Ika

Chef Kai demands we do whatever it takes to keep the customer satisfied. Our clientele have many exorbitant expectations, but one is easily the least bearable. The upper crust of the Pacific Northwest expect to accompany their sushi with a blaring rendition of Seattle’s most obnoxious children’s channel.

Every half hour, a cartoon alien sings her favorite song. “Our troubles will all sink away, and our friends will all be here to stay! Today is out-of-this-world day!” If only, I think. If only.

A painful memory bubbles up with each pulsation of that monotonous techno theme. Every afternoon, a scheduled twinge of guilt. At least, as much guilt as a teenage dishwasher like me feels qualified to take responsibility for.

We have a small tank by the doors to the kitchen where we keep live cuttlefish. It’s how we’re able to charge so much for ika. Every Monday morning I wash it out, and a new shipment arrives with an unceremonious splash. They spend the rest of their lives there, darting between the cutting board and the television on the other side of the door. Most prefer the latter.

Cuttlefish can change color and buoyancy at will, and have active social lives. Watching them was always preferable to work. One Saturday afternoon, between sparse rounds of dishes, I found myself glancing at the last survivors of a mostly empty home. As the cartoon alien forged through her daily song, I noticed one of them bopping along to the beat. Dumbfounded, I approached the tank.

The little guy continued to bob, but turned to look at me as I approached.

“You’d really lose appreciation for this if you were here for more than a week.”

Strangely enough, I felt like he could understand me. I moved a little closer, and gently raised a finger to the glass. The cuttlefish swam over to greet it, raising a single tentacle to meet my finger from the other side.

Dumbfounded, I paused. I tried to think of something else to say. Suddenly an aquarium net drifted behind my new friend and scooped him out of the water. Chef Kai, who looked in no mood to discuss cephalopod psychology.

“Not that one!” I said.

“Why not?” the chef demanded.

I hesitated.

Kai flipped the net onto the cutting board and sliced down the middle of my friend’s back.

One way to tell the difference between a cuttlefish and a squid is the cuttlefish ink’s ruddier hue. That is one fact I will never forget. Ever since, I haven’t been able to tolerate that theme song. And when I pass by the tank with a garbage bag, knowing the viscera within, I cannot bring myself to look the cuttlefish in the eye. Though I get the feeling that when I’m not looking at them, they’re watching me. And judging.

Why was I so weak? It would have been easy to say something. I might have lost what little respect I had in the kitchen, but it would have been worth it to see if that pleasant little creature listening to the music could really listen to me, too.

Sometimes I involuntarily glance over at the tank. And today, as the cartoon played, I thought I caught it in the corner of my eye. One of the cuttlefish following the TV too intently not to be paying attention.

I ran over to place my hand against the glass again, and it swam over to greet me. This time, however, I didn’t see an invitation to converse so much as a plea for help.

I heard a door slam behind me. Chef Kai.

“Get back to the sink!”

As I felt my stomach turn, I could see my tentacled comrade simultaneously turn a darker shade of burgundy.

Kai marched toward us, knife in hand. Again, I hesitated. He walked past me to thrust his arm into the tank, and groped around, trying to grab one of the cuttlefish. In the confusion they darted around and intermingled. Desperate to salvage what was left of my conscience, I grabbed his arm. The whole tank tipped over and fell towards the dining room. Twenty cuttlefish spilled out and onto the ground in front of the TV. I could hear sputtering squirts as they writhed around on the soaked carpet. I snatched a handful and sprinted out the door, running two blocks to the harbor. I could feel their suctions on my forearms as I ran. And when I dumped them into the harbor, none looked back to thank me as they swam away.

Upon my return, I didn’t have the heart to ask where the others had gone. I simply grabbed my jacket and left. That night, I furiously scoured the internet for any movement opposed to the cuttlefish industry.

-----

I found myself back at Seattle harbor, incognito aboard a fishing vessel. No one would join in my crusade. But I had to take responsibility for something. I was back in the menial labor pool with a soap bucket in hand. Of course, the job swabbing the deck would be cut immediately short the moment I saw my first net full of squids wriggling grotesquely as life-giving water dripped away around them.

Maybe the earlier version of myself would have hesitated. Not anymore. I didn’t even have to feel an individual connection. I just jumped for the net and began cutting chords.

A crewmember pulled out a handgun. That could not be legal. To be fair, though it definitely wasn’t my place to be making that judgment. Without much hesitation, he began firing. The shots whizzed past me into the net I was cutting. Soft splats came from the cluster of seafood around me. Then, the chamber was empty. I heard some weird squealing noises in from the squids behind me in the silence that followed. Anger replaced worry, and I ran at him .

Just then, the deck rumbled. Tentacles the size of school buses burst through the water around us and grasped the metal surface of the deck. There was a rasping sound and some of the suctions dragged along the surface, but most held firm, and the vessel was ripped in two. Everyone aboard tumbled into the sea.

In the darkness of the Pacific, I looked up at towards a brighter surface, realizing what had happened. The entire crew would drown. I know I should have felt more disappointed. I slowly sank in the water. Bits of rubble descended around me.

Then the monstrosity emerged, slowing becoming visible through the murky haze between us. Out of my element, I simply writhed in the water as it approached. The kraken only stopped when I floundered directly between its humongous eyes. Observing the tentacle scars on my forearms.

I heard a low rumble echo throughout the water. It coalesced into something vaguely familiar. The theme song from that cartoon, in baritone, vibrating through the entire ocean.

“I’m so sorry,” I confessed, eyeing a W-shaped pupil. “I let them kill some others.”

I had that familiar sensation that he could understand what I meant.

“I know,” the eyes said, sadly.

I felt a searing pain in my back. Blood rushed up through the water, its ruddiness reminding me of unique cuttlefish ink.