Salmon
originally a top 50 finisher in the "Best Australian Yarn" competition. A heart-warming, humorous story, of an outcast who finds purpose - through his fish friend.
Act 1 - Discovery
My feet are damp. The sheets and duvet from the lower half of my bed are too. The weather has been immense lately, absolutely biblical wind and rain. A mighty gust tore a skylight into my bedroom ceiling - right above where I lay. I haven't fixed it yet. I might not. I think I rather like it actually, there's only one downside: a circular area of the room underneath that porthole is always soaked. But even that has its upsides.
I hope my carpet turns into moss.
I wonder if that’s even possible?
During full moons I like to lay in bed and stare up into the sky.
I sit up, take a deep breath and extend my arms above my head. Nothing beats a much needed stretch. I'm inhaling the morning's fresh suburban air, as I slide my legs over the edge of the bed. The drenched carpet makes a gooey splash noise, which sounds like someone juicing a lemon by hand. I always leave my crocs in the same position: by the right side of my bed. Yet I often fail to place my feet into them. It must have rained on the crocs too - they are riddled with tiny puddles.
'Hmpf’
The thing about crocs is: water only makes them even grippier. I stand up and slip my dripping feet into them, they make a squeaking noise, almost like someone rubbing a wet balloon. I power down the stairs, admiring my own handy work of soils and sands, layered evenly over each step, my staircase is a beautifully deconstructed wedding cake of the earth.
Where my kitchen window should be is a sharp and jagged opening to the world outside. It's as if the trees have grown into my home! Glass and branches lay scattered across the floor, and the sink is full of water and dishes accumulated over many days. I hear the subtle movement of water, (not splashing) and a submerged thumping.
There is definitely something swimming among the dishes, a foreign object under the surface. I lean over the broken glass and twigs to peer into the sink.
There it is.
The water is dirty and cloudy but I see it.
I can even already feel it in my hands, it is slimy, strong, and heavy for its size - this black and silver shape.
I subconsciously step forwards, the glass makes gritty crunching sounds under the power of my crocs, it reminds me of the morning corn cereal that I am yet to eat today. The submerged shape suddenly flexes and whips its body, it thrashes and bounces off of the plates like a big pinball in a machine that is much too small for it.
This must (most certainly) be a fish.
Instinctively I throw my hands towards him, her? I move too fast and the back of my hand grazes against a large, pointed piece of glass. It was lying atop a stack of greasy, festering, food stained plates. My knuckle bleeds quickly, it's a long clean slice, perfectly placed in between the knuckles of my index and middle fingers. I hesitate only for a split second before continuing to reach into the sink. I grab for my finned guest but he immediately slips free from my closing hands.
I touched him.
This creature truly does feel how I imagined him to!
The fish kicks powerfully, then shakes violently, reminding me of when my father had his first stroke. The fish attempts to squeeze between a pot and a pile of plates, but I spy a previously unseen piece of glass - wedged within the ceramic asylum. Before I can save my scaly scoundrel he manages to swipe his tail across the fresh glass. A small amount of fishy red blood rises to the surface. In the briefest of moments the fish seems to halt in a state of shock.
I am not claiming to have caught the fish by manner of instinctive, lightning reactions. No sir, the luck of it is that I was already diving for him - and it was in fact this very tiny tick of time which granted me the haste to finally grasp my now injured, aquatic ally.
I hold him out of the water in my two mortal hands. I have never seen such a beautiful creature. He glistens in the cloud light, an aura of thin, white light lines his perfectly smooth body. Upon closer inspection I believe much of the sliminess coating his scales is actually a result of greasy lasagna tainted water. There is a slight redness to it, visible in the gentle light refracting off of his torso... BLOOD! Shit the blood! A thin red line runs the length of his lower half and down my arm. I panic, his eyes look sad. I look to my left, my right, I spin in a circle. His little mouth gasps for breath! I have no bandaids or ointment, so with one hand I reach over and pick up an old sock from the back of the kitchen chair. I swiftly slide him into the cotton container with grace - his new fishy capsule!
Act 2 - Duty
Grey, dreary, doo-doo, dump stain, pit of pity and personal computers. These long weekends make me forget that I even have a job. I’m an office drone, soon to be replaced by an automated system, such a simple job that even I could get it. Printer ink, warm paper, and old coffee - the smell of society’s backbone, broken and bored, wishing to be unborn.
Sometimes I wonder how old I’ve gotten, and if I’ll ever feel young again.
My walk and posture slugs, my body genuinely feels heavy and pulling, as if gravity counts for double in this building. I’ve read about it online: “situational depression” - common in office work environments. Especially common in highly developed cities, surrounded by the hum of technology, and the lack of self-fulfilment.
One must find their own little paradise in this world, even if they must carve it into existence.
I let my fingers brush along the top of the plain cubicle walls as I pass. I always peek over them, hoping that at least one person will have some new pictures or decorations pinned up in their personal area. But they never do. I step into my workstation and drop into my chair, my knees creak as they assume their 90 degree position, I swivel into place and rest my fingers on the deceptively grimy keyboard.
2 hours later.
‘Knock, knock?’
There is no need to, but my senior coworker Steven taps against the wall of my open-plan cubicle while literally simulating the sound simultaneously.
‘Hello there Emmett! May I have a moment to chat with you please?’
I spin in my chair a little too far and nod my head hesitantly. He has already stepped in and sat his dirty ass on the corner of my desk.
‘Look mate you’ve been doing a really great job for us, and you’ve been with the company for a good while now. But I’m going to have to ask you to pick up a little extra work. You see we’ve had word come down from head office that our targets need to be a lot higher for next quarter.’
I stare back blankly at his painfully stereotypical, pasty, office-man, face. His subtle nervous jitter is almost hidden by his overly friendly attitude. He is leaning towards me slightly, with one leg on the ground, and the other far up enough on the desk for it to be dangling there while he rests an arm on it. He is like a modern version of Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker” statue.
‘You see buddy, we’ve all got to pull our own weight even more so now, they’re really on my arse too here! Ha-ha, but by the end of it there is certainly a good chance of a bonus, counting on everyone meeting their new targets of course. That’s really the beautiful thing about modern capitalist systems isn’t it? The more work that you put into something, the more you are going to get out of it! That’s how I got my promotion here last month, as the assistant senior manager of our department… Well what do you think champ? What are your goals and aspirations for this place huh?’
He becomes so talkative whenever he is uncomfortable, it makes me uncomfortable.
‘Does that thought keep you warm at night Steven?’
His expression drastically changes, it interests me.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Your little rules and targets, your goals, cubicle-contained dreams!? New stapler models!? It’s stupid! Who even fucking cares? We’re all just here for the meal ticket! And I don’t even know what to eat anymore! I made friends with a salmon Steven! I owe that Salmon my life! And sanity!’
He gets his butt off of the desk and slowly lowers himself into a crouching position in front of me. He looks quite concerned. I almost feel bad for him. He doesn’t deserve this, but I’m just so fed up today. There’s something different about everything, something within me.
‘Hey Emmett are you ok? Look if you need-’
He is looking up at me, arms extending to the sides of my seat, his eyes tell me that he is pleading.
‘I’m done with it! I’m sorry Steven but I’m just so done with it all, I can’t take this mediocre, bullshit, busy-work anymore! I need to do something that actually matters for heaven’s sake!’
I get up and walk out of my cubicle, Steven falls onto his hands as I speed by him, I feel like a lion and he is a pup, begging on all fours for normalcy.
No more.
I strut through the multi-cubicle maze of an office, as the other staff all look at me awkwardly. I barely remember half of their names already. One woman standing by the coffee machine is completely agasp. I’m not sure whether she was halfway through taking a sip, or if she was genuinely so shocked by the notion of a coworker raising their voice and standing against authority in this hopeless hell hole. As I approach the exit door, I notice that people are getting out of their seats and slowly clapping in unison. A unique feeling of confidence washes over me as the sound gathers momentum, in rhythm with my heart. A young intern gives a roaring “YEAH!”.
I pass through the door to the outside world with a big, naughty, giggling smile on my face as I look up at the gorgeous blue, cloud patched sky. I close my eyes - enjoying a massive breath as if it were my first time tasting oxygen, or a good spaghetti.
‘Emmett! Hey are you alright? What happened in there with Steven? I heard you shouting?’
I didn’t notice that Elliot was chasing me down until I eventually opened my eyes to find her in front of me, grabbing my shoulder concerningly.
‘Nothing is the matter my dear Elliot. All is well and life is good. I have a certain scaly sullivan to attend to’
Nothing can derail my newfound, zestful joy, and Elliot is perhaps my only true friend in the workplace. We once shared martinis at a tiki bar on a Tuesday. She is a good person, and I am glad to have seen her before my departure.
‘Emmett? Are you on happy pills? Can you get me some? Haha, what the fuck! I don’t know what’s going on with you but I like this new energy!’
I picked up her hand in mine and gave it a good shake before turning away without another word and striding into the sun.
Act 3 - Dream
There is more beauty in the forests than this world can contain.
The further I walk along this trail, the more certain I am that I will never return to my old life.
The sky is open and the sun is above us - salmon, and I.
I am hiking uphill, sweet salmon in a bucket of fresh water, as I carry her upstream, to finally be released and reunited with her kin. I am in a wide brimmed hat, with crocs on foot, and a tent in my briefcase - prepared for a stay in the wild.
I have never felt better.
To have such a clear goal has given me new life.
In rehabilitating her I have learned so much about salmon. They are so brave and powerful to always swim upstream against the raging rivers! It inspired me. All I want now is to see her swim free again, and to feel something similar for myself.
In my bucket is Sammy. She is strong. So am I. Together we will swim upstream, and each stroke will bring us closer to the sun. She has trained in an inflatable pool, against an artificial current, using water from a hose. I have ceased eating any animals in my diet. And as I started training too, by running around my old neighbourhood, I started to want better and better food. A long hike like this would have been an arduous journey for me in the past, but now I barely break a sweat.
At first I was reluctant to name her. Though I have often taken to calling her “Sammy”. I didn’t want to become too close, because I knew that this day would eventually come, after she started showing signs of recovering from her injury. But I was foolish to have thought that neglecting to assign a name to a creature as clever as a pet, could ever deter a connection from occurring.
We have finally arrived. The tall trees led us to an opening around a gorgeous body of water. The air is thin, and the yellow sun is now a glowing peach, kissing the horizon.
I put down my briefcase, take off my crocs, and approach the river. I look down at the bucket. Sammy is ready, and so am I.
I step onto the smooth stones and into the cool water. It is slippery, but I am balanced. It is cold, but I am warm. With the bucket standing atop my head, I tread deeper until the water is up to my chest. The stream is strong, but not overwhelming. I lower the bucket to the surface and let Sammy swim into the flowing waters.
She is momentarily pulled back by the tide, but immediately, instinctively, she swims against it. Matching the current. Besting it. Her tail kicks in a forceful, fluid motion. My eyes swell, shimmering against the orange-pink light, and I smile. I toss the bucket to the shore and I swim alongside Sammy. Another fish jumps out of the water in my peripheral vision.
She is home.
I am thrashing and throwing around my limbs in a desperate mess. I don’t know how to swim at all, but here is where I will learn.
“Salmon” - The Best Australian Yarn 2023