The Fish Store

By Erica Macri

My grandfather wants fancy tail guppies: three male, two female. I get in the car with Joe, his dutiful son and my father, and before I can blink, he speeds onto the Long Island Expressway. Joe is talking about fish, positing that the females of the species have the fancy tails. I say nothing, instead deciding to call PETCO to confirm that they have guppies—the fancy tail kind, right?—and they say that’s what they have. But when we arrive at PETCO we are greeted by rows of empty tanks. Not a guppy to be seen. So we drive to another shopping strip, towards a different PETCO. The aquatic specialist there admits that they don’t have fancy tail guppies. Only the regular ones. Then she explains that we need to buy more females than males. If the ratio is the other way around the males will fight each other to the death over breeding rights. 

Joe nods along with her fish facts as if to say, Cool! Then he turns to me. “Pick out which colors to get.”

“I literally don’t care.” 

That makes Joe mad—he walks away from me in stern silence—and I flush under the fluorescent lights. It dawns on me that I’m too old to be fighting with my father. I’ve been too old for a long time. So, left alone with the aquatic specialist, I direct her to pick out two kaleidoscopic males: one red and one yellowish orange. She expertly corners them with her net. Then, she scoops out three females the color of brackish water and plops them all into a plastic bag. 

Things seem better once we have the fish. Joe forks over money to the cashier, and I reminisce about the way things used to be. We used to find a proper store, not just PETCO. Back then going to the fish store was like traveling to Narnia. I remember a magical world behind ordinary doors. But who knows if those place survived COVID. Now, whether I am at the fish store or my grandfather’s house, I am supposed to be the adult in the room.

The cashier hands me a brown paper bag. I use it to cocoon the fish, as if it will protect them from the elements. “Please don’t die,” I say, cradling them to my chest. Underneath the paper bag the plastic one feels like a water balloon. 

“They’re not going to die,” my father says. 

I step outside. A shiver runs down my spine, urging me to speed-walk through the parking lot. This time we sit in silence. Joe watches the road, the setting sun in our eyes no matter which direction we turn. I watch the fish. I think about Darla from Finding Nemo, holding a plastic bag exactly like this one. I think about fishing trips with Joe, and all the fish I killed by not getting the hook out of their bodies fast enough. He called them bobs once they couldn’t swim anymore. I think about the guppies I used to have as a kid—always named Rainbow and Sparkle—and these fish bobbing in place, and how we are only bringing them to my grandfather’s house for them to die. 

“Sorry they don’t have fancy tails, grandpa,” I say when I walk through the door, a gust of cold air following us inside. My grandfather doesn’t say anything, just squints at the tank. I’m not sure what he sees through his cataracts. 

“Should I put them in?” I ask.

With a shaky hand, he points to the water. “Check the temperature first.” 

Erica Macri is a writer from New Jersey.