An excerpt from my book Send The Beer Guy in memory of Yellowfish who passed away within this hour.
Death of a Summer, Summer of Death
August 22, 2012
Here is everything you need to know about me: my dad died when I was barely 20, my first dog was taken to the “hospital” never to be seen again when I was like four, I went to the beach a lot as a kid, I’m an only child, and I like the Mets.
If you have a handle on the above then you will see that everything about me stems from that list. As silly as it may seem both writing my blog MetsPolice.com and this e-book have really helped my figure out who I am. It is strangely cathartic writing about a baseball team.
Today I am on yet another road trip. It has been a year of travel, and most of this book was written on airplanes. This paragraph comes to you from somewhere over south Jersey I guess. My focus isn’t on the Mets but on Lazarus the fish.
I didn’t want any fish. I can barely deal with the lifespan of dogs, but at least with dogs you usually get over a decade. I had a dog named Shannon. I assumed we would have 15 years together because that’ how many you get (and I had nearly coaxed Daisy to 16) but one day the vet told me Shannon’s legs were going fast. I didn’t believe him. Ya gotta believe, right?
Well, he was right. I slept on the floor with her for the better part of two months but then the day came for her at age 12. A few months later I assumed her identity as my blogger name.
On one of this year’s many road-trips I asked Cousin Keith to sub-in for me. He watches the blog while I am away, but on one trip I needed him to sub in at a daddy-daughter event with my youngest.
They won a fish. Fuck.
Keith didn’t know about the no-fish rule.
I can’t handle fish. I can handle the Mets because there is always another season. I can handle dogs because the hard parts only come as often as a Mets post-season appearance. Fish die. And before they die I know they are going to die. And I want to help them when I see them floundering in the tank.
This goldfish makes its way to my house in January in a little bowl. Typical carnival fish, typical tiny bowl. This is no way to live and I feel bad for him.
I got him a 10 gallon tank.
A few days later I come home and notice that there are now four fish in the tank. I suspect that the tank isn’t big enough for four fish, and the internet backs me up. Some don’t make it and are replaced by similar looking fish because Daddy is stupid and won’t notice.
No matter how many times I tell my family not to buy fish, they do. And I warn them that if they do buy fish they should not overload the tank, nobody listens, and fish die.
I for the most part avoid making eye contact with the tank and I’m definitely not getting involved in the care- taking.
We went to Arizona earlier in the year and when I got home two of the fish had died even though I had someone taking care of them and the dogs. All I wanted was to come home to live fish.
While we were away, my house thermostat – not the tank, the house – decided it would stop working. The house had dropped to 55 degrees. All I wanted was to come home and not have dead fish. Nope. Dead fish.
By July the tank was occupied by the bubbly eyed black goldfish and a little gold one. The black one would catch my eye and I kind of started to enjoy him. A little. Must stay guarded.
This is the point where most books would somehow tie together some metaphor of not getting attached to the fish with the 2012 season. The tank is the team, the fish are the players that come and go. Right?
Nah, one has nothing to do with one another other than some hack randomly typing words to kill time on airplanes.
Last weekend my wife went away. I had to feed the fish. OK, I guess I can handle that even though I am terrified that I will overfeed them.
When I got home from work Junior told me the black fish wasn’t looking so good. Fuck.
I noticed the filter wasn’t working. Maybe I can do something about this.
I swapped out twenty percent of the water and ran to Wal-Mart and got a new filter.
I was only gone half an hour but when I it back the black fish was up on the top on his side. Fuck.
Well there was still the little gold one to take care of so before things got worse I decided to hook up the new filter first. I plugged it in and the black one started swimming.
I stressed all weekend, and he looked tired at night, but in the mornings he would look peppy. In my mind I started calling him the Lazarus Fish and now that he had a name I was attached.
This morning as I got ready for the flight, Lazarus wasn’t looking so good at a quarter to 5. Not good at all. Very lethargic, floating upside down, and I have to assume near death.
This makes me tremendously sad. I said, “I’m sorry Lazarus”, turned off the light and closed the door and headed to the airport. I won’t see him again.
August 23, 2012: morning.
Nothing but bad news all around.
The pet sitter has let us know that Lazarus the fish has died. I will miss him. I liked the way he looked back out of the tank and I wonder what he thought of me. Probably nothing.
One thing about me is that I’m really able to deal with things over which I have no control. I adjust and I move forward. “Move on” can be a pejorative but I move forward. I will miss Lazarus but there’s nothing I could do. Last weekend I felt like there was something I could do so I obsessed. Today, I grieve and move forward. A thousand people will read this book and at least know of a black goldfish of some sort that didn’t live all that long. A slightly better legacy than most fish.
Goodbye Lazarus.
August 23, 2012: afternoon.
The Mets have shut down Santana for the year.
Five minutes later.
I actually broke myself up writing that and had to stop. You guys are probably like whoa dude get a grip it’s a fish. Now you know who you are dealing with…
Five months later.
That little gold fish I mentioned in the previous story is still hanging around. He now has a name (to me, anyway): Yellowfish.
It took me a while to get used to him. In the morning he is quite active. However when I get home around 7pm he hangs out in the bottom corner of the tank and sleeps I guess. After a few months of this I stopped thinking he was dead every night and I just turn off the light and let him be.
In the morning I turn on the light and say, “Hello Yellowfish.”
I also think of Lazarus since he was the last fish in the tank. The tank has finally stabilized at one fish. I think when Yellowfish finishes his 100 years on this planet I will turn the damn thing into a terrarium. Plants I can deal with.
My mistake was getting attached. I actually started paying attention to yellowfish and saying see ya to him in the morning.
And so we will retire the fish tank and make a terrarium. Goodbye yellowfish.
