriel sometimes takes that path and follows it to the park overlooking the water. He brings bread, which he pinches into small pieces; he tosses it to the squirrels and the pigeons that congregate around the benches and the statues.
It's a warm day, and Gabriel doesn't feel like opening the shop just yet. True that the business hours are supposed to be eight to five, and also true is that the one or two customers he usually gets always invariably show up in the morning (wealthy old women who rise at 6 AM and take long walks down Brooklyn's business district); even so, Gabriel decides today he's not going to open the shop on time. He deserves a day off.
He sits on the bench and tosses pieces of bread to the squirrels. They gather by his feet, turning the bread over with their little paws. Gabriel smiles. He likes how the squirrels have opposable thumbs, just like monkeys and humans do, and he likes how they cover themselves with their tails when it gets too cold or windy.
A woman jogs past him, sees the squirrels and smiles. He smiles back. She smiles again and jogs away, then stops to talk to a man walking a dog. Gabriel frowns.
Gabriel turns and watches the squirrels nibbling on the bread. Their little black eyes sparkle in the light. A second squirrel comes up to him, and Gabriel tears off another piece of bread and tosses it on the ground. It picks up the bread and scampers to a nearby tree.
"You really shouldn't be doing that."
Gabriel looks up and sees a fat old woman staring at him disapprovingly. "You shouldn't be feeding them," she says. "They have diseases and they can spread. It's not right."
"I'm not hand-feeding them, there's no way they could bite me," Gabriel says.
"It doesn't matter, you shouldn't do it," the woman says.
Gabriel ignores her and tosses another piece of bread on the ground. The squirrel sits by his feet. It's round and plump and its tail curls up over its back. Gabriel resists the urge to try and pet it. The woman glares at him and walks away.
The second squirrel finishes eating the bread and skips over to Gabriel's feet. Gabriel tears off another piece of bread and holds it in his hand. "Here you go," he says softly, and the squirrel takes it from him. He feels the slight tug as the squirrel pulls the bread away, and Gabriel can feel himself smiling broadly.
Another woman jogger jogs by. "Cute," she says. Gabriel flushes and turns away.
He looks at his watch. It's almost noon. He's been sitting here all morning; he might as well make a day of it.
He rolls the bread back up in newspaper and puts it in his coat pocket. The squirrels run back up the trees.
There's a pet shop on the corner of the street, and on a whim, Gabriel goes inside. Little kittens mew at him, and puppies jump up and wag their tails. All the animals jump up and walk toward him except a small white ball of fur that's curled up in the corner of the case. It's shy, Gabriel thinks, and he smiles and touches the glass with his fingertips. The other kittens come up to his hand, mewing loudly.
"Need some help?"
Gabriel looks up and sees a store clerk sweeping the floor. "You thinking about adopting?" the clerk asks.
"Oh no, I was just looking," Gabriel says.
"You wanna see them?" the clerk asks. He motions to the fluffy white kitten curled up in the glass case in front of him.
"May I?"
"Sure," the clerk says, and he pulls out the keys hanging from his belt and unlocks the glass case. He scoops the kitten up and hands it to Gabriel.
"Oh my gosh," Gabriel says. The kitten opens its eyes and mews. "Hey little guy," Gabriel says softly, and he strokes its head with his thumb. The kitten rubs the side of its face against Gabriel's chest. Gabriel smiles wide.
"It's a hundred dollars to adopt, they come already spayed or neutered," the clerk says.
"Oh, I wish I could, but my landlord doesn't allow animals," Gabriel says. The kitten is purring. It snuggles against him.
"We have other animals if you want to see," the clerk says. "Lizards are really good. So are fish. Have you ever had a fish?"
Gabriel leans against the glass case and cradles the kitten close. It's starting to knead against his arm.
"Here, let me take that," the clerk says, and to Gabriel's dismay, the clerk takes the kitten from him and sets it back in the case. "We have lots of fish over here, if you want to see," the clerk says.
Gabriel stands and follows the clerk to the other side of the shop. "Betta fish are really cheap and low maintenance," the clerk says. "All you have to do is change the water once a week to keep the ammonia levels from rising."
Gabriel sees the huge tank of fish swimming in front of him. The Betta fish, the ones the clerk is talking about, are put in separate bowls; unlike the other fish, who are swimming freely with four, five, six other companions, the Betta fish are by themselves, each one in its own small bowl and isolated from the rest of the pack.
"Why are they separated?" Gabriel asks.
"They're aggressive," the clerk says. "They're fighter fish, they'll rip up whatever ends up in the tank. Look." And the clerk holds up a little hand mirror in front of one of the fish, which wildly starts banging on the side of the glass. "It thinks there's another fish there. It'll keep trying to pound the glass until I take the mirror away," the clerk says. He sets the mirror down.
"It must be lonely for them," Gabriel says. The clerk looks at him strangely.
"I'd like to buy one," Gabriel says, quickly. "What supplies do I need?"
"Just a bowl and food," the clerk says. He hands Gabriel the bowl. "The bowl comes with the fish."
Gabriel smiles and takes the bowl from the clerk, following him to the check-out counter. A puppy barks. Gabriel turns around and looks back at the display case. Puppies and kittens are up by the glass, tails wagging emphatically.
"What happens to them if they're not adopted?" Gabriel asks. He hands the clerk his credit card.
"We take them to the humane society," the clerk says. "If no one wants them, they get put to sleep."
Gabriel glances back at the little white kitten, which had resumed its spot curled up in the corner. It pokes its head up and mews at him sadly.
The clerk rings him up.
"Enjoy your fish," the clerk says, and Gabriel hurries outside. He cradles the bowl against his chest like he's holding a precious jewel.
It's getting dark out, but Gabriel stops by his shop anyway. He sets the bowl on his workbench. Carefully, he adjusts the bowl so that the water catches the light, and the sleek black scales of the fish glint in the water. Satisfied, Gabriel leans back and watches the fish swim.
"I wish I could take you home with me, but the subway's kind of a rough ride. I'm afraid I'd spill your bowl," Gabriel says. He taps the corner of the fishbowl with his finger. "But I'm here every day anyway, so you won't get lonely. I was thinking of getting you a little friend, but the guy at the pet store said you wouldn't like it. I don't blame you. I like having my own space, too."
The fish swims by his finger. Its mouth opens and closes as if it's talking back.
"I still think it would be nice to have a friend," Gabriel says. "Maybe I should get you a plant or something, put it in your bowl. You'd like that, right?"
The fish swims in lazy circles. Gabriel smiles.
"I'll do it first thing tomorrow," Gabriel says. The fish moves by his finger again and opens its mouth. Gabriel taps a little fish food onto the surface of the water and watches the fish swim up and eat. When it's done, it swims in circles and sits near the bottom of the tank, its mouth gaping like an upside-down smile.
The clocks chime. Gabriel looks up. It's nearly 8 PM.
"I guess I should be going home," Gabriel says sadly. He taps the bowl with his finger. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
The fish's mouth opens and closes. Gabriel smiles and puts on his coat.
The next day, when Gabriel comes into the shop, he sees a streak of water on his workbench and a puddle of water on the floor. Gabriel rushes over to the bench to see the Betta lying on the ground. "Oh my God," Gabriel says. He scoops the Betta up and puts it in the bowl. It floats to the top of the water. "Oh my God!"
The Betta floats by his finger and looks up at him with dead eyes. Gabriel rushes back over to the pet shop.
"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't think this one was a jumper," the clerk says.
Gabriel stands in the pet shop with red eyes and an empty fishbowl. The clerk had taken the fish from him and unceremoniously walked into the men's room in the back. Gabriel's stomach tightened when he heard the toilet flush. "Of course, we'll get you a new fish, free of charge," the clerk says. "Or if you want we can just refund your money. It's up to you."
"How do I keep them from jumping?" Gabriel asks. The clerk gives him an apologetic half-shrug.
"They can't help it," the clerk says. "The most you can do is put a lid on the tank, but the problem with that is, Bettas breathe air. If the lid's too tight they could suffocate."
The clerk wanders over to the shelf in the back.
"We have these tanks with holes in the lid," the clerk says. "This might be worth investing in. They're smaller than a normal bowl though, and your Betta might get kind of cramped."
"I don't know if I want another fish," Gabriel says.
"Aw man, don't let this spoil it," the clerk says. He hands Gabriel another bowl. "Take it. This one's a good one; he's not that aggressive and I've never seen him jump. And if he dies, I'll refund your money anyway. How does that sound?"
He hands Gabriel the bowl. "Have a nice day," the clerk says.
Gabriel frowns and heads back to the shop.