I recently wrote three short stories for a class and really enjoyed writing them, so I thought I’d post them here. This is the second story. Enjoy!

Substitute Fish

“The less you talk to me, the more I like you.” 

That partial recollection of vague quotation had been rolling through Walter’s mind a lot recently. Someone had said it to him once, but he couldn’t remember who or when. As the leaves began to carpet the ground and the creeping grasp of the cold wind arrived to bitch-slap everyone out of their good time, Walter had begun to hear those words again. He would hear them being shouted into his consciousness from the drinking fountains, from the ceiling tiles, from the gaps in the cardboard TV boxes at work that were supposedly handles. Over the years, it seemed like an ever-growing global chorus, a chaotic cacophony of self-doubt, lurked directly behind him, eager to swallow him whole. As if the whole world was telling him that they weren’t interested in his bullshit. And yet he continued onward, cautiously anticipating the end of his own mildly boring tale. 

That was, in its essence, a slightly wordy attempt to introduce the story. Here’s another one: One day, Walter woke up. He was depressed and a little queasy. He remembered something that someone had once said to him. He then contemplated his sadness for a brief moment before expelling a mostly lucid and slightly pasty phlegm substance from his stomach into the bathroom sink. Walter glared at the mirror. The mirror chose not to respond. 

Walter swung open the door and recoiled at the sheer brightness of the sky. Not the sun, the sky. The sun was no longer contained within its own square mileage. It was as if it had burst apart and lit the entire cosmos on fire, just to inconvenience Walter.

“How dare you?!” He flailed his arms aggressively towards the sky. “The fucking INDIGNITY!!!” 

Occasionally, Walter forgot to keep his crazier thoughts to himself. He exhaled sharply and grumbled his way down the porch stairs. A small boy from across the street stared at him quizzically. He was crouching behind a bush. 

“Why’d ya yell at the sky?” The boy moved closer to Walter’s eyeline.

“You heard me.” Walter gazed at the greenery as he threw his bag in the trunk of his car. He pointed upward. “The indignity.” He mumbled something about ocular well-being under his breath.

“People usually don’t say things like that out loud.”

“People don’t usually sit in bushes.” His car door squeaked as he jostled it open. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?”

“My aunt won’t let me climb trees.”

Walter paused. “God, that’s depressing. Well, go jump over a hedge or something. I don’t know. Just hassle someone else, Bush Boy.”

Walter was very proud of that line. He was hoping he’d pull off the cool guy exit, but he tripped on an especially frosty leaf and stumbled face first into the car, smashing his nose against the horn on the way in. The human lawn decoration awkwardly kneeling across the street stifled a laugh. Walter tried to glare pointedly at the boy, but the bush was in the way and he couldn’t see him. So instead, he shuffled his way into the car and drove off sullenly. The car was sturdy, but far from new. He’d always wanted a Fiat or a Mini Cooper, but his dad had sat him down one day and explained the absolute impracticality of that kind of car.

“What if you make a friend? There’s no room in the car for other people, especially if you aren’t planning on going to the gym anytime soon.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, father.” He sniped at a man who wasn’t there. “If I make a friend, you’re the first person I’ll tell.”

The car he ended up buying was a hulking teal-green minivan. His dad got it at half price because a copy of OJ Simpson’s audiobook had gotten stuck in the CD player. Walter didn’t mind. He found that the anger kept him awake on long drives. It was 9:37 when he got to Best Buy. He was an hour and thirty-seven minutes late. The boss didn’t seem to care. This was unusual behavior for her, although this morning she seemed particularly constipated. Emotionally speaking.

“I have an errand for you to run. One of my dipshit kids shot his goldfish with a BB gun, and I don’t have the time or energy to teach him about death right now. I need you to drive to the outskirts of Atlantic City, go to this casino,” she waved a scrap of paper at him, “and give this bag of cheap headphones to a guy named Kevin. In return, he’ll give you a fish damn near identical to the one my kid killed.”

“Isn’t Atlantic City an eight hour drive?”

“It’s six and a half hours to get there, thirteen round trip.”

“I don’t get paid enough to drive thirteen hours for you! Also shouldn’t I be here, doing the job I’ve been hired to do?”

“There are about five idiots on staff right now that can haul TVs faster than you. I’ll just grab one of them. And…” She searched her thoughts for something meaningless to offer. “I’ll give you $75 and this Hawaiian pizza flatbread.”

“Are you just giving me your lunch?” Walter sniffed the flatbread. “This is cold.”

“You can microwave it.”

“I want five days paid time off.”

“You can have two.”

“Two…” Walter did the mental calculations. That was less. “Fine.”

“Today won’t be counting towards your paycheck since you won’t be at the store.”

“You are going to change that or I’ll give your kid a copy of literally any Pixar movie.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”

“No, because pivotal characters tend to get killed off in Pixar movies so your kid will get sad and learn lessons and… fuck. Nevermind. I’ll get you your stupid fish.”

—

Walter had never been to Atlantic City before. Gambling only makes sense if you have money to waste or the time to get it back, and he had neither of those things. He hurtled down the highway at speeds that, logically speaking, should cause his automobile to break in half. Yet it managed to persevere, in spite of itself. Walter asked himself why he had stood by and allowed his boss to commandeer his day. He’d had no real plans, nothing to look forward to after a sweaty shift full of hunting down overpriced electronics for various ungrateful assholes, but why did he agree to drive thirteen hours for a woman who couldn’t care less about him? Did he have any self-respect at all? Not really, no. Though that in itself wasn’t the most startling revelation. To his credit, he was more emotionally supportive of himself than he thought, but self-deprecation runs deep. He switched the car stereo on. The irritatingly smug voice of the former football player filled the car.

“…I’ve heard it said that all stories are basically love stories, and my story is no exception. This is a love story, too. And, like a lot of love stories, it doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Walter had been driving along Interstate-480 for about two hours when he became suddenly aware of his lack of thirst, hunger, or craving of any kind. His stomach did not currently feel like a ravenous pit begging for sustenance, nor did it urgently need to find a restroom. This didn’t feel right. 

“If I were a normal person, I’d surely need to do something right about now.”

As Walter contemplated this alleged lack of normalcy, something both surprising and interesting materialized in the very corner of his eye. He slammed his foot on the brakes so violently that he stubbed his toe. At this point in his journey he had reached a heavily wooded, beautifully earthy and ancient stretch of land, speckled with hundreds of enormous knotted pines gnarled into the ground. And, as far as Walter’s eyes believed, a small boy was standing amongst the trees. He cautiously crept out of his car and squinted through the shadowy pines. Momentarily, every shred of self-doubt and worry in the world fell away, bringing one question to the forefront of Walter’s mind. 

“Is that my weird neighbor that sits behind bushes or am I going insane?”

Bush Boy, who seemed to be in intense conversation with a very fluffy squirrel, turned his head ever so slightly, smiled tiredly at Walter, gestured towards the woods, and scampered away. Walter gazed off into the distance for a little while before getting back in his car and driving off. After a few silent miles, he rubbed his eyes, switched on the audiobook, and began to relax in his anger. He thought about the kid.

“Was that a metaphor?”

He attempted to find a logical explanation for what was currently happening. The options piled up. Hallucinogenic gas leak, weird brain disease, bad cold, too much fiber in his diet, accidental meth consumption. The car rammed against a speed bump and knocked that train of thought out of his mind.

“I need to pee.”

He changed course for the nearest gas station while the audiobook droned on in the background.

“You don’t get mood swings from eating cornflakes…”

—

The sky had calmed significantly to a rolling ocean blue by the time he rolled into the parking lot of Al’s Discount Casino. As he got out of the car, his knees wobbled and threatened to buckle. Aside from two brief pee breaks and a desperate snack at a sketchy waffle house, he hadn’t done much walking. Walter wiped the sweat from his brow, snatched up the bag of headphones, and hobbled into the Casino. 

Al’s Discount Casino was a dingey, moist, and crooked old wooden building out in the middle of nowhere, shrouded in the inescapable musk of AXE Body Spray. The interior was carpeted floor-to-ceiling with molding velvet carpet, and consisted of three scratched-up tables, four urine-scented leather chairs, and a small tiki bar in the far right corner. There was also a bathroom and a metal door that presumably led to a kitchen of some kind. The lighting fixtures were mostly burnt out. The creaking mass of bulbs and corroded plastic dangling precariously above Walter threatened to collapse at any given moment. A man that was most likely Kevin gestured to him from the bar.

It was Kevin. The two of them exchanged awkward greetings, unsure of what to say. Kevin was unsure whether he wanted to associate with the kind of person that would drive thirteen hours for a crotchety store manager. Walter was unsure whether he wanted to associate with the kind of person who would trade pets for electronics in dimly lit casinos. The two sat in silence for a while, each of them grasping their bartered items as if something was about to happen. Finally, Walter broke the ice. He told Kevin about his day and why he put up with his boss even though she typically made his life harder for him. Kevin explained why he traded pets for electronics in dimly lit casinos. Turns out he also had nothing better to do. 

Kevin was an older guy, someone that Walter’s dad would’ve probably yelled at for driving the wrong way. That idea made him happy for some reason. On his way out of the casino, Kevin grasped Walter’s shoulder and wished him luck on his drive back. He told him he was a good guy for doing this, even if his boss sucked. Walter stumbled out into a cool Atlantic City night and stared at the inky black sky. He smiled. He climbed back into his car and looked at the big orange blob of a fish he’d been sent to pick up. The fish stared back, completely unphased and uninterested by its new owner. Walter emptied the fish’s bag into an empty Taco Bell to-go cup that had been sitting in his cup holder for almost three months and drove off. 

—

“So where are you from originally?” Walter asked.

It had been four and a half hours since he left Al’s Discount Casino and Walter was going a tad stir crazy. Unfortunately, the fish wasn’t in the mood to talk. 

“I’m technically from Ontario. My parents were camping up by the Canadian Boundary Waters the day I was born. Hard part is, they didn’t think I was coming for another month or so, so when my mom’s water broke they were in a canoe, in the middle of the water, about a mile out from the closest campsite.”

The fish was slightly buzzed from the Baja Blast residue stuck to the inside of the cup.

“Of course you probably don’t understand how difficult it is, giving birth without tipping a canoe. You’re a fish! You guys can just do that wherever!”

The fish swam in a small semicircle. The car stereo chimed in. “All relationships are messy, and everyone suffers through their fair share of pain- and sometimes more than their fair share.”

“Shut up, OJ.”

As he began to drive through that hauntingly beautiful stretch of woods once again, Walter recalled his mysterious encounter from before. Was it the neighbor? Was it a trick of the light? Either way, his curiosity had been piqued. He pulled over to the side of the road, bid the fish a brief farewell, and retrieved a large flashlight and a small hammer (In case things got dicey) from the trunk of his car. He flicked the flashlight on and headed toward the spot he thought he’d seen the kid at. 

It was late in the day, and the lack of light in the sky had created a sense of quietly calm menace amongst the trees. The further into the woods he wandered, the more unease Walter felt. He swung his flashlight from side to side.

“KID! ARE YOU HERE?” He felt insane.

After a few minutes, Walter spotted a break in the trees. He gathered his confidence and made his way toward the opening, trying not to fixate on the nineteen different things that could conceivably jump out and swallow him whole. He stepped through the gap, and found himself at the very top of a cliff, standing far above a sea of trees stretching out past the horizon. The night sky was speckled with dozens of sparkling stars. For the first time in a long time, Walter’s mind fell silent. The insults and anxieties faded away. He took a deep breath and fell to his knees.

“Cool, huh?” Bush Boy asked. He was sitting a few feet away, gazing at the sky.

Walter looked at the child. “Are you really here?” He was very confused.

“Yeah,” Bush Boy nodded. “Why? Are you?”

Walter pondered that. “How are you here?”

“My aunt wasn’t home and I wanted to go to the library. So I took the bus.” He threw some rocks off the edge of the cliff.

“You live with your aunt?” Walter asked. Bush Boy nodded. “I don’t see a library,” Walter said.

“I forgot to focus on the stops. Then the driver said ‘Last stop’ and I was there,” He gestured in the direction of the bus depot a mile down the road. “And then I walked here.”

“Do you have a phone? Aren’t you worried about getting home or what your aunt might say?” Walter was impressed by the casual attitude this child seemed to have.

“She probably doesn’t know I’m gone. Or care. Plus she’s like never home.” The kid closed his eyes. The two of them sat in silence for a while.

“My dad is kind of a dick.” Walter spoke up. “The stuff he says, the things I wish he’d do differently, that gets to me. I try not to let it, but it does. That stuff sticks. You’re a weird kid, but you seem kinda smart. You’ll be okay.”

The kid stood up. “Can you drive me home?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Walter got to his feet. “By the way, what’s your name?”

Bush Boy furrowed his brow and stared at the ground. “Terry,” he grumbled.

Walter chuckled. “Wow, your parents suck.”

“Yeah. They do.”

—

“Wait, so he wrote this book so he could make money off a murder he probably did?” Terry was baffled.

“Basically, yeah.”

“It’s strange. They say people don’t change, but I say they’re wrong. People change, but it’s usually for the worse.”

“SHUT UP, OJ!” Terry yelled at the stereo. 

Walter smiled and turned left onto his street. He pulled over. “I’m gonna let you out now in case your aunt freaked out and called the cops or something. You good to walk back from here?” Terry nodded and got out of the car. “I gotta finish running an errand. I’ll be back later. See ya around?”

“Thanks,” Terry said. “Bye, fish!” The fish was silent. 

Walter waved and drove off. It took him twenty minutes to get to his boss’s house, which was much bigger than it should have been, given how much money she made. He parked at the end of the exceedingly lengthy driveway, and retrieved his traveling companion from the center console. The two of them made their way up the driveway and Walter rang the doorbell. From the doorstep, Walter could make out some shouting and a few pointed swear words. His boss made her frustration known with each thundering step until she finally arrived in front of him, newly awake and pissed off.

“Do you have ANY idea what time it is?!” She rasped.

“No. Fish?” He held out the Taco Bell cup. 

She snatched the cup out of his hands and peered inside. “This is the wrong fish.” She glared at him. “And it’s dead.” She tilted the cup towards him so he could look at his new friend, formerly living, poisoned by the Baja Blast. He looked at her in disbelief. She sighed and shut the door.

Walter rubbed his eyes. He knew he felt something about all of that, but he was far too tired to do anything about it. He descended the driveway, got in his car, and headed for home. As he drove, OJ began to drone on, in detail, and for the 1,784th time, about the thing he claims to have not done. Walter turned his stereo off.

“That’s enough for now.”

Thank you for reading!