Cassiopeia

Around the corner of a run-down building, where the red brick is grey with dust and the blinds hang to the windows by a thread, is a large new street, crisp and black, sloping down a gentle hill. Follow that big bright street, turn a few more corners, and there, tucked beside an ice cream store and a parking lot, is a market, running without fail every Saturday evening, popping up at lunch and gone by the time the sun is down. For a few hours each Saturday, it no longer smells of sticky asphalt and cigarette smoke, but popcorn jumping in large metal vats, potatoes baking slowly, puffing open with little bursts of steam when a plastic knife pokes through the thick skin. Carrot stems pour off little wooden crates piled on top of one another, bright red tomatoes packed tightly into cardboard boxes being passed off hand to hand. Roasted corn is showered in salt and shoved into the hands of waiting children, gloved hands wiping away sweaty brows before turning to yell at the booths beside, fish arranged in little icy boxes, warm foreheads pressed flush against tall stacks of coolers holding sliced hams. When I was younger, my dream was to get away. Out of the small neighbourhood where buildings crumbled in the corners and tires stuck to the ground in the summer heat. But the little market beside the ice cream store was always there in my mind, the one thing I couldn’t see gone, couldn’t imagine a Saturday sun going down without the smell of roasted nuts in the air. Truth is, I never left, never stepped past the little welcome sign at the end of town, never saw the front side of that big redheaded clown pasted on top, swinging its cardboard legs and waving goodbye to the empty fields where cars don’t drive by anymore. So I still drag myself down the block to the little market each Saturday night, plastic bags in hand, stopping always at the end of the parking lot when I’m done, a cheap popsicle in my mouth, palms turning red from the weight of the bags on either side, looking out past the lot until I can see the fields and empty roads, looking at the back of that big redheaded clown, waving goodbye with an uplifted arm. And him and I watch the sunset together, both our arms heavy and tired, sweat rolling down my forehead and splinters forming on his. Then I make my way back home, stopping for a breath ever so often, until I reach my once bright blue door, fumble with the keys in the dark, and let myself in, sighing as a wave of AC blows through my sweaty hair, the faded blue wood swinging behind me, singing in its hinges. Today I look out the window, and just around the corner that new road shimmers in the heat like a big puddle of tar, sucking up the plastic flip flops that try and walk through it, turning everything into a sticky, hot sludge. It’s already well past noon and I’ve been too scared to step foot outside the house all day, but now it’s a Saturday evening and my fridge is empty, and my stomach growls for a cheap strawberry popsicle that I know will melt all over me before I can even get a taste. So I set out, locking my blue door behind me, plastic bags melting in the crook of my elbow, stepping only in the shadows of trees and houses until my feet bring me to that little parking lot and all its smells, stuffed to the brim with voices and people even when it’s too hot to breathe. I make my rounds as usual, pushing through sweaty bodies with little wads of cash ready to hand over someone’s bent head, taking the same number of everything I’ve always taken since I got my first job years ago, counting out each cucumber and carrot, making sure enough was saved to put in the tiny drawer beside my bright blue door. Every bill and coin saved went to that drawer, and after years and years, every bill and coin in that drawer went to a shiny red pickup that I drove in once, from the dealership across the street to my home. Ever since then, it’s been rusting on a patch of grass on my front lawn, the keys shoved in the back of that drawer and never picked up since. That drawer is filled with spare change I use for Saturday night popsicles now, jangling around against the wooden walls every time I pull it open to check, never pulling too quickly so the keys don't come sliding into view. The drawer collection tradition must’ve stuck though, because everything is always the same, my fridge always piled with the same amounts, my wallet always stacked with the same number of crisp bills, rarely more, never less. Tonight took more convincing to leave than usual, and by the time the market begins to clear out, I’m still standing with a couple bills left, looking up at the sky and trying to remember what else it was I needed, mentally going through each cupboard and drawer one by one. But it’s hot out, and even if the sun is setting, my shirt is still sticking to my back, my fingers are still sticky with bright pink juice, and my eyes hurt from squinting against the sunlight all day, so I go where my feet take me, looking half-heartedly at each near-empty stall, the wooden crates bought and empty, the cardboard boxes packed up and stacked onto dusty pickup trucks parked under collapsing tents. In the back of my mind, right behind my left ear, I hear a thumping sound, like faint footsteps, jumping up and down, over and over again. I tap my skull with my palm, trying to shake out whatever effect of heat stroke it is I’m feeling, but the sound stays, getting louder when I turn around and squint into the darkening night, trying to guess what it could possibly be. Walking closer to the noise, I look around, but none of the shopkeepers seem to notice or care, rushing around as they pack up the last of their supply, trying to get out of the crushing heat at last. The sound gets louder and louder, pounding in the back of my head, sounding less like a thud and more like the desperate flapping of wings, thrashing against something. I stop in front of a booth and look down, little ice boxes lined up in front of me. The ice has mostly melted, and the contents are all but gone, except for one crate, still mostly full, where dead fish are packed in with the ice, their glassy, wet eyes looking up at the night sky. Their gummy mouths hang slightly open, fins pressed to their sides, stuck in melting ice that runs down the tilted icebox, turning to mud at my feet. The sound stops and starts again, and I rub my eyes with a clammy hand, squinting at the fish. A flurry of movement squirms in the corner of my eye, and I look down at a fish with its head buried in the ice, its tail and fins sticking out of the ice cubes, scales shining. The sound fills my head again and the fish shakes, its tail thrashing back and forth against the ice, slapping against the ice as it dances, trying to wiggle out of the ice. I step back and look around, nervous, waiting for the shopkeeper to notice, but she keeps her back turned to me, rummaging endlessly in the back of a big pickup, grumbling beneath her breath. The fish keeps wiggling, growing more and more desperate, and I wring the paper wrapper of a long-eaten roasted corn in my hands, trying to decide what to do. For a second, the fish goes silent, and my breath catches in my throat. The woman is still cursing at her pickup, stacking crates in the backseat, and the paper in my hand gets damp with sweat. My head darts from side to side, behind me, then back at the woman again, then I unfurl the crumpled wrapper and grab the fish with my hand, shoving it in the greasy newspaper and sprinting off, pressing the dead fish to my chest as I run past the end of the market, past the parking lot, finally slowing down when my lungs won't go any further, sucking in the humid air. 

I just stole a dead fish. I can’t believe I just stole a dead fish. 

I look down at the damp packet still pressed closely to me, and drop it on the ground, stepping away to sniff my shirt, now stained with grease and the smell of warm, dead, fish. The bag doesn’t move, doesn’t thrash around or hop away, and I grab a twig beside me, crouching down, poking away the paper folds with the thin stick, peering at what’s inside. The fish is still dead, the paper falling away to reveal a big wet eyeball, gazing up to the stars with an empty, black pupil. Its gummy mouth is part way opened and its fins are pressed to its sides like every other dead fish on ice. Its body does not move, its tail does not shake, and I toss the stick away, sinking to the dirt ground, resting my head on my elbows so I can keep my hands away from me, the smell of fish wafting heavily off them. The thought of taking it home to eat drifts briefly through my mind, but the image of that fish sitting in that slushy, lukewarm ice bath all day in the scorching heat, warming slowly, the innards of its dead fish friends soaking in the melted ice around it makes me mildly sick. Scrunching my eyes shut, I sigh, looking up with closed eyes, pressing my hands to my face before quickly smelling the strong fish scent and peeling them rapidly off my face, tucking my hands under my legs to prevent further contact. I look past my shoulder at that big redheaded clown, thinking of my friends that drove away one by one in sleek new cars, not even turning around to see the clown’s smiling face as he waved them all away. I was the first one that said I wanted to leave, pointed at the big smiling clown and told my kindergarten teachers I would send them postcards of his face so they could see what he looked like from the front. I made little drawings that my parents pinned on the fridge and tucked in windowsills, explaining each time with a passionate gesture towards those lonely fields and the clown that endlessly waved them goodbye. In the end those kindergarten teachers drove away too, and I was the only one left. Left to walk down sticky streets in shoes with the soles half-burnt off, left to steal dead fish from melted ice boxes and eat popsicles with cardboard cutouts of clowns. Looking up at the many stars, my face flushes with embarrassment, and I groan, almost flinging my hands to cover my face again, hiding from the soft dots that blink in the distance.  

Cassiopeia. The beautiful one who scorned the sea. 

Chained to her throne of vanity, a divine punishment eternal. 

The fish’s large black eyeball slopes towards me, its mouth closing slowly. 

Do not taunt the strength of the waters. 

We are as many as the stars.

Its eyeball rolls slowly back to its place, the now visible stars reflected in its big glass eye. I clasp both hands to my mouth, rushing over to stare at the fish lying in the greasy paper packet. 

“Say that again.”

Cassiopeia. 

I jump back, the breath rushing out of me in a short gasp. The fish’s eye follows me, its mouth closed. ‘Why do you know that’ the words come out from a shaky mouth, my fingers dragging down my cheeks, biting my nails as I bend over, looking at the dead thing in the grass. 

The moon guides the waves.

The stars guide the ocean’s children. 

We are one and the same. 

“You’re dead. You were dead all day. Dead in the morning and dead when I saw you. You’re a dead fish in an icebox, and I’m talking to you.”

The stars in the sky died thousands of years ago.

But they still burn brightly in the dark. 

Fragments of the past. 

I want to turn or run away, but now if I turn around and run to the fields, I’m scared that the red headed clown will jump off its sign and start reciting Baudelaire. The fish keeps its eye intently fixed on the stars, its mouth moving ever so slightly, and my eyes narrow, looking upwards with it, tracing the few constellations scattered amongst the clouds. Then its eye slides downwards and its whole-body twitches, jumping towards the fields. 

East. The stars point to the seas. 

It tries to hop a bit, helplessly flopping in the grass. I watch the fish jump for a bit, its eye trained towards the horizon, thrashing against the dirt and grass. 

“There’s no sea there. It’s just fields. Look.”

Feeling sorry for the thing, I pick it up, beyond caring about the smell on my hands that will by now never wash out. Its body is strangely cold in my hands, despite it having been on display all day in the sweltering heat, and its scales feel slick with saltwater. The fish says nothing, its eye taking in the endless rows of corn and wheat that wave gently with the night breeze. I can almost see it squinting the way a person would, trying to gaze past what is possible to see with the eye, hoping for more. The fish grows heavy in my hands, so I set it down, hunching down beside it, waiting for that deep, melancholic voice that fills the emptiness around us. 

“Hey. Sorry. Maybe there is something. I’ve never been that far. I just guessed. I don’t really know where the sea is. The stars don’t talk to me like that.”

The stars speak to all those who listen. 

The sea opens its embrace for all those who take the plunge. 

The fish trails off, its voice growing weary. It looks at me with that large eye, and I wince a little, looking away. 

They are calling. 

Its eye blinks, closing shut, and it begins to flop away, inching towards the endless fields bit by bit. By now, its scales are dulled with dirt, and its fin must have torn at some point, but it inches forward, its body slapping against the hard ground with every push forward. 

“You won’t make it. You’re a fish I stole from an icebox. I don’t think you’ve ever even seen the sea, beyond those painted aquarium walls they plaster in bright blue to make you feel a little more at home.”

The fish doesn’t speak. It trudges forward endlessly, flopping back and forth in the night, covered in mud and grass, its eye fixed towards the stars. A lump in my throat, I sit on the cold ground beside my muddy shopping bags, and watch it jump forwards, the sky darkening all the while. 

By morning, the fish was dead, its eye pecked out by a crow and carried away in the night. I woke up, my cheek stuck to the plastic bag, hair covered in dust, and walked over to the little fish, its empty socket staring up at the sky. I buried it in the field beside the clown as the sun rose, the stars still faintly visible through the orange clouds. Trudging home on that bright, new, black road, I scrounged around for the keys to my once bright blue door one last time, my shopping bags abandoned to the fields of corn. On the patch of grass on my lawn, a dusty red pickup rumbles to life, and through the window I see a single row of stars still visible in the bright daylight, a crooked W in the sky. The stars bow their heads towards the fields, where the red headed clown waits for me, his ruddy cheeks and red nose smiling as he waves me away, a crow perched on his cardboard shoulder.