To Think of the Fish
By Seán Dagan Wood

I must have been rather subdued at the point she came to the counter, because when I noticed her, I felt as though I’d just been slapped across the face with a big, wet fish. It’s a clichéd analogy I admit, but for want of justifying my diction, I can assure you that I know you well, (you are a fishmonger), and the presence of this woman really did share its ambience with that of an anarchistic mackerel festival. (Such an event does exist, you will find it in Norway). This lady’s mouth was the ultimate display of gaping and drooping. When she spoke its shape moved monotonously from o to n, her thick lips sagging, and I could sense the rest of the Post Office thinking “ooooh noooo” and hoping that she wasn’t going to cause too much disruption. (For she was one of those rarities that appear only at bus stops or in Post Office queues).

Fish, if they are unlucky enough to get hooked but lucky enough to get thrown back, will become used to abuse at the hand of the rod wielder. This lady seemed to have identified the operation of this concept within her daily life, or more to the point, during her trips up the river of parcel tape, envelopes and essentials, to the Post Office counter. Baited with stamps, apparently she had become accustomed to mistreatment by Post Office staff.

“I’m here to be abused” she said loudly, with a husky, flat voice.

I remember that I was tired and had become bored, because the man serving me couldn’t identify the destination of my parcel. I was holding the item against the glass screen and the man was squinting his eyes in an effort to read the address. Upon typing it into his computer it was continually being rejected and it needed to be found so that my parcel could be recorded. By now I too was wondering if Blackberry Cottage, Cherub lane was genuinely innocent or a joke. There was a further break from my boredom, and I was intrigued and horrified, as I noticed the volume of thick, dark hair growing from just inside the rim of each of this gentleman’s ears. It grew from inside the ear as well, (as is common with older males), but this extra coverage, which was impressively lengthy and curved round behind the ears, was quite extraordinary. However, my postal-doubt and the discovery of a new place where hair can grow, didn’t keep me interested for long. I was quite oblivious to my surroundings as the man opposite me fished out stamps from his books and printed off labels. I realised this momentarily because I remember thinking that I must be not with it if it took me a whole minute or two to notice that the man at the counter had feathers coming out of the side of his head.

So, when the loud words, “Yes, I’m here again. Here to be abused. Here to be abused by you again. To be abused at the Post Office. To be abused by the staff. I’m here to be abused,” echoed again from my left, I was a little unsure of reality. As you would be had you been in Bergen at five in the morning, in the floodlit market, dancing in orange waterproof dungarees with Wellington-boots attached, singing Popeye songs from school, when a big, grey-bearded, cock-eyed Viking-type in a stripy jumper suddenly appeared with the night’s prize catch and swung at your head with it, laughing out of the side of his mouth as it connected with a skin-on-skin slap and the smell of the fish saturated your whole ability to perceive. It’s shocking, and it wakes you up. When awakened though, you aren’t sure if you’re in the same place that you fell asleep in. The awakening effect is so sharp initially that you are at the same time stunned, and it takes a few seconds for you to comprehend everything outside of the intimate experience with the fish. Think of the fish though; hanging in the clenched hand of a brute, the air stinging its gills.

The woman came out of nowhere and when I looked around with a startled, off-balance jerk of my body, I realised that a queue had accumulated behind us and that this lady was strikingly unique, standing at the counter window to my left. The skin on her face was like cod batter, soggy for the most part, but crisp at the edge, and crumpled around a solid form beneath. I don’t mean to harm anyone’s appetite for fish, but she looked like she was straight-out-the-deep-fat-fryer. However, her face was not golden, it had seen no sun. It was pale, but not pale like those that see ghosts, pale like those that see no happiness. Not sharply white, but a developed, aged grey that ran deep and embodied a whole state of being, an infinite sadness. Her hair was a thick, weak-brown moss, seemingly shaping itself of its own accord. The teeth that appeared as she spoke were randomly placed, with ominous black voids between them, and their colour corresponded with her hair.

I was quite disoriented now, for I was trying to match the tone and content of this woman’s words while, at the same time, taking in her appearance, and I was also missing what the man at the counter was saying to me. I looked quickly at the queue again, probably for reference towards how I should react to this woman, but I didn’t turn my head enough, and I didn’t really see them, I just continued to assess the presence of the woman. I listened to her elaborate on how she was there, out of free will, to be abused. I came to the conclusion that she was cynical and bitter, and that this was her humour. The seriousness of her tone didn’t admit this; it indicated either a fetish that I didn’t want to think about, or a submitting to something pressed upon her in another situation, which she was expressing now in this one. The man serving this woman appeared to adjust to the idea of humour along with me, and it was by far the easiest choice. There was too much of a queue for anyone to take her seriously.

The man opposite me caught my attention again and we proceeded with business, (the address was sincere), as did the woman and her ‘abuser’, although I didn’t catch what her business was. I left the post office, still coming to terms with this human being, feeling almost like I’d just stepped inside from the rain. Clothes drenched, hair segmented, cold water slipping off my skin, lips alive, eyes big and bright in the hallway mirror.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com