Just a normal day working at the pet store, but then a man bursts through the doors, demanding a “one-finned” goldfish.
“Sir, can I help you?” you ask politely, your chipper customer service voice masking your confusion.
“I need a goldfish that has one fin,” he insists.
The man has thick black hair, an angular jaw, and intense eyes. He’s also covered in cuts and bruises, and is waving around something in front of your face. When you look closer, you can see he has scooped a dead goldfish into a cup of water, where it floats pathetically. It has one fin.
You sigh.
“Sir, this is a pet shop. We don’t specifically have any goldfish with just one fin. You’re welcome to look around, but if you don’t see any, then we don’t have any.”
You are already mentally counting down the hours left in your shift (five) before you can clock out and go home, maybe binge watch some television and get some sleep before you have to do it all over again. You consider yourself a good person, but you’re tired and burnt out on shitty customers and retail, and so you watch the man frantically look through every single fish in your store, and you do not try to help.
The man seems like he has realized what you already told him: that they’ve all got two fins. You brace yourself for what usually happens when customers don’t get their way. The man’s eyebrows are already drawing together as his face rearranges into a mask of anger and hurt. You brace yourself for the yelling, the threats.
Instead, he says quietly, to himself, “He’s gonna know. If I get a normal goldfish… everything’s gonna be ruined. I can’t-- I can’t do that to him. It’s not fair, when we already took so much.”
He is silent again, as if listening to a private conversation you cannot hear, then says, “But it does matter. He matters. I know you don’t think so, you’ve already said it a hundred times. But he’s worth protecting. I know he is."
One last pause, and then he says emphatically, "Maybe I can't keep it up forever, but I sure as hell am gonna try."
Then, the man turns to you, and though there is nothing soft or gentle in the way he looks, he carefully picks out a new goldfish after agonizing over the tank for a few minutes, and you ring it up.
“Here you go, sir,” you say, handing him his new goldfish and the receipt, which he accepts gracefully.
He even tips you, a crisp hundred dollar bill that you pocket. Now, you’re not saying the money makes you act a bit nicer to him, but…
“Would you like me to, uh-- take care of that?” you ask, nodding towards the cup with the dead goldfish in his other hand.
He looks at it and smiles.
“I’m fine. I have practice getting rid of dead bodies,” he says, which sounds like it should be a joke, but you get the sudden, unshakeable feeling that this man is not joking.
You smile at him uncertainly. When he meets your eyes, there is something both haunted and haunting in them, and you look away first. He leaves, and you are left staring back at the clock: four hours and thirty nine minutes left in your shift. You doubt you’ll ever see him again.