In response to The Moth

It was a chilly day in New York when the fish tank broke.

Sammy (as the PetSmart dubbed him) had been following his usual routine. Swimming. Floating. Swimming some more. All around him, smudged figures moved throughout the city. Pellets were dropped into the tank. Sammy ate them. Then, he swam.

The first signs of change went unnoticed. The water in the tank swished to one side, then regained the equilibrium. Sammy swam left. It swished a little more, this time going from one side to the other. Several droplets flew over the edge and splashed against the table. Sammy swam to the right. Then, he found himself drifting. It was a bit like swimming, in the sense that he was moving, and very quickly at that. But this feeling was different. It was as if something was pushing, no, pulling him down. And then the world was spinning, and everything was shifting, and somehow the rocks he had always swam above were rising UP, UP and OUT. 

It was at this point the tank hit the ground. 

It’s a very peculiar feeling, the one that takes over when the world ends. Or when changes in a way it shouldn’t. There is a place in our heads where we process the possible. Where we categorize our potential outcomes.

We do not consider the impossible. We cannot.

If you were to ask a passerby, they would tell you the glass shattered first. The tank fell, the glass broke, and the water spilled. Accidents happen. 

Now, if you were to ask Sammy, he would tell you that he never knew that the world could spin like this. Or that water could break. He never knew that life could be ripped from inside of you, leaving you gasping on the pavement for something you didn’t know you had. 

Luckily, Sammy can’t tell you this. He’s only a fish.

Ray could understand. Ever since he’d left Iowa, things had changed in ways he never thought possible. As he stepped over the spillage and broken glass, desperate to make it on time to his 8 am class, he found himself stopping to stare. The fish flopped on the pavement beneath him sporadically, gills opening and closing like an arterial valve.

Ray didn’t want the fish to die, of course. But it just kept flopping and squelching and making that horrible noise. He looked around for a water source, but found nothing. So Ray did the only thing he could do: pretend he hadn’t seen the fish, and continue on his way.

Ray had never been a great student. Most of the time, he wasn’t even a good one. But, he was trying his best to keep up with the others. And he certainly wasn’t dumb, despite what his middle and high school teachers might have said. Ray contained a certain form of ambition, one that was constantly pushing and pleading with him to maximize his potential. Every moment was a battle against time. And to be truthful, school felt like a waste of it. He would listen to the teacher drone on about quadratics, or punctuation, or whatever the topic of the day was. But deep inside of him, something was begging for adventure. For exploration. Who was he to deny his purpose?

And that was how Ray ended up inside “Taxidermy Tea” by 8:07. 

The barista was an older man, dressed in lumberjack flannel and corduroy overalls. He wore rain boots, coated up to the ankle with a thick, crusted layer of mud. On his chest (which Ray imagined was covered with a hearty supply of hair) was a name tag reading “Conrad.” 

“Welcome.” The man huffed. 

The inside of the store was, not surprisingly, coated in taxidermied animals. They sprouted from the walls, ceiling, and unfortunately, floors. Ray looked around in awe at the creatures, stepping over a stuffed snake and dodging the antlers of a protruding moose. He approached the counter with a broad smile.

“Morning, Conrad,” Ray announced enthusiastically. “I’ll have the moose mocha.”

“Hmph,” The older man grunted. At first, Ray wasn’t sure if he had heard him. But a few moments later, the man entered it into the cash register and pointed to the total. 

“Here you are, Conrad. Or should I say, Comrad,” Ray joked, handing him a couple dollars worth of change. Conrad glared at him and began brewing the drink. When he was done, he slid it across the counter without a word. Ray smiled and sat at the first available table.

Each tabletop was circular and made of wood. The outer layer was sharp and jagged, covered in the bark of the tree. Though there was no polish, the design was not without effort. In the center of each table, a small, taxidermied face protruded. Its mouth was stretched at the corners, as if the animal was offering an artificial smile. 

“Hi, little buddy,” Ray whispered to his chipmunk centerpiece. Then, he pulled out his computer and opened the email browser.

Within his inbox, there were three unopened messages. One from his mom, reminding him that he was always welcome home when the “whole college thing” fell through. Another from his roomate, Don, asking him to stop drinking all the milk and not replacing it. Ray moved this message to trash. And finally, one from Callie (AKA, his highschool sweetheart.) 

It read: “Hey Stingray. Listen, I don’t think anyone is going to tell you this, so you’re going to have to hear it from me. You are not built for college. Or New York, for that matter. Come back to Iowa, find a nice apartment. My uncle says you can still have that job at his car shop, if you want it. Wishing you the best. -Callie.”

After reading this, Ray couldn’t help but chuckle. Conrad, who was reading a book on the history of execution methods, gave him a tired look from behind the counter. Ray beamed back, earning another disapproving “hmph.”

He knew that people didn’t think he could make it. But he also knew that they were wrong. Sure, he didn’t belong in New York. And he certainly didn’t belong in a shop called “Taxidermy Tea.” But Ray was a firm believer that he belonged wherever others said he didn’t. And with every day, he learned a little bit more.

Ainsley was not exactly used to not belonging. She had always had her family, or her friends, or sororities. Whenever she felt lonely, companionship was never more than a phone call away. She had grown up in her hometown, married young, and lived a perfectly practical life. 

But that was all before the accident.

Five years ago, her husband’s body was discovered in the White River. And five years ago, she vowed to never love again.

Unfortunately, a loveless life is rather lonely. And Ainsley hated feeling lonely. 

So, she was trying again. It's not like she had high expectations. It was a coffeeshop date–nothing more, nothing less. Besides, Ainsley knew nothing about the guy, other than that he was a self-proclaimed “excellent craftsman.” 

Ainsley wasn’t even nervous. Then, she saw the first taxidermy fox.

She entered the tea shop in awe, marveling at the glassy-eyed creatures. Cautiously, she approached a college-aged boy scrolling on his computer. Butterflies hardened in her stomach, as if someone had pinned down their wings.

“Excuse me,” she ventured, tapping on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m looking for-”

“Hi! I’m Ray,” he interrupted. “Isn’t this the weirdest place you’ve ever seen?” 

“Well, I, uh,” Ainsley stammered, attempting to regain her composure. “I’m sorry to bother you, Ray. I’m looking for someone, and I was wondering if you’ve seen him? His name is, uh. Conrad?”

At once, he emerged from the back room. Conrad was still wearing the same wrinkled flannel, but had exchanged his overalls for slacks (the rain boots, however, were not altered). He rushed over to Ainsley and shook her hand enthusiastically. 

“I hope you weren’t waiting long, ma’am,” Conrad commented. His voice was rough from disuse, but kinder than she had expected. The woman smiled. 

“No worries. I was worried I was at the wrong place!” She chirped. The man was tall, and a bit unusual. But then again, she was new to the dating field. Who was she to judge?

“No way, man,” Ray said, shaking his head with a smile. “Give me five.” He lifted his outstretched hand up to Conrad, who offered his typical peeved grunt.

“Right this way, miss,” He said to Ainsley, motioning to a private corner by the window. the two made their way to the largest (and only polished) table. A fake hitchhiker head protruded from the center, adding to the decor. Conrad pulled the chair out for her before sitting opposite. A gentleman, Ainsley thought.

“I’m Conrad,” The man boomed with a hearty smile, shaking her hand once again. His hands were calloused and cracked, but warm. They engulfed her dainty fingers.

“Ainsley,” She replied.

“It’s a pleasure,” He remarked. Then, “I hope the decor doesn’t worry you. I know it’s a bit strange, but there’s a reason, I swear. It’s actually quite a funny story…”

The two talked easily and laughed often. This was a risk, and Ainsley didn’t take those often (almost never, to be truthful). But Conrad was so nice, and mysterious, and warm. As the morning continued, she found herself becoming more and more at ease. 

No one was more at ease than Isaac.

As he walked past Taxidermy Tea and took a left at the bakery, he arrived at the entrance to Carver’s Alley. This was where he worked. Well. Not officially. But he had spent more time here than anyone else in the world, and isn’t that what it means to have a home?

Isaac pulled his stage (otherwise known as a block of cement) from behind the dumpster. He dropped his baseball cap onto the ground, upside down and ready to collect his earnings. Then, he was ready for business.

The first rule of miming is that you must never, ever break character. Not on your way to work. Not on your way home. If the paint is on and the props are out, your purpose is performance. Who wants to see a mime getting his groceries, or chatting with the cashier? No one. Absolutely no one. 

Isaac began his routine at eight thirty on the dot. He warmed up the passersby with some classic mime maneuvers: the “stuck in a box,” or “walking down the stairs.” Soon enough, a crowd began to gather. A young boy with ice cream dripping down his face called out, “Mimey! Mimey! Mimey Man,” causing his viewers to giggle. Isaac eyed the dollar bills gathering in his hat, and decided it was time to enter phase two.

One by one, Isaac pulled three eggs from his pocket and held them out to the audience. Each of the eggs was painted black and white to resemble a mime. This, of course, caused the crowd to chuckle. They were hooked, and Isaac knew it. 

With great emphasis, he began to toss and catch the eggs. Every time one was about to land, he would make a shocked face, as if sure it would crack. But every time, he would wait until the last moment before swooping in with his other hand. The viewers gasped and erupted in modest applause. 

Isaac prepared for his finale. He began tossing the eggs faster. They arced in the air before slapping into the center of his palms. They never broke. No, no, Isaac was too good for that. Isaac was the best of all time. He knew it, and he would make sure they knew it, too.

The eggs went higher and higher. Faster and faster.

Until a tiny voice from the back made it all stop.

“Hey! Hey, mister!”

Isaac caught and held one egg. Two eggs. Three eggs. Silence ripped through the crowd. He smiled, attempting to make up for the lapse in character. But the damage had been done. All his spectators were now facing the voice. 

“You’re sad! You’re nothin’ but a sad old man!” 

At this point, Isaac decided to break the ethics or miming. It wasn’t often he broke the no-speaking code, but today had been particularly draining. He had forgotten to visit his son, and Sarah had screamed at him for it (“The best thing I ever did was leave you!”) and really, Isaac knew he deserved it. But, Carver’s Alley was his temple. His throne. And no one was going to take that away.

“Oh really?” He began. “I’m sad!? You’re a millennial.” Finally, he spotted his target: a scrawny boy in the back, elevated by a cardboard box. Young. Maybe in his 20’s? 

“Don’t you have some students loans to go pay?” Isaac joked. “Or some parents to complain to?”

Uneasy laughter rumbled through the crowd. The boy smirked.

“Don’t you have a will to write?”

Viewers gasped, but chuckled more easily. People began to shift between the two jokesters, taking sides and placing bets. The crowd only grew.

“For my ex-wife,” the boy scrawled in the air, imitating Isaac, “I would like to leave… my eggs.” Light laughter. “My therapist can have my money. That’s where it usually goes, anyway.” The laughter grows heavier.

“Don’t you think you should-” Isaac started. 

“Get a job? For a mime, you sure talk a lot,” The boy snickered. By now, the audience had begun gravitating toward the young anti-hero. Isaac knew he needed to act fast. 

“Say, kid, you talk a lot of smack. But I don’t think you have anything to show for it,” he dared. Naturally, the boy hopped off his cardboard pedestal and approached the mime. 

Leaning in close, he growled, “Is that right, old man?” Isaac leaned away, but not before hearing the low tones of a challenge. “Try me.”

Slowly, the older man began throwing the eggs once again. This time, he added several spins and jumps, catching the objects from seemingly impossible heights. The crowd gasped. Isaac rounded out his show with a finale of flips, then landed with a knowing smirk.

“Beat that, kid.” 

The boy smiled. He laughed. He took a singular egg from Isaac’s hand.

And then, he cracked it on the floor. Or, at least tried to.  The boy smashed it onto the cement several times, only to discover that there was no liquid inside. Instead, a thick, white layer could be seen beneath the surface.

“I don’t think I need to,” the boy remarked. He threw the hard-boiled egg down on the ground and walked away, leaving Isaac to face the gaping crowd.

When a performance is going well, all the faces look the same. They blend together, creating a portrait of observation. 

And when a performance is going badly… the faces are a bit more memorable.

Sammy the fish did not realize the world had so many faces. Or that so many could be directed at him. The lights are so bright here, in this new and exposed world. As he twitches on the cool cement, he does not wonder what has happened. He does not wonder where he is going. Sammy simply twitches. He waits. And, more than anything else, he keeps trying to swim.