The computer keyboard lie soaked on the barista’s desk. Scales lined
the keys. The key of C scaled through the 1970's, wood-grained, stereo speakers—Cole’s piano. Startled
by the scene having just keyed into his apartment, the barista dropped his gig bag, plopped onto his new desk chair,
rubbed his eyes and read the open letter on the computer screen:
Landlubbers!!!
I’ve
been kidnapped! Again! Save me! Get me a bigger tank! And more food while you's at it! And not that “optimal growth formula” bottom feed! I am not a science
experiment!
I’ve
lost all track of time. Somehow I ended up in the barista’s apartment—but I
much preferred Leon’s basement. Of course le Harbor Bungalow Café—after Leon found that heavenly lake-of-a-tank, was the salt of the water—But now that tank lays unused in
this sucker’s kitchen! Then he either wrapped this smaller tank with Christmas lights or
dropped acid in my water; I haven’t quite got it figured. Either way,
hearing him croon about warm beer and cold women, and stinky ‘ho, is downright abrasive.
But Philip Cole? Now that cat can play!
Serenity!—Wisp
me away to shining seas of tilapia schools! Anywhere but here! I’ll do
anything! Even…even…Wean me on harbor water! I should be wondering when the next
tide is coming ashore, not wondering why the barista needs to dry his hair so many
times a day.
Affinity,
Mister
Fishy
—and
that’s another thing. This whole dyslexia-as-clever whaleshit has got to
end. Pey-pey named me and if the barista thinks I’d be insulted because I
share the name with a human-run company that hunts and sells my cousins for
dinner, he’s wrong!
