Seth Parham
Maybe Something Else
Me and my girlfriend-at-the-time were walking along a sliver of beach between the rocks when It came to us out of the ocean. I say my girlfriend-at-the-time because we are no longer together, although I guess we weren’t really together yet then. It was only our second date but our conversations were deep. We were very happy around each other. We bubbled and effervesced. We could feel that something was rising to the surface. That’s when It emerged from the ocean and looked straight at us.
It was vaguely human. Two arm-like things, two leg-like things, a sort of headish thing, the whole nine yards. It also had a dorsal fin and a soggy crest of feathers atop Its headish thing. Parts of It didn’t seem to work, as evidenced by the fact that It dragged Itself from the ocean like a toddler who has yet to discover the full potential of its appendages. Its large, watery eyes pleaded at us silently for a moment, then It spoke.
“Moooooother!” Its voice was reedy and goatish, and It pronounced the “moth” part of “mother” as “moth”, a flying insect that feasts on forgotten linens. It was looking directly at my girlfriend-at-the-time. She looked at me, then back at It, then back at me. It then also looked at me.
“Faaaaaaather!” It cried. The way It pronounced the word made it rhyme with “rather”. I looked at my girlfriend-at-the-time, then back at It, then back at her. We took It home.
We decided that It should stay at my place for the most part, but that it would be healthy for It to stay at hers on occasion. It was a very happy creature in the beginning. It mostly stayed in my bedroom, but sometimes It would drag Itself about the house and pester the cat. Every so often we would take It out to a bar. You know, to see and be seen.
It loved bars. We weren’t sure about letting It have beer at first. My girlfriend-at-the-time’s argument was that we had no idea how old It was. It could be a baby, very early in Its development. My argument was that It had crawled out of the ocean and very well could be older than the pyramids. She countered by saying that we didn’t have any clue what It was and that being older than the pyramids could still mean it was a baby. I loved her. We decided to let It decide for Itself.
It decided that It had a fondness for Pabst Blue Ribbon and nothing else. It would finish a bottle and blow across the mouth of it in little puffs to make music. Rhythmic, but tonally dull. Seeing the happy little critter puffing away on Its empty bottle like that usually inspired five or six kind souls at the bar to buy the three of us another round. This would degenerate very quickly until It would be giddily rolling around on the bar in a pile of pretzel crumbs. We would then take It home and lovingly tuck It into bed.
There were a few times when It appeared to be sick. It would curl up on Itself in the clothes hamper and sleep, or pretend to sleep, all day. During these times, my girlfriend-at-the-time would become very distant. I didn’t know what to do about It. I didn’t even know what It was and now something was wrong with It. I would bring It tea and chicken soup and Pabst Blue Ribbon but nothing seemed to help. Every time though, these funks would just disappear all of a sudden and It would be bouncing around the bedroom like It had just crawled out of the sea.
Sometimes we would let It play in the backyard, but It would inevitably get out, and hours later the doorbell would ring. When we would answer the door, there It would be, one arm-like thing around a happy stray dog.
“Another one?” one of us would ask It.
“BAAAAAAARRRRRDDDD!” It would reply.
“BOOOOOOOOOOWWWWW!” the dog would concur.
One day It went into one of Its funks. I did the usual, tea, chicken soup, Pabst, and as usual it didn’t work. To this day I am not sure why I kept trying that. It will get better on Its own, I told myself. It always does.
It didn’t. It crawled out of the hamper, sure, but It was never the same. It dragged itself around disinterestedly. It wouldn’t even bother lifting an arm-like thing to pester the cat.
One day It was sitting by the kitchen window as I was leaving for work. Its headish thing hung slightly as it looked out onto the street, Its shoulder-like corners slumped somewhat. I stood in the doorway, my heart breaking. A stray dog ran barking down the street. It reached up with an arm-like thing and pulled a cord. The mini-blinds came down and slowly eclipsed the view of the outside world, one side catching just above the bottom sill, leaving a triangle of light flooding in. It stared down at, but not out of, this triangle. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to work.
When I came home It was gone. There were signs of It everywhere. The indentation in the top of the hamper, Pabst bottles near the cat’s litter box, a long scratch in the hardwood floor where It once dragged Itself across a set of keys and kept going. But It Itself was not there anymore.
My girlfriend-at-the-time came over so that we could figure it all out. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” she kept saying. “It’s just gone.”
“I know. I know.” I said. “Maybe It will come back.”
She inhaled deeply. It was the kind of inhale that lets you know, because of the way the air went in, what words it will be when it comes out. “It’s not coming back.” she sighed.
That was a year or more ago. She was right. It’s not coming back. But I can’t help it. I still drink Pabst Blue Ribbon on laundry day. I still look just behind every running stray. I still wander the beach between the rocks and look at where the ocean meets the sand. If not It, then maybe something else.