Remarkably Bright Creatures(28)

Day 1,319 of My Captivity


I FOUND IT ON THE FLOOR NEAR THE PLACE WHERE she stores her things while she cleans. I should not have taken it, but I could not resist. There was something familiar about it.

After returning to my tank, I stashed it in my den along with everything else. There is one place, a pocket in the deepest cranny of the hollowed rock, that even the most thorough tank cleaners cannot reach. It is here that I bury my treasures.

What sort of treasures comprise my Collection, you ask? Well, where to begin? Three glass marbles, two plastic superheroes, one emerald solitaire ring. Four credit cards and a driver’s license. One jeweled barrette. One human tooth. Why that look of disgust? I did not remove it myself. The former owner wiggled it out on a school field trip then proceeded to lose track of it.

What else? Earrings—many single earrings, never a pair. Three bracelets. Two devices for which I do not know the human word. I suppose they are . . . plugs? Humans stick them in the orifices of their youngest children to quiet them.

My Collection has expanded considerably over the course of my captivity, and I have become choosier. In the early days, I had a great many coins, but these are commonplace now and I no longer pick them up unless they are different from the others. Foreign currency, as you humans call it.

I have come across many keys over the years, naturally. Keys have come to be in the same category as coins. As a general rule, I pass them over.

But, as I said, this particular key was oddly intriguing, and I knew I must take it, although I did not understand why it was special until later that night, as I ran the tip of my arm over its ridges. I had encountered this key before. Or, rather, one exactly like it.

I suppose, in that way, keys are not like fingerprints at all. Keys can be copied.

I held a copy of this one when I was very young. Before my capture. It was attached to a circular ring at the bottom of the sea, nestled within a trove of what could only be described as leftover human. Not bones and flesh, of course, as those never last long, but rather a rubber sneaker sole, a vinyl shoelace. Several plastic buttons, as from a shirt. Swept together under a clump of rocks and preserved there. It must belong to the one she mourns.

Such are the secrets the sea holds. What I would not give to explore them again. If I could go back in time, I would collect all of it—the sneaker sole, the shoelace, the buttons, and the twin key. I would give it all to her.

I am sorry for her loss. Returning this key is the least I can do.





Not a Movie Star, But Maybe a Pirate


At nine in the morning, Cameron pulls on the front door of Dell’s Saloon, half expecting to find it locked. But the door swings wide open. He blinks, adjusting to the dim light.

Old Al, the bartender, pokes his head out from the back. “Cameron,” he says, sounding mildly surprised. His thick voice is like something out of a mob movie, so Italian and Brooklyn that it sounds almost comical here in central California.

“Hey, man.” Cameron slides onto one of the stools. In the back corner, covered right now in stacked liquor crates, is the tiny stage where Moth Sausage plays. Used to play, that is, before Brad went and blew up the band. An ancient radio sits on the rail next to the pool table, its crooked antenna aimed at the bar’s only grungy window. Talk radio blares, a man and a woman going at it, arguing about interest rates and the federal reserve or some other boring shit.

“The usual?” Old Al tosses a cocktail napkin down on the bar.

“Nah, that’s not why I’m here.” Cameron clears his throat. “I’ve got a proposal for you. A real estate proposal.”

Old Al leans on the bar sink and folds his arms, lifting a brow.

“That apartment upstairs?” Cameron sits up straighter. “The vacant one?”

“What about it?”

“I want to rent it. I’ve worked it all out. I’ll be able to get first month’s rent by next week, and—”

Old Al holds up a hand. “Stop, Cam. I ain’t interested.”

“But you haven’t heard the rest!”

“I ain’t interested in becoming a landlord.”

“You don’t have to be a landlord! I’ll . . . lord myself. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Ain’t interested.”

“But no one’s living there!”

“I like it that way.”

“How much do you want for it?” Cameron pulls the black drawstring bag from the pocket of his hoodie and dumps the jewelry on the bar. “I can pay. See?”

Old Al’s gaze lingers on the heap of tangled jewels for a moment, then he shakes his head as he picks up a gray rag from the sink. “What’d you do, rob an old folks’ home?”

Cameron huffs. “I just need a place for a couple of months. Please?”

“Sorry, kiddo.”

“Come on, Al. You know I’m good for it.”

“Let’s get real, Cameron. I could write the next great American novel on the back of your tab here. And you still haven’t paid me back for that table you broke last year when you pulled that little stunt. Hurling yourself from the stage.”

Cameron winces. “That was performance art.”

“It was vandalism, which I graciously forgave, because people seem to enjoy that noise you play, and because your aunt’s a good friend. But I’ve got my limits. Look, you can’t spit ten feet in this town without hitting a dumpy little apartment building. Why don’t you take your family jewels to one of them?”