HOW I MET YOUR FATHER
I was just getting over a breakup and I was determined to fill my days with “me” time. There was a small park behind Pike’s Market and the plan was to finish my self-help book with a nice cup of coffee on the lawn. Then I’d buy a whole fish at the market. I wanted one of those ones that the guys toss to each other back and forth. I wanted a bright and shiny one. I wanted one that looked like it was swimming, as the butchers sent it flying through the air to each other. I wanted a good looking fish. I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but, yes, I wanted a “hot” fish.
I felt great as I walked toward the fish booth. The sun and coffee had done me good. I was a little bit busted up over the fact that the guru had slept with everyone in the ashram at the end of my book proving once and for all that no one is truly good. You think the guru is going to heal you and “nope” he’s just trying to get into your lulu lemons. But, that bitter taste in my mouth aside, the rest of me felt great.
I glided toward the booth and my exhale fell in line with every other creature scurrying around me. Young chefs grabbing some market fare for tonight’s menus, old ladies who’ve been coming to Pike’s for years to cook Fish on Fridays, the homeless stepping in and out of the cold. All of them. They breathed in and out. I did it in sync with them.
As I approached the booth, a mustachioed man cried out, “Gutted Snapper, 19.95.” The fish shimmered and shined as it sailed through the air. That was it. That was my fish. But, it was the way the mustachioed man said “snapper” that sealed the deal. “Gutted Snappaaaa!” he called out again.
“I’ll take the snapper,” I said.
“Sold!” said mustachioed man, as he smiled right at me.
I had big plans for that snapper. I had studied a New York Times recipe where you wrapped the fish in parchment paper after smothering it in garlic, butter and herbs. That, a nice rice pilaf, and a bottle of sauvignon were all in my future. Mustachioed man wrapped up my fish in fresh deli paper.
“What are you cooking for me?” he said.
“Snappaaa in parchment paper,” I said, boldly imitating his accent.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it,” he smiled.
“Yeah, it is. And what wine are you bringing?” I replied.
“A sauvignon, of course,” he answered.
“Oh shit. Do I have to have dinner with this guy now?” I thought.
“Don’t worry. I’m just teasing you. You can have your fish alone with a nice book, but I would like to buy you some coffee tomorrow. We can have it out on the lawn,” he said.
I just looked at him, not sure how to respond.
“Not to spoil the book for you,” he said, pointing at the title clutched in my arm. “But, the guru sleeps with everybody. So, you’re better off hanging with me instead.”
I continued staring, my mouth open slightly this time.
“The snappaaa thinks you should say yes,” he said, holding up the fish, while he moved its jaw back and forth.
The fish’s face looked right at me. Its lips were opened. Its gills moved in and out, timed perfectly, of course, with my breathing. Then the fish spoke.
“Oh, whaddya got to lose?! Go out with the fella. He’s magical,” said the Snappaaa.
I never ate the fish that night. I just stared at it wondering if it would speak again.
On our fifth anniversary, your father told me he’d studied ventriloquism. He made the snapper speak at the market. For years, I thought a magical snapper made me go out with him. I wish he hadn’t spoiled that one. Fake or not, meeting via a magical snapper beats any and all Tinder dates. That fish was his wing man. You can put that in your e-cig and smoke it. Also, throw out your phone. It’s the devil and it might give you brain cancer. Love you, mom.