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Funny guppy story


<Down The Drain.>
<<------------->>
Raymond E. Lovett

"Somebody has to take him home. He can't stay at
school!" It is Rory, age 6, speaking to me, his father.
Rory's anguished tone, pursed lips and wide eyes
produce sufficient drama and resulting guilt to stop
me from expressing what I feel: I don't care what happens
to the dumb thing. Hypocritically I respond: "Miss
Elbin will find someone to take that guppy."
I pause. Rory looks sad.
Mumbling I add, "Who will take care of it if you
bring it home?!
"I will I will! Besides, he won't eat much; he's
pregnant."
"He's not pregnant," I authoritatively state,
camouflaging my apprehension about a bowlful of guppies
as well as my weakening resolve.
The guppy arrived the next day. A silvered trace,
a quarter-inch long, one gram in heft. You had to look
hard to see him through the converted peanut butter jar.
Any movement near the jar produced a silver streak,
quicksilver from a broken thermometer.
One time I managed to see him stationary. His
protruding eyes and the ceaseless smacking of his
downturned lips gave him a cynical, contemptuous look.
He appeared as resentful as I felt.
Two weeks passed before I gave up on Rory's promise
to feed and care for Quick Silver (that is, breaking
a cracker piece over his bowl). Reluctantly, I assumed
the job and the equally crummy task of changing his water.
Six weeks of crumbling and changing made me doubt
those honored truths in The Little Prince: "It is the
time you have spent on your guppy that makes him important,
and what is essential is invisible to the eye."
The affective quality of our relationship remained
poor. He looked more sulking in his gulping. I felt
his hostility and was uneasy at his look, like a realtor
in the presence of a friend who is selling his own house.
Our tenuous relationship would soon be tested.
One bright day I noticed that I had allowed Quick
Silver's peanut butter bowl to become quite cloudy; in
fact, it looked like gravy base. Having precariously
learned that only ladle and low water catch a darting
guppy. I slowly poured the floury liquid through my
fingers expecting Quick Silver to retreat to the bottom
of the jar. He did not. A sliding flash of silver
bounced once and exited down the kitchen drain.
Feelings of horror and panic flooded me, only to
be overtaken by relief, then overwhelmed by guilt.
Save him! Save him!
I thrust my fist into the rubber-tunneled pipe.
Hand too big. Run the water. No. Turn on the garbage
disposal. No. Get a smaller hand.
"Rory! Rory! Come quick. I dropped the guppy down
the drain. You've got to save him. Put your hand down
there and grab him. Hold on tight."
"Hold me up, Daddy. I'm not tall enough."
I lift him. He gropes.
"Wait a minute," I grunt, putting him down and
running to throw the circuit breaker on the garbage disposal.
Panic in Rory's eyes matches my flow of adrenaline.
His wee hand searches.
"I got him!" He lifts his prized catch from the
drain and opens his hand. An orange peel.
"He's not there," Tears form.
"Try again," I urge.
"I can feel him, but he won't stay in one place."
"Hang on tight and bring up everything you touch,"
I command as panic sets in.
Two quick handfuls of sliced orange peels and seeds,
a zucchini end and cucumber skins - but no Quick Silver.
Crestfallen, Rory begins to whine while fear jumbles
my thinking. I run for a flashlight. Shining it through
the one-inch opening at the end of the rubber-toothed
tunnel, I see only more garbage.
"Bring that corn-on-the-cob grabber here, Rory....Wait,
the other one. Those teeth are too sharp."
I seized the prongs and dip. Gently closing the
prongs, I lift. One cucumber peel. I repeat. Empty.
Gently close, lift more garbage. Shine the light.
There. What is that? There he is, One eye on a silver
line looks at me.
I hear my son through his tears: "I knew he wouldn't
live... you never liked him... you said you didn't like
him."
I try to ignore the truth of his remarks. Using
the untested skills of a neurosurgeon, I hold the flashlight
as I carefully clamp Quick Silver ever so gently, slowly
lifting him through the rubber tunnel. Made it!
I release the tongs. The guppy bounces on the matching
silver basin. Two fingers are on him. Into fresh water.
Hesitation. He sinks slightly. He moves a bit and
then darts all around.
"Rory, he's alive. He's alive."
"Dad, you saved him after you killed him."
The next day, Rory said, "Great news, Dad. Allison
said she would feed the guppy for $2 a day while we're
away next month."
I gasped. Even if I can negotiate Allison to half
that, it's still a high price to pay for a guppy.

<<end of file>>




 
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