SoMa Literary Review - Fred the Fish

Fred the Fish

By Joshua Citrak

I call the fish Fred because I like the name Fred. It’s one of those names that just crack me up like Dick or Harry or Fuck Face.

I call other people Fred when I don’t know their names. I call myself Fred when I don’t want my name to be known, like when I register to post comments on a blog or enter a sweepstakes or sign up for a free iPod because I was the one-millionth visitor to a porn site. I use variations of Fred. Flintstone, Myers, like that.

Often, in the evening I get phone calls,

“Hello, is Fred there?” It’s a salesman. “Fred, have I got a deal for you.”

“Hold on, I’ll get him,” I say, and then hang up. I laugh about it for a half a second until my thoughts back flip across the broken connection to the cold caller on the other end who has probably been hung up on in every way imaginable. Maybe he needs to make a sale to save his job, his house, his wife. Suddenly, I don’t feel very funny at all; any Harry, Dick or Fuck Face can hang up on a salesman. But, not Fred. He wouldn’t hurt a soul.

Fred is the office fish, a guppy or whatever kind looks like a nickel sized see through barracuda. He was either won at a carnival or left on a desk as a goofy present. No one can remember which. Fred lived in pint glasses and jelly jars until he wound up in a hollowed out Macintosh Classic, which is small and dim and mossed over in the corners by green algae.

We also have an office asshole, Al the Ape, whose newest prank consists of fucking with Fred.

“Hello, hello, stupid,” he says while tapping the glass with his yellow fingernails or holding Fred’s food above the water pretending to shake some bloodworms in. “Shake, shake, shake. It’s lunch time, hehehe.”

Fred knows that Al the Ape is baiting him and it drives him crazy. So, after the office clears out for the night I put Fred in the coffee pot where he swims around taking long stringy fish shits until his two-chambered heart’s content. Then, I dump the water into the coffee maker’s reservoir and set the timer for the eight AM.

For some reason, I’m not a very popular person at work. This is a mystery. Walking into the break room is like farting thirty seconds into a moment of silence. Coworker’s go stiff, a contagious cough breaks out. Their conversations become an awkward stumble over conjunctions while they peer deep into their mugs as if expecting something lost.

“How’s the coffee?” I ask.

Sometimes, I hide around the corner in the hallway wondering what they were guarding, but it’s always nothing, the recap of a football game, lawn care tips, something about somebody’s brother.

Often, during the day Fred doesn’t really want to do any work and who can blame him, the pay is shitty. If he feels that way, I keep him company at the Mac.

“Don’t let this place get you down,” I tell him.

Then we have staring contests or play hide and seek until he feels better.

Fred’s so good at hiding; his favorite place is behind the broken water filter. I can spend my whole fifteen-minute break, actually way more than that, finding him in his hiding places.

We play until Al the Ape walks by his eyebrows angled up his forehead.

“Whaddya doin’? Break’s over,” he says. “Why’re you always staring into the fish bowl?”

“I’m hanging with Fred,” I reply.

“Fred? You mean the fish?” he asks mockingly. “ You call him Fred Fish?”

I realize that the Ape is jealous of the connection Fred and I have, but that’s no excuse for shitty behavior. Fred is my friend. We have a special bond sealed by empathy. I know Fred feels lonely because I often feel lonely too. It’s not fair to be isolated in a dingy Macintosh fasting every weekend and holiday or to be relegated to the desk in the back of the office taken off team email threads and not invited to the company picnic. The isolation must be overwhelming. It is overwhelming. Sometimes, we don’t even flicker a fin, a finger for minutes holding our breath just to see who won’t notice us next. But, I won’t stay still any longer. I’m moving away from this place, fuck ‘em all. I’ve bought a big tank and stocked it with live plants and even a pirate’s treasure chest that bubbles. I’ve got an account on a job search website- I even used my real name. Fred will live the good life and me, well; I guess I’ll just find another fucking job.

Now, I get called into the HR office.

“Albert Schwartzberg has waged a formal complaint,” she’s reading from a piece of paper, “you threw bloodworms at him and called him a, well…” she flips the paper over and points at the words.

“Fuck Face,” I say.

She shakes her head. “This time you aren’t getting the benefit of the doubt.”

“Oh,” I say, “so we have benefits now?”

“You’re in trouble,” the lady says. “I’d call your union rep.”

Instead, I take an early lunch break. I’m halfway through a ham sandwich and Fred lays it on me that he’s clocking out for good.

“This job is too much for anybody,” I agree.

While no one’s looking, I let him do one last lap in the Drip O’ Matic, then I gently scoop him into the Mason jar I have waiting to transport him.

“Ok, Fred,” I inform him. “Have I got a steal of a deal for you.”

I leave a Post-It on the tank,

“We quit, Fuck Faces!”

In his new tank, Fred zips around like crazy. The water is clean and clear. He’s stoked. I watch him awhile until he settles down in what I can only presume is his new favorite hiding spot, behind the Oriental Sword plant.

“Tomorrow we’ll get you some friends,” I tell him.

I open a beer and sit down with the paper highlighting the want ads. The phone rings. It’s six thirty.

“Fred,” I say. “It’s for you, buddy.”

But, there isn’t any movement in the tank, only the bubbles effervescing. I can’t see past the plant. Damn, he’s good at hiding.

“Fred?”

He’s not in his tank- he’s jumped out. Fred’s lying on the floor in a puddle. His gills flap, he winks a dorsal fin at me.

I hang up the phone.

Also by Joshua Citrak on SoMa Literary Review:

Making Rent, Torched Off & Just Because You Drive a Hybrid Doesn’t Mean You Aren’t a Fucking Asshole

Joshua Citrak produces Slouch Magazine, has trouble thinking of synonyms for "trying too hard," and does not live in NOPA.