Medusa

My dad took on saltwater fish as a hobby when we lived in Denver’s Park Hill neighborhood, but he remained loyal to his fish shop even after we moved to the suburbs. Tropical Seas was a converted house on the south side of Colfax on the way to City Park. The upstairs was full of sunlight and indoor koi ponds and water lilies and the calming sound of bubbling water fountains. But we never lingered upstairs for very long, my dad always headed straight to the back stairs. Descending into the basement was like entering a different world -- a cold, dark, damp, freaky world. Stocked tanks were stacked floor to ceiling along multiple walls, the fluorescents and ultraviolets used to light them provided the only illumination in the basement and gave everything an eerie purplish glow. Schools of brightly colored fish were easily spooked and as soon as someone would approach them they would dart away from the glass en masse. On the counter near the cash register sat rows and rows of brandy snifters housing single Betas, kept in solitary confinement to keep them from ripping each other apart. That was all kid’s stuff. In the back room, beyond the exotic dolphin fish, past the stick-like salt water crabs, tucked away in a room with enormous tanks for enormous creatures is where she lived.

Medusa.

Medusa, the gigantic and ridiculously old eel, was Tropical Sea’s mascot for all intents and purposes. Everyone knew who she was. I couldn’t tell you how long she was exactly, but there was never a point where you could see her entire body. Wound around the rocks in her tank she could have gone on forever for all I knew. She was certainly thicker than my leg and I wasn’t a petite kid. Her skin looked like a boiled white sausage, and I imagined she smelled of meat and seaweed and dirt. Filmy eyes fixed in a stare at nothing in particular sat in sunken pockets on either side of her head. She had tiny cracked teeth that I could see when her mouth would fall open and slowly close, moved by the current of the filter no doubt. It gave her the appearance of a crazy old woman quietly talking to herself. If you squinted you could even make out a wig askew atop her head. She was definitely the oldest thing I’d ever seen, and I had a great grandmother who lived to 107 years-old mind you. I don’t remember being frightened of her, but in retrospect, how could I not have been? The image of her blindly mouthing words scares the crap out of me, she could have been casting evil spells for all I know. She was just so big and ancient and unlike anything I’d ever seen – like an alien stored in formaldehyde for observation. How could it have been anything but absolutely terrifying? Yet we visited her every time we were there. I was a lot braver as a kid than I turned out to be as an adult.

I’m not at all interested in eating fish or seafood of any kind. It’s kind of creeps me out. Okay, maybe the idea of lobster piques my interest but if I were to be completely honest I think it’s just the melted butter that sounds appealing. Of course, if I were to dip a hunk of human flesh in a cup of delicious melted butter I’m sure it would taste like wonderfully buttery chicken. I could do without the lobster, I just don’t dig on the seafood tip -- or human flesh for the record. No thanks to sushi or salmon or shrimp cocktail or even imitation crab for this girl. Why, when the rest of my family eats so normally? My brother is a chef for cripe’s sake. I never had a reason until this morning when the image of Medusa’s disturbing face flashed across my mind, completely unprovoked. The memory came out of nowhere as I was getting into my car and I felt a cold chill go up my spine. Could Medusa be working on my palate subconsciously after all these years? Could she be the source of my aversion to seafood? Could I finally have an answer to the question I seemed to be asked all the time, “what is wrong with you?” Now when offered fish I can just wave it off, “No, I can’t, there was a giant eel named Medusa when I was a kid – it’s a long story.”