Skip and the Catfish

by Chris Chapman

In a wood shack that rests on the shoulders of a lake a catfish flicks at the net curtain in front of her. The lake had once been her home but somehow she had ended up here, staring longingly at the lake and listening to Skip.

“I’m off, you can do what you want now,” concluded Skip, placing a plaid cap on his head. “Go jump back in and do those fishy things you used to do so well.”

“But what am I supposed to do with this?” she replied, indicating the body that sat below the fish bowl. The catfish circled pensively in the bowl that rested on the crown of her head. It was stabilised by a lip of skin, which grew up from the forehead to cover the bottom third of the bowl. On the top of the bowl sat a curly blonde wig out of the centre of which stood a snorkel to ensure the catfish could breathe.

“I thought you liked that dress,” answered Skip poking a cigarette between his tight lips. If that wasn’t enough of an answer for her, he ended the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders.

She gave a long shake of the head and said, “The body, not the clothes, forget the clothes.”

“Who cares? I don’t know. Teach it to swim.”

Skip picked up his holdall and rounded on the door. He paused to give one last look at the fish by the net curtains.

“But you gave me this, you loved me, all those years of play and then you found you loved me,” said the catfish tightening her hands into fists.

“For seven years I’d been fishing on this lake, didn’t do too bad either. There were plenty of others like you deep in that murk.”

He inhaled deeply and paused for a moment’s thought. “Although they weren’t quite like you were they? I’d netted every fish in that damn lake time and time again but never you. I don’t know how you avoided me for seven years but you did, even though you’d always show up, swooshing about ever so close to the surface. Just close enough to tease me with a glimpse.”

“And you loved that, you loved me,” hissed the catfish. She lowered her head slightly and a dribble of water from the bowl ran down her cheek.

“You played me for a fool with your fishy little games, and in your fishy little world I probably was a fool. So I changed rod and bait to chocolates, flowers, soppy sentences. It was still fishing, though, Hon, it was still part of the sport. I gave you that body so we’d be on equal terms. Now it’s over and I won, I caught you and I’m tossing you back.”

Skip stubbed his cigarette on a nearby sideboard. He lifted his holdall with a grunt and left.