It’s a good question.
Ten minutes later, the aquarium personnel form is done, and as he deposits the paper on Terry’s desk, he remembers he was supposed to copy his license, too. The dusty photocopier in the corner of Terry’s office sounds like a spaceship taking off as it comes to life with a series of buzzes and beeps. Cameron helps himself to one of the mints from the little jar on Terry’s desk as he waits.
When the machine is finally ready, he puts his card on the glass and presses the big green button. Which apparently triggers a series of beeping alarms.
Paper Jam in Drawer C, Cameron reads on the tiny screen. He squats down and squints at the drawers. There are only two: A and B.
Impossible.
He opens every tab, drawer, and door he can find, but there is no Drawer C nor any whiff of a jammed paper anywhere. He jabs the green button again, but the screen just blinks the same message. Turns the whole thing off, then on again, three times. It will not relent on its insistence that there is something stuck in this nonexistent drawer.
“Designed by idiots,” he mutters, plucking his driver’s license from the glass and switching the machine off for good.
With a shrug, he drops his license on top of the forms on Terry’s desk. He can get it back tomorrow night.
Day 1,352 of My Captivity
OH, I DO ENJOY KEEPING THE BOY ON HIS TOES. PLEASE trust that I mean no harm. Quite the opposite. Some humans require this for their own good, to be challenged. I can relate. My brain is a powerful device, but it is hampered by my circumstances, and he is much the same.
Of course, I want him to have a happy ending. Tova as well. It is, you might say, my dying wish.
Anyway, on to tonight’s topic, which is paperwork. Humans and paperwork: such waste. If their memories were not so deficient, perhaps they would not need so many written records.
But tonight, I have paperwork to thank.
The rope he installed on my tank was no obstacle. When the time came, after he had finished cleaning and departed, I unfastened the knot and lifted the lid in quite the same manner as I always do. Should I be insulted by his underestimation of my abilities?
The route to Terry’s office was rife with temptation, but The Consequences come on ever more quickly these days, so I forsook every tempting mollusk on the way. The Pacific geoduck clam exhibit looked especially ripe for the picking tonight. The humans call them gooey ducks, but their texture is pleasantly firm.
But no gooey ducks tonight. I had more important plans. And to be honest, my appetite is rather poor these days.
When I suckered up the side of Terry’s desk, I found the central object of my mission.
A driver’s license. Just like the one in my Collection. It states a human’s full name and date of birth.
As the seconds ticked by and The Consequences loomed, I carried the thin plastic card down the hallway. By the time I arrived at my destination, I had already begun to feel terribly weak. With effort, I tucked it under the tail of the sea lion statue.
My return journey was slow and difficult. More than once, as I heaved my heavy body along the cement hallway, I pondered the possibility that I might perish. Right then, right there. Never to taste a scallop again. Never to feel my arms sucker onto the cool glass, to taste that humanity on the inside of her wrist, to touch, in turn, my Collection’s treasures. If I had died tonight, would this errand have been worth it?
Indeed.
Tova did not come tonight. She may not come tomorrow, but she will come. I am confident she will not leave without saying goodbye.
She will not be able to resist running her rag under the sea lion’s tail. She never can. She knows she is the only one who does.
When she does, she will see what I have left for her. And then she will know.
The Bad Check
Ethan splashes Laphroaig Single Malt over two ice cubes then settles onto his lumpish little sofa. Evening creeps into the living room, daylight draining from the front window in unhurried measures, as slow as the sips of whiskey disappearing from his lowball glass.
Cassmore.
That surname had been a bugger in his brain since the very first time Cameron introduced himself. He knows Cassmore, but from where? It wasn’t until he was brushing his teeth this morning when, out of nowhere, the memory popped into his head.
A bad check.
It was the sort of thing that happened with some frequency back in those days, back when check writing was still a common way to pay for groceries. You bounce a check, you get put up on the wall. Sometime in the ’90s, it must’ve been.
Ethan remembers the ancient, wrinkled slips tacked there, on the counter under the cash register, when he bought the Shop-Way. Bad checks from customers. A warning. Some of them had been there for years, such as this one in particular. The name Daphne Cassmore printed up in the corner atop the address block. The check was for some piddly amount. Six dollars and change.