Out of the Frying Pan

"Try the octopus," her editor had said. "It's one of the better dishes and if something's wrong with it, the deep fryer will probably kill it before it reaches you."

Joanne liked calamari, and getting a restaurant review gig was better than covering another high school soccer game, but now she regretted her decision. The lowest rated restaurant in town had been assigned to her and the advice now seemed to inspire more fear of her immediate future than had been intended. "If something's wrong with it," he'd said. If was a strong word. It was doing a lot of heavy lifting for the sake of her peace of mind but it was still an if, and when if came to seafood it became a slightly alarming word. Just as alarming was probably.

The surface and turf restaurant was one of those overpriced but underwhelming places. It had a few strong supporters, mostly those who had been going there so long they remained loyal despite the four name changes and five ownership changes over the past 40 years. Most of the changes had occurred in the past 20-odd years. Fortunately some patrons were so old they didn't taste much difference or at least remember a time when it had been a good restaurant. But there were only three of these patrons left and the current owner watched them shuffle out of his restaurant each time with trepidation, wondering if he was seeing one of his few reliable customers for the last time.

Joanne felt bad for the current business owner. But mostly she felt bad for herself as she looked over the menu.

Steak is hard to kill somebody with, she thought as she slowly scanned the menu, looking for the perfect foolproof dish. Can't really undercook it, only overcook it. And if there's mad cow prions in it, overcooking it is the best option. Unless they undercooked it after all.

When the waiter arrived and asked if she was ready, she just asked for an order of the fried calamari.

“Drink?” the waiter asked.

“Just a Pepsi, please.”

“We only have Coke products.”

“Okay, a Coke.”

While she waited for the meal to arrive, she studied the company card her boss had given her to pay with. For some reason it was one of those personalized credit cards and was designed with a camouflage theme.

The waiter set down the coke a few minutes later and she drank half of it. When the calamari came, with fries, it smelled perfectly fine. She took a bite and it was only a little rubbery. The crunch around the meat was nice and the oil content was about just right. She finished her Coke and ordered a refill while she ate the rest of the basket.

Around eight o'clock she was feeling better and already planning to write a favorable review. Considering her name would be on the by-line, and the restaurant owners would be sure to read the thing—probably the others in town as well—it would be better for her future dining experiences.

On a trip to the bathroom before settling the bill, and getting a slice of chocolate cake to go, someone said, If you can hear me, I won’t ask why, but I need help.

Without  thinking about it she answered back, What? It was a simple thought in her mind, just like the other voice was, except she didn’t recognize that one as her own.

I am in the basement and I need immediate help, please.

Who are you? Joanne was already looking for the basement. She had a sketchy idea of where the staircase was located, in the back of the restaurant beyond the bathrooms. Later she would decide that was why she didn’t run, or ask for a doctor, but believed the voice implicitly—she knew exactly where to go in her mind’s eye.

I can’t tell you my name but I am the small conch in one of the aquariums in the basement.

Say what? Then, Wait, what do you mean by “conch”?

As far as she’d always known, conches were large spiky seashells that washed onto tropical beaches and were taken home as souvenirs by tourists. It only now occurred to her that something must live in those shells at some point.

Joanne took her phone from her pocket and typed conch + alive into the default search engine. A cartoonishly grotesque thing appeared in the thumbnails on the image-results page: a fleshy blob that looked like the result of impure relations between a slug and an octopus. Or maybe a little two-eyed shoggoth.

The basement was a simple unlocked wooden door, very slightly ajar, a little trail of water leading out of it. In a way it was an encouraging thought. The place served fresh seafood, straight from the water (out of cheap several-gallon aquariums stored in a dark basement). But one of them was plaintively asking for salvation.

She hung around outside the bathroom, as if it was occupied and she was just waiting for her turn, and cast what probably looked like shifty looks at the basement door. When she felt confident no one would see, she opened the basement door as quietly as the rusty hinges would allow, and walked down the ancient wood stairs.

There were several large aquariums in the basement, large but too small for all the octopuses, lobsters, and other specimens crowded together inside them. In the corner, by a pile of flattened, damp cardboard boxes, she spotted the conch aquarium. There were only about five, all of them tucked away in the shells, excepting one who had extended its long eyestalks and swished them back and forth in the water in what looked like exaggerated and paranoid fashion.

I guess you’re my target, she thought.

The eyes waved more frantically. You guessed right! Get me out of here.

How do I get you out?

Just reach into the tank and lift me out!

A stark image of the slimy blob of flesh from her image search popped back into her head. It changed to include her picking up the shell and the flabby mass falling out into her hand. 

Joanne reached into the water, careful to grab just the shell, fingers avoiding its spikes. Stay inside your shell, she told it as she started to tentatively lift it out of the water.

Why would I jump out? it said.

I don’t know how you guys work. Just make sure to hang on in there.

Then she was very aware that she was in a strange basement and had a dripping, live sea creature in her hands. Now what? she asked.

“Now what?” Take me far away from here! Do I need to walk you through every step?

Sorry. Don’t know if you guessed but I’ve never stolen a telepathic conch shell before. She dumped the shell and the hideous thing inside it down into her purse, and hurried back up the stairs as quietly as she could.

Water had begun to drip from the bag as she paid for the calamari at the cash register. The person in line behind her politely informed her that it was leaking. The cashier leaned over to look also.

“Bathroom was out of order,” she tersely said, then power-walked out of the establishment.

…

Freedom! The eyestalks extended out of her purse and nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. Excellent work. Apologies for my short temper before. I was destined to become fritters in a basket and it had begun to weigh heavily on my mind.

It’s fine. As it didn’t have a visible face, just eyeballs that scanned the surroundings independently of each other, she tried to make meaningful eye contact with those. Now where exactly am I supposed to take you? The marina, maybe?

It said, Anywhere by the ocean is fine. I’ll make my way home from there.

Now that I’m thinking semi-clearly, she said, can you tell me why I’m having a telepathic conversation with a giant snail?

We have the ability to communicate psychically, it said, though almost no humans can receive and understand us.

Right, and who’s “we”?

I meant me. I have the ability to communicate mentally. Your languages and their pronouns are still a little confusing.

Are you really a conch?

Just take me to the marina. 

On the way, Joanne remembered, too late, that she never bought the slice of chocolate cake to-go. It would have been the perfect thing to stress-eat when she got home, too.

A few seagulls were still poking around for food, but no one was out fishing on the water or wandering around the docks. Before that changed, she hurried to the farthest dock, the berth of a small motorboat.

Maybe just to take the conversation out of her head, she said, “Are you an angel testing me to see if I do the right thing?”

The conch said nothing.

“Or maybe all conches are aliens that came here millions of years ago and we only think they evolved here on earth,” she continued. “Or—” 

Suffice to say I am monitoring the Bahamian conch situation, it said finally.

“What do you mean?”

This species, my species—the Queen Conch—is not thriving as it should. I was already aware of the circumstances, but now I have experienced the environmental conditions myself. Being served as fritters in a basket is one of the more dramatic threats that the species faces every day.

“No kidding. By the way, that’s such a hyper-specific assignment, to monitor just one species of one family of gastropods.”

They had reached the end of the dock. Joanne looked over the dark water lapping  below them. A new image popped into her mind: dropping the conch unceremoniously into the water with a wet plop. Probably should try to avoid that, although with the shell it would probably be all right. 

Then, another thought, which she voiced:  “Will you be okay in this water? You said your species is from the Bahamas, right?”

I’ll be fine, the conch said. In fact, I’ll enjoy the change of scenery, I think.

“One last question, then: After this is over—after I go to bed and then wake up tomorrow—will I remember what happened tonight?”

Tomorrow I suspect you will experience a delayed emotional reaction to tonight’s events. You should probably stay home, as it may be a very visceral experience and you’ll want time to recover privately.

“I see.”

I also suggest you pretend to forget about tonight’s events. Tell no one or you might be shunned or hospitalized—or worse.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

You are equally cursed and blessed, the conch said. Finding someone who can receive my thoughts should be almost impossible. But I’m glad I did. I’m sure you didn’t expect to be a hero tonight.

Strangely touched by the two twisting eyestalks making eye contact with her, Joanne crouched down and held the conch’s body over the water. It was still a bit of a drop, but that was why snails had shells, right? “Well, goodbye, I guess, Mr. Queen Conch. Or whoever you really are.”

   Goodbye, it said. Or, as I’ve also heard—perhaps—“au revoir”?

After she deposited the conch in the water, Joanne went home.

Maybe it was the result of having a conversation with a psychic conch snail, but she felt mentally and physically exhausted, and slept soundly when she got home. The next morning, she went directly to her computer to write her review. She wouldn’t be able to process everything until she wrote it. The restaurant wasn’t going to be happy with her. 

She began with, "Don't try the conch."

Fin.