Killer Koi

golden crest
photo by la femme jen.

It was an early morning in 1973 when my father lost his leg to a killer koi. He was wading the koi ponds of Mr. Ellison’s estate, famed breeder of championship koi, harbringer of designer breeding in that ancient though clandestine field of koi-anetics. My father was the head koi-handler, scattering specially formulated fish pellets into the water, wading among the water lilies when the following events unfolded.

The groundskeepers were setting the sprinklers and trimming the hedges that early fateful morning. According to witness testimony, the estate was alive with birdsong, a light breeze stirred the magnolias, when suddenly an eerie stillness settled over the grounds. One groundskeeper recalled looking up from his work to see my father wading obliviously through the sparkling pools, then look over his left shoulder in the moment before the attack.

The first strike was a single violent pull on his heal, bringing my father bolt upright, like the first tug on a fishing bobber. Then, a single moment of shock and disbelief, followed by a violent thrashing that lifted him off his feet and submerged him in the shallow pool.

The groundscrew cried out, dropping hedgeclippers and pruners to come running to the waters edge. In the roiling water the head groundskeeper recalls seeing the flash of gold, white and black of the killer koi, and the flailing arms of my father. The koi had spun in a twisting motion, like an alligator roll, twisting off my father’s leg at the knee. By reaching out across the water with the handle of a rake, the groundscrew were able to pull my father out of the bloodied water to the safety of shore.

Panic ensued. Ambulence sirens. Crime photographers. A special committee from the American Koi Society (AKS). Although I was only a child, I remember staying at my father’s side throughout the night in the hospital. Perhaps it was because my father knew those fish better than his own childen that he had foreseen one of them rising up to claim his leg someday. From his hospital bed, through the haze of painkillers and delirium I heard him cry out, “Diablo Wasabi! Diablo Wasabi!”

How could I forget the koi of which he spoke? He always paddled at the waters surface with his head and eyes peeking above the water line, watching me, unblinking, the school of fish giving him a wide burth. Have you ever seen the eyes of a koi? Black, lifeless eyes. A doll’s eyes.

Mr. Ellison posted a $10,000 reward to capture the killer koi. A mob converged on the ponds of the estate. Half of the school was obliterated, captured in nets, stunned by underwater explosives, snagged by children with Snoopy fishing poles, and yet Diablo Wasabi eluded them all. Among the crowds of fishermen, ichthyologists, and media hobbled my father, a crutch in one hand and a gaff in the other.

The crowds parted, forming a corrider towards pond. As my father went into the water, the head groundskeeper clutched me to his chest so I would not witness the fight, but I heard the slow even wading of my father suddenly broken with fierce splashing, gasps from the crowd, and then a wet thud on the ground. I turned to see Diablo Wasabi flopping on shore, the sun glinting off the wet scales of gold and black. How small he seemed on the grass, yanked from his element, gills laboring in the open air. My father sat on the grass ten yards away, the bloodied gaff still clutched in one hand while rubbing the stump of his leg with the other. We all watched the killer koi take his last breaths and felt the same dissatisfaction my father must have felt, the futility of one more dead fish, the emptiness of revenge.

The Solitarian

Solitary contemplation
photo by dinobirdo.

Why is it that the stories I like writing most are of tormented, solitary souls holed up in a slummy apartment, working at some inconsequential though personally critical task? Why do they all struggle with obsessive thoughts and delusions? Why is it that I like characters who inhabit the same space but don’t know how to communicate with each other? The closest they ever come are monologs recited for the other’s benefit. My version of plot development is when the guy moves from a rocking chair to the front step. Maybe he gets up one morning and stands baffled on the edge of a river, a hand to his forehead, trying to remember if it was flowing the other direction yesterday.

In Search of Distraction

I go through phases where I want to lose myself in something. Love or books or writing or a video game. I don’t know who to love, but I’m loving the book Kite Runner. I’m starting to get into writing again, and the experience of writing at dusk while listening to creepy atmospheric soundtracks. The video games that tempt me are Everquest, WarCraft, Silent Hill, or Might and Magic. I lean towards Might and Magic because I can play it alone. I’m so shy that even playing a multi-person role playing game, especially one with Massive in the acronym like MMORPG, makes be afraid. Should I really start up any of these games, though? I am the personality type that will become obsessed, that will forget about work and relationships so that I won’t be distracted from the game, and every minute of gameplay will be tainted with guilt because I know the truth of it: I am wasting my time.

Ah screw it, where's the CD.

Lady of the Lake

The Pharmacist was watering the plants on her balcony when she looked down and had this odd flash in her head, a disturbing image of a woman trapped under water. Was she dead? Was it a premonition of a woman drowning?

She looked closer; through the balcony slats she saw it was just a new table purchased by the skinny man with the pot belly that lived below her, a tacky table to go with his Target canvas foldout camping chair. The glass top was covered with overspray from watering her plants. But the image stayed with her throughout the day, especially the water beaded on the glass. Much to the chagrin of her neighbor, she continued to over-water her plants, hoping one day to figure out why this image stuck with her, this discount store Lady of the Lake.

What I Wish I Was Doing

Grill Smoke
photo by Brian Teutsch.

I know her name now. The sultry tall woman at the coffee gallery who reminds me of Katie Homes in “Wonder Boys” is named Lindsay. Nice to meet you Lindsay, I’m Brett. It’s pretty dead here on a Saturday, huh? Yeah, she says, and really boring. We exchange Nice-to-Meet-You’s and I walk just as casually as can be to my table without sprawling into any chairs.

It is dull here. I watch traffic pass by the plate glass windows. It’s like I’m sitting on the curb, but protected from the noise and heat and exhaust fumes. Instead I hear classical music from speakers behind the counter. I hear keys tapping under my fingers, the scrape of wooden chairs across wide cedar plank floors, the clank of the cash register sliding open. Coins jingle in Lindsay’s palm and then drop into plastic trays, the coins I tipped her moments ago when I should have tipped paper bills. Too late to run back now.

Lindsay must be wondering why I am hanging around this boring place when I could be anywhere. If I could be anywhere or with anyone, where would I want to be? Sitting out on the banks of the Mississippi watching my dog swim. At home watching World Cup Soccer. Reading books all day on a park bench. What I’d really like to be doing is hanging out in the back yard of a friend’s house while he’s standing over a smoking grill. I’ve got a beer in my hand, and I’m doing some sort of trick to make his kids laugh. I’m talking to his wife about my latest dating follies, and she’s telling me about cute friends of hers that she’d like me to meet but I politely decline. Maybe he’s grilling salmon steaks and asparagus, and there’s fruit tart for desert that I bought at the Café Latte in Saint Paul. We play Spanish music from a CD I bought at a concert at the Cedar Cultural Center the week before, where I’d taken a woman out on a date. We danced at the back of the crowd, lost ourselves in the music and the buzz from the Corona’s, then went back to my place and lay on cool white sheets lit only by the city lights filtering in from the window. I’m thinking of this now while my buddy is talking about the Twins ore something I don’t really care about as he turns the salmon steaks. After we eat we light a fire in the fire-pit and show his kids how to roast marshmallows just right, toasty brown and melty. I go home around ten and find my dog jumping on the front door, excited for his nightly walk.