Linda McMullen

Lionfish

by: Linda McMullen

Bonnie existed in a one-bedroom apartment containing an arm-span kitchen, a bath, a futon, and a medium-sized aquarium for a lionfish called Zelda. The pet store alleged that Zelda had descended directly from the Noah-and-his-wife lionfish pair putatively released into the Atlantic wilds by Hurricane Andrew. “You’re doing Mother Nature a favor; there’re just too many of them in the ecosystem,” the pet store woman had said, her lip curling with the satisfaction of her own good deed. “Lovely creatures – very few natural predators – but…” Bonnie had said, “I’ll take her.” And she had brought Zelda home to her $550-a-month cocoon/cell. Now, she sank into her futon’s wheezing mattress, gripping a pre-printed form letter, unable to coax the words into a coherent message. ***

Bonnie’s mother had been a patient and experienced aquarist, but the Lord had taken her home far earlier than Bonnie had anticipated. Her father had inducted her into his mechanic shop’s secret order at the age of eleven. Billy and Jim and Tommy, in their grease-tinted coveralls, tolerated her smoking and cussing with them because she could change a tire as fast as any of them, and handed them her tips when she finished an oil change. When her father had hollered that he would never need a girl in his shop, and the limp strands of her graduation tassel on her rearview mirror crusted together, Bonnie chose the restless Billy and his Fender, and followed him west.

His band, Cloud Failure, billed itself as an indie-rock-folk mélange. The boys carved out gigs in Milwaukee’s and Madison’s plentiful bars before moving up to small “venues” across the upper Midwest. (And ascending into the ether of free drinks, a ponytail-and-crop-top retinue, and Ziploc bags passed furtively from hand to hand.) In exchange for a permanent backstage pass and a bed, Bonnie managed the band’s outside-the-ledger affairs. She did consider, at that time, researching more remunerative employment, but went cold at the thought of translating her responsibilities into a resumé. She tried, once, to put her duties into words: she (accidentally) ran her scattered thoughts through a satirical corporate language translator online:

∙ moderated the amorphous and fluctuating Venn diagram of collaboration, rivalry, and resentment among five individually aggrieved

members of a collectively successful band. But the bullet made her shudder. And then Pete and Billy got into a furnitureshattering disagreement over the bass line of their proto-song. And Joe stood shrinking from a young woman wielding a Clearblue test like a rapier. The upscale venue’s assistant stage manager interrupted: “One hour.” Cloud Failure witnessed a slow descent toward fifteen-person concerts in the park in a steady drizzle, with only seeds and stems for consolation. By then Billy and Pete had abandoned everything but the slimmest veneer of civility, Ian drank fifths for breakfast, Zeke had cast off all conversation in favor of meditation, and, finally, Joe announced he wanted to leave to “step up and be a dad.” And a few days later she discovered Billy had exchanged her for a redhead with a belly-button ring. She had not smashed any of his guitars. Or shouted. Her mind had flown to the time she’d happily discovered that “The Jerk” was about to start on Channel 4 – she’d grabbed a bag of chips and a soda and hustled back to the sofa – only to discover that they’d bleeped all the funny parts. She had turned off the TV, sat in silence for a moment, contemplated her disappointment. Then she ran the vacuum. So: a deposit, a cashiering job at a big-box office supply store, and a maroon-and-white striped companion.

Bonnie turned on the TV. QVC, more bad news, reruns of Seinfeld. She poured herself a glass of wine – out of a $6 bottle from Aldi. She picked up the paper again. The blandly reassuring, sanitized, lawyer-approved, life-razing letter. Apparently, the big box store anticipated completing its transition to self-checkout within three months. As a goodwill gesture, the store planned to offer one week of salary for each year of service with the company...

Bonnie, at the nine-month mark, doubted this applied to her. …and noted that employees attempting to transition to floor sales would be given priority in hiring. She shook her head. No quotas, no pressure… no dice. She drifted downstairs to Mrs. Murphy’s apartment, and asked if she could have the want ads when Mrs. Murphy had finished. Back in her apartment, the G section of the Post securely under her arm, Bonnie retrieved her highlighter from the junk drawer, and fed Zelda.

Bonnie looked up, watched the lionfish paddle unperturbedly around her tank. With a small smile, she circled a promising advertisement in bright yellow.

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