Suicidal Fish

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• January 31, 2015

Sometimes, right before I wake up, I think I’m in my room at my parents house.  Not the guest room, where I stay now.  The room I grew up in.  With all my stuff.  Before I moved.  Before it was turned into a nursery for my nephew.  That’s not so weird, I suppose.  But sometimes, and I swear to it, I can hear my parents talking.  And I think to myself, for Christ’s sake, I just want to sleep in for once.  Then, I open my eyes and become aware I am in my apartment.  When I realize this, I don’t feel happy nor sad at all in a nostalgic way, but I feel present.  As if, in my sleep, I travel to different moments in my life, and I return right before I wake up.

On this particular morning, I was hungover from last night’s Jack White concert.  I rolled over to look out my window.  Sunny.  It almost looks warm.  The hissing of my radiator would disagree.  The wind so strong, I can hear it.

There’s a dying plant where my fish tank used to be.  I had a bio-orb fish tank for years.  It’s been on the fritz for a while, and I’ve been maintaining it as well as I could.  It’s filtration system is built in, so when that goes, the whole thing goes.  I knew it wouldn’t be long.  In my attempts to fix it, I killed all my fish.  The merry men: John, Paul, and George, and also, May, who I had for three years (which is like 50 in fish years, I’m pretty sure). Previous to the bio-orb, I owned a shitty start up fish tank I purchased at Walmart.  I was so excited.  Most people love dogs and cats.  I love fish.  The trouble with my first tank was, my fish kept committing suicide.  One by one, week after week, I’d come home, and there would be a dried up fish on the carpet in my room.

I didn’t know what to make of it.  Fish suicides?  That’s worse than me murdering them.  And they didn’t even leave a note.  Bastards.  The tank did have a lid, but the filter wasn’t covered.  While I never actually witnessed it, I believe the fish would get caught in the current of the filter and somehow jump a couple inches onto the lid, where they would flounder around some more, until they landed on the floor.

And sure, a fish is as disposable as a Chinese food container to most.  A fish dies, you flush it, and buy a new one.  But I felt horrid about how they died.  Having almost drowned, I’m aware of how completely awful and terrifying it is to not be able to breathe.  They weren’t actually suicidal, of course.  Fish aren’t complex.  They had no idea what they were doing.  And that makes it worse.  That makes in infinitely worse.

Hangovers don’t hit me right away.  I wake up feeling a bit foggy.  My body allows me a two hour grace period before my head feels like a Looney Tune’s character dropped an anvil on it.  Perhaps, if it wasn’t sixteen degrees out, I would’ve went for a run to sweat the toxins out.  Instead, I watched an episode of Game of Thrones.  I just started watching the much beloved show, but I have to say I find season one rather boring.  After watching an episode, I was bored and my hangover was starting to peak.  I laughed, and said aloud, “who would even want to be king?  Someone’s always trying to kill you.”  I turned to where my fish tank used to be, as if even if it were still there, I’d have someone to talk to.  Not that talking to myself is uncommon or uninteresting to me.

Florence Welch of “Florence and the Machine” said she writes her best work hungover.  Bloody hell.  I don’t know how anyone does anything hungover.  For me, the best way to conquer writers block (whether caused by copious amounts of alcohol consumed the night prior or sober as a brick) is to work backwards.  Let’s see now… Woke up thinking it was still 2013.  It was freezing walking home from the subway last night.  The wind blowing from the East River assaulted all my senses.  Before that, I was on the subway, trying to remind myself to drink water when I got home so I wouldn’t be hungover the next day (which I failed to do).  Before that, I was dancing to Jack White’s music…

Our seats were on the left side of the stage, which is my favorite place for concerts in a huge venue like The Garden.  My expectations were high, and they were met.  Jack White is a ridiculously talented musician, even if you’re not a fan, you have to admit he is a talented fucker.  I’m attracted to him on every level imaginable.

I’ve been in The Garden many times for Ranger games, but the atmosphere is totally different.  From my seat, I could see the whole Garden, rocking out.  I wondered if Jack White was nervous before he came out.  All these people here to see him.  Which is exactly why he shouldn’t be.  I know from comedy that when you’re performing for your audience, it’s easy.  They already love you.  Jack White has earned this.  Imagine how that feels?  Then I thought of Louie CK.  He sold out two shows at MSG.  From the brief times I’ve talked to Louie, he’s socially awkward, and very much a regular dude.  But when he walks on stage, in Madison Square Garden (over 18,000 seats), and kills, he is a King.

I never felt guilty about owning fish.  Sure, their natural habitat is the vast and beautiful open waters of Earth, but they’re simple minded creatures, and small, so they’re victims of prey in the wild.  In the tank they were safe (for the most part), and well fed.  My favorite part about getting a new fish was how scared it seemed at first, and then how they would mellow out after a while.  May lived by herself in the bio-orb for a long time.  When I got John, Paul, and George, they did not get along with May at all.  May chased them around the tank.  After some time, they all seemed to get along just fine.  There was no danger (except me, of course, who would be their accidental Grim Reaper).  The absolute highest level of pleasure a fish could reach was that something was not trying to eat them.  The absolute highest level of pleasure for a human is… who knows?  It can be different from person to person.  And those who have given up an achieving such greatness, are they not suicidal fish?