Bubba - Will Craig

            There was never so much fuss in our house as there was the week we got the fish.  After a year of noise and chemical smells, we had added a new wing to our house.  Now Mom and Dad wanted something to dress up that new space.  Dad decided that something should be a fish-tank.  He brought his new-wing-warming present home that day, and put it on top of the cabinet, across from the TV.  In it were five fish, a pipe blowing bubbles, a diver in an old-time suit, and a plaster Buddha in one corner.  And at each end a clump of plastic pink daisies were planted in the turquoise and magenta pebbles.

            When Dad unveiled the tank for us, Mom gave the same look I’d been trained to give when someone gave me a pencil case or pack of socks for Christmas.  Meg and Molly, my two younger sisters jumped up and down clapping and shouting, “Fishes! Fishes!” That first day, they couldn’t get enough of those fish.  Me? I thought they were creepy.  There was something zombie-like about them, the way they drifted around with that dead-eyed look at everything.  They were two goldfish, one thin silvery one, and a round zebra-striped one.  And then there was that one fish, bigger than the others.  We never knew what sort he was. He was pale yellow, had big grey eyes, a sort of bulge in his head, and a mouth that kept sucking in and out.  I’m not sure how to describe it, but if any fish could strut swimming, it would be him. He had a look that seemed to say “This is MY tank.  This is MY diver, MY Buddha, MY daisies!”

            He was the only one we bothered to name - Bubba.  His favorite activity was to burrow under the pebbles and push up those plastic daisies so they floated around the top of the tank and caught in the filter.  Then some of the other fish would get caught in the plastic leaves, and after a zombie-ish struggle, just die.  Five times Mom had to empty the tank and replant those daisies, but Dad was determined to keep his investment in the new space.  Week after week he’d bring back new fish to replace the dead ones. The ending was always the same.  Down went Bubba, up went the daisies, and something or other happened to the other fish. Even the ones that didn’t get caught barely lasted three days.  Maybe Bubba ate too much of the food, maybe he scared them to death.  Only Bubba went on.

            Meg and Molly enjoyed holding little burials for the fish in our yard.  Meg wanted to find real daisies to throw over them before filling the hole in, but Molly protested saying “No! You’ll crush them!”  She seemed to believe the daisies were somehow responsible for the deaths. For a long time the three of us had a friendly debate over how many daisies it would take to crush a dead fish.

            After a month and a half, Bubba was still the only survivor under the floating leaves, and Dad finally gave in to Mom’s demands and gave it up.  He donated the fish-tank, with the Diver, Buddha, daisies and Bubba, to our pediatrician’s offics.  After that we saw Bubba at our annual check-ups.  A year later, he was still there, and he’d become huge, as big as a mini-basketball, and the other fish the staff had filled the tank with were all avoiding him.  The receptionist told me they’d named him Nikita, because the bulging forehead and big lips reminded her of Krushchev.  “If only we could stop him pushing up those daisies!” she fretted.

            We replaced the fish with two guinea pigs, which I found a lot more lively and satisfying, but I could never really get Bubba out of my mind.  One year, we went to the doctor’s office, and Bubba wasn’t there anymore.  There was a new, circular tank filled with tiny fish.  I assumed he’d finally passed on, but no – the receptionist told me they’d given him up.  He’d gotten too big for the tank, and started eating the other fish!  She’d heard he was now living in a dentist’s office across town, under the name of ‘Blofeld.’

            After that, we lost track of him.  Fish, living or dead, are still sort of freaky to me, but I’ve never met a fish like that one. I have to assume he’s swimming in someone’s tank, somewhere. Or maybe he’s finally been flushed out to sea where he’ll get even bigger and start digging up something bigger.

            Last year when our cousin got married, she chose to decorate all the reception tables with a fishbowl in the center.  Inside each of them was one tiny yellow fish.  And floating on the top of the water were a number of freshly cut daisies.  Now I can’t help wondering if there’s some smaller version of Bubba left behind in one of those tanks.