Guppy
Every perfect detail was twisted into an irrecoverable knot. The buoyant yacht bobbed expectantly toward legend status among the smaller and less significant vessels. Solemn saline breezes eased woozy consciences, as they turned over millions of gallons of the Caribbean seascape. Dirty gulls circled above in ecstasy, screeching from the scent of the chum they knew soon would fly. Properly attired guests nibbled sweet morsels from exotic kitchens on the bright deck below. From the florescent orange polypropylene rope above, dangled Henry.
He could hear the ravenous people talking. Sometimes a burst of drunken laughter would slice through the gurgling murmur, breaking his brow into a clear and twisted rivulet of dripping painful juice. Glasses clinked, and fine china clanked, and once even broke with a CRASH! Henry found this to be a bit much on the nerves, given the situation. He had swung for too long.
Meditation on a distant solace diminished his terror, coming to realize his approaching fate. Reflection off the white gloss deck below demanded his squinting eyes draw deep into his cavernous skull. The corrugated miles splashed mild seas upon the vessel, drowning out the gulls, and reducing the vultures below to a hum.
This was the first time Henry had ever been to the West Indies. In fact. Henry only left Ohio once. He took his family to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for two weeks. His daughter loved the camping, fishing for trout, and she saw a moose up close. She had the best time of her life, or so she said on several occasions. He thought her desire to go back was only second to his. It was such a wonderful break from the tasteless rat races they were bound to through birthright.
Toledo had run its course on the man. For twenty years he worked in a steel plant near Lake Erie. Long hours and tiring work had left him with little more than his wife, daughter, small suburban home and family car. Little more, that is than acute lung cancer. He blamed himself for smoking, but had a hunch that his second home played a supporting role in the tragedy.
He often hearing the doctor's voice reverberate professional sentiments through the clanging factory, and into his brain, "You cannot beat cancer."
There was little hope for survival, and treatment would be an expense that was not an option. His daughter, Marcy, was getting ready to graduate from high school, and his wife Debbie held only menial clerical jobs. Marcy wanted to go to college, and Debbie’s arthritic hands were slowing quickly. Henry sat on his porch swing and stared for hours on end through the green bug screen, and into the bleakness of his ominous situation. His vision for the future was flowing toward an obligatory cul de sac- very much at the end of his rope. Much in the way he was now, hanging from the harness in which he floated above the endless sub-tropical salt pool.
Henry looked ahead to the horizon, being sickened by the increasingly cantankerous hoard below. The sun glimmered madly above the soft blue sea, reminding him of Lake Superior. This sea was much warmer, he’d been told. The gulls swooped near to his straps and lanyard, sqawking as if to imitate the suits and sundresses below.
High society. Henry stared down with a morbid grin. A guppy like me stands little chance. He panned the deck, rotating slowly one way, and then unwinding in the opposite direction around his self-tied noose. The railings outlined a series of silver steps that glimmered and rose, leaving a trail of brilliance on his sight. It was a million dollars in diamonds.
The decision was not an easy one, although not as difficult as one might think. He was gaining moribund velocity daily, painfully, and without hope. It was a matter of how to leave the world that had given him a beautiful wife and daughter. How could he thank the world for Marcy and Debbie? They were everything; all that had been bright and beautiful. True, everyone goes through sore times. Even those seemed wonderful now to Henry.
Filling out paperwork for a funeral, he became distraught. This was expensive! The novelty might help his family gain closure, but their feeble pending state still existed. They would have a headstone, or an urn. He thought desperately. None of this was practical. They should use the money for something important instead.
He gloomed around the house, flipping channels on his television set, but not really watching. It was late, the girls were asleep, and Henry flipped from commercial, to war movie, to commercial. If he had been a soldier, the United States tax payers would pay for his funeral. What if, what if. He flipped from sit-com re-run to commercial to-This is it! National Geographic, sharks! The men wearing black wetsuits in cages dumped pounds of flesh into the bellies of these massive beasts. How could it be more practical? The recycling of life. He would donate his body to mother nature.
The steel mill blew caustic fumes to the exhausting fans mounted on every exterior wall. He walked along the wall toward the time clock. As he passed various working sites his mind grew dim. He had a decent, modest life insurance arrangement through work. He passed several warning signs, electrocution, pinch point, moving parts. His mind began to work.
There would be insurance inquiries. What if they found him out? He’d lose his last in vain. There were already medical documents proving fatal.
Planning his venture required taking a day off work. It wasn't such a bad idea since his body needed a rest from the plant anyway. His lungs had been pounding fairly hard all week. He packed up his family and headed south- Sea World! His wife and daughter were glad that Henry decided to take the trip. They knew how poor his health was, and wanted to spend some quality time together. Maybe an amusement park could cheer them up. Although, it was peculiar for Henry to choose one.
Upon entering the aquatic park, they steered busily through tourists and elementary class field trips. Games of skill and luck lined every tributary as they navigated past rock candy and elephant ears. Henry found an excuse for a separation from the women, and made haste toward the shark tank.
He spoke first to the underpaid college biology student, and then via proper channels met Davis Cooney, Sharkman.
"This is highly unusual sir," the young man declared.
"As you can see, my state is quite grave. My daughter and wife don't need to be paying for my funeral." Henry scanned the marine biologist's comfortable office. A stained wooden hammerhead shark pen holder adorned Davis' disheveled desktop. Behind which, the slick black hair and oxford smiled strangely, with everything good, as would the only man in a desert village possessing water.
"We really don't want to let these animals get a taste for human flesh." Davis Cooney was a professional Sharkman, but his heart went out to Henry. Anyway, he thought, anyone caught near a shark is out of luck anyway. God taking out the garbage.
“How about that then!” Henry was exited. “An accident.”
“Then a lawsuit,” Davis retorted. He was in charge on account of his prudence.
Davis had never been exposed to such financial hardships. His family owned one of the biggest shipping companies in Florida, as well as plush vacation resorts throughout the islands. His profession was merely a hobby, as he had grown up with a love for the sea. He was Sharkman.
His family's business prowess did not skip his generation, however. He possessed the skills necessary to capitalize on American resources, as do most affluent sons. This was the challenge he had been born for. He could ease his somewhat troubled conscience through charity, and use his position in life to gain the recognition many young men desire.
His life ambition was to become renown for his work with sharks. He hadn't, however, anticipated this awkward device for such success. There would be a few minor details to work out.
The legality of euthanasia wasn't important, unless the press discovered the plot. The secrecy with which this must be carried out, Henry would agree to. If the money wouldn't silence him, the grotesque nature of the suicide in the face of his family would have to. Who would want his daughter to be known as 'the girl whose dad killed himself by being mauled to death by sharks?' The whole thing would be explained with special effects for long enough to delay an investigation. And these were after all, International waters.
"One million?" Henry answered in disbelief. "Who the hell is going to pay a million to see that?" He already made up his mind.
There was nothing to think about. It was the least he could do.
"Leave that to me," Davis responded confidently. He had already made arrangements. In a country whose citizens feed ravenously from television based upon the destruction of others, the people were not hard to find. Think of it as the ultimate reality show, he'd say with a sly grin to his over-privileged comrades.
Suspended above the crowd. Henry went over all of the arrangements he'd settled over the past few weeks. The million dollars was divided between mutual funds, and a Cayman bank account in his daughter's name (no death tax). He said farewell to co-workers (who knew he was retiring, they just didn't know with what gravity!). He even performed an oil change on the girls' cars. That ought to get them a few thousand miles down the road, he thought.
He said goodbye to his wife and daughter, under the guise of seeking an experimental operation. He had to go alone. Many tears were lost the last night, but Henry was satisfied and even overjoyed at his fortunate turn of events.
If you're reading this, the operation was not successful. I love you both with all of my heart, and will always be with you. I want you to check our safe for a checkbook. My funeral arrangements are complete, and must remain a secret, so keep this letter, photos, and memories for me. love-
Husband
Father
Henry
The money will go a long way, he thought, all the way. Won't they be surprised to find that checkbook!
"I love you Daddy." she said the night he left. Marcy was very sweet.
Henry wore only bright red shorts and a red floatation ring around his waist. The line was lowered slowly, and through the deafening pangs in his chest Henry began to discern some of the conversations belonging to the party guests. "This is only the beginning; inmates, depressed teens, you name it!"; "This is definitely the finest cruise I've ever been on"; "What fantastic brandy." Henry descended for what seemed as hours. Then he heard the public address system. It was Davis Cooney on the microphone.
"Welcome ladies and gentlemen. I hope you're enjoying your stay, thus far. Dinner will be served between seven and ten in the rear galley. Tonight we have a delicious Lobster Bisque; followed by linguini in a delicate alfredo sauce; followed by a tender filet, specially prepared by the Caribbean's finest chef, Gaston; along with Alaskan King Crab, which I might mention is now officially in season!"
The crowd seemed delighted by the menu, as a round of mmmmm's and aaaaahhhh's rose up from the teaming deck.
Davis continued in a slightly graver tone, "First however, we will be pleased to offer you quite an unusual entertainment. The gentleman suspended above the deck is the first ever participant in “The Shark's Fury”!" this demanding even louder sighs of pleasure from the patrons as they stared expectantly toward the heavens.
"Below to my left," Davis continued, "you'll notice a school of Tiger Sharks near the stern. These are the most evolved of all fish. They are unique in their capacity for feeding. Virtual killing machines. Tremendous power and speed. You all may be interested to know, this is being broadcast via internet, as will DVDs be available prior to the conclusion of your stay."
As if Davis' voice was a crack of thunder, the crowd was silent at its termination. The cessation of his speech seemed anti-climactic to Henry, who felt he deserved a bit more, being his funeral and all. The silence was broken by the sound of the chum slapping the sea off the starboard side. It was haphazardly dropped two stories by a blood stained servant. As the grizzly winch operator swung Henry down to the elevation of the deck, he was met by Davis Cooney at the center of a semi-circle of smiling guests.
"This probably isn't necessary, but a contract is a contract," Davis acknowledged, drawing a long filet knife from its sheath.
"I admire your courage Henry, your family will thank you," he continued, slicing thin lines from Henry's wrists to the inside of his elbows. Before blood started running from his veins, Davis swung Henry out, away from the deck side, away from any scarlet spray that would make its place known upon his white captain's uniform.
"Give us a struggle old boy. Go down fighting!" were Davis' last words. Gentle ruby brooks trickled from Henry's limp fingertips into the warm salt water.
The mortal tackle descended. Henry caught the eye of a sympathetic waitress staring at him through a porthole, from the depths of haughty pride and awe surrounding her. Her small brown pupils oozed droplets of water, as she ignored an old man's drink order. Henry knew that Marcy wouldn't ever have to serve these people.
The winch operator exhaled with a slow, emphatic whistle, letting Henry know his relief at not being in that particular predicament.
Henry thought about Lake Superior. He took Marcy fishing, even though girls don't always like to. They fished for hours, while Debbie read a book. Marcy loved it, or maybe pretended to for her Dad's sake. How strange, he thought, I'm a lure. He thought about the squirming worms and minnows they had used as the rope unraveled past the last of the portholes above water.
Lake Superior is much colder, he kept telling himself.
It was working. Sharks were teaming below Henry, amidst crimson clouds and chunks of fish entrails. Television crews were positioned in steel cages several yards from the projected impact point. He saw flashes, and imagined they were testing, testing. Sharks ran their scarred snouts rigorously between the metal bars, trying for a live one.
“Don’t get too close to edge, folks!” Davis Cooney commanded from above.
Henry looked up; the starboard side was lined with spectators oozing over the chrome parapet, waiting for the desperate screams of extreme anguish. He looked down, beyond the blood-lined surface; he could see people pointing at him from submarine windows. He assumed these were the more expensive seats.
Henry's chest was nagging, and evil as he let out one final cough of stagnant death. His arms were warm with liquid life. This will only take a minute; it was only a matter of time and death. Henry thought, either quick or slow. Oh Marcy! He thought.
He had beat cancer after all.
