I found this while perusing Gink & Gasoline's blog. This short story stuck some weird, romantic chord in me.
Standing in the River Carrying a Torch
A different kind of love story.
Men and fish parted ways a
long time ago. You couldn't call it an amiable divorce. The fish got
everything. The mountain streams, the lazy winding rivers, the deep blue sea,
everything. Men had to pack their bags and crawl, with their heads hanging, out
onto the land and they were not happy about it. They learned to breathe air and
walk on two legs but they never stopped dreaming of swimming in the dark
oceans, nor of the long and lovely fish that had sent them packing. They
thought about fish all the time. They made their homes near the water and
lurked around the shore, peering into the depths. Men wondered if the fish ever
thought about them. Probably not. They saw fish from time to time, sliding
gracefully through a pool or leaping a waterfall. They seemed happy. They
seemed to have moved on, forgotten about men altogether. Men knew they should
be happy for the fish, but they weren’t. They were bitter and moody and often
cried at night. Men invented alcohol and that helped. It didn’t take their mind
off of fish but liquor is a good listener and it doesn’t judge or mind if you
cry.
“Who needs fish, Fuck ‘em”,
men decided. They turned their back on the water and went to the woods and
found animals and for a while it took their mind off of things. They stalked
and chased and laid in wait and for a while the pretty little deer were fun,
but in time those big black eyes just seemed empty. Men had nothing to talk to
deer about. Try to explain to deer about the ocean, about gliding through the
waves, your body taut and glistening, one with the current. Deer don’t
understand what it feels like to rocket up from the depths and break the
surface, breaching in defiance of all things that would have you, only to
disappear back into the depths. Deer don’t know anything. Eventually these
encounters became bitter and joyless. There was no more stalking and chasing,
no more lying in wait, just that vapid look in the headlights and the thud,
thud under the wheels. Again, men found themselves staring at the water.
Men decided that if they
couldn’t swim, they would fly! “Let’s see fish do that” they thought. They made
airplanes and took to the sky. They soared and swooped. They glided through the
clouds but when they looked down, there was always water. They built better
planes. Planes that would take them higher and farther, high enough that they
didn’t have to see the water anymore. Men flew to the moon. They played golf
there and drove dune buggies and it was fun, but when they got back someone
noticed that all the photos they had taken were of the Earth. There it was in
every photo. That beautiful blue ball with those deep seductive oceans. Men
went back to the moon a few times but got bored with it and stopped going. Golf
just wasn’t man’s game.
It was no secret to anyone
what was going on. Even the deer could see it. Men would mope around all week,
hardly talking to anyone but liquor. Faces long and attitudes surly. When the
weekend finally rolled around it was the same old story. There they were,
standing in the river like fools, cold, socks soaked through, trying just to
catch a glimpse of fish. Hoping, maybe this time fish would be feeling
nostalgic and maybe be thinking of men. They had good times too, right? Men
weren’t all bad. Maybe this time fish would let men stay. Maybe for the night
or even just for a drink. That would be a start, but it never happened.
Sometimes fish were there but they were never happy to see men and didn’t hang
around. They didn’t even say hello. Their eyes were cold and they didn’t smile.
Men would go home, their socks wet, and look at their old photos of the ocean
and cry to their liquor.
Men will always love fish and
to love must be it’s own reward. That’s just the way it is and that’s the way
it will stay. Love is love. It can’t be reasoned with or controlled. It doesn’t
make bargains. It doesn’t apologize. It is as unyielding as the river and as
moody as the sea. Fish will know what it is to swim and men will know what it
is to want. That’s just the way of things. Men are coveters, full of wishes and
regret. Dreaming of how things were or should be. Fish are beauty and grace,
power and speed. They are both Eve and Eden. They live in the home of our
unrequited love. For love is a river and fish are the current. Men only stand
in the river and dream.
Louis
Cahill
Gink & Gasoline
