The Day After

Draft 2

I turned the key and pushed the door open with a weary shoulder, flecks of sleep crumbling from my eye lashes into sore eyes. It was too early to be awake. I was met at the door by reliable and familiar sounds: the clanging of the bell against the glass door behind me, the clamoring of agitated birds, flipping of cedar shavings, howling barks, and stern squawks. The animals heard my movements and the cacophony began.
Someone’s here…

The stench of urine and slightly sweet smell of birds carried me from the door onto the stretch of tile floor into the back storage room which smelled of the store parrot’s messy slumber. I placed my sandwich in the fridge and spotted zucchini that waited to be diced. The iguanas must eat. Why do they have to eat such troublesome food?

The light of the shop looked different to me; a fluorescent bulb had burned out casting an atypical shadow over the looming saltwater tank displayed behind the cash register counter. It was its own universe, all its contents super-sized.

“How do you clean that thing? It’s huge!” customers would exclaim, pointing, their eyes tracing it from top to bottom, side to side, keeping the slow rhythm with the lazy swim of fish the colors of neon: a graceful Disney-faced Puffer, flirty Clownfish, and deadly Lion Fish who lived there. With the bulb out it radiated an eerie glow.

“I don’t clean it, Ma’am. We have guys here who do that.”

Something stuck in my throat; it felt dry, as did the roof of my mouth. I realized my hand was still inside the iguana tank and one of them was making his way up my wrist. With force, I flung him off and his small, wiry body hit the glass. That was mean. I didn’t feel gentle today. I just needed to get the job done: open shop, last the day, and go home.

It was odd to open the shop alone but to feel crowded while doing it. Living things peeked out with expectant eyes at every turn. The bowing up of a distracted snake or exotic lizard would thrash out of nowhere from homes that were too flimsy. One time while taking store inventory, along with a product count, we had to count all the animals in the shop, including fish that were in constant motion. We came up with the number of about 210, and this morning they were all rising to the tops of their tanks beckoning like baby birds for me to sprinkle their morning feast down for them. I stared at them blankly. Today I could not feel compassionate toward them, or toward anything in the store.
They began to blur and morph into shapelessness and I fell hypnotized by the hum of the aquarium filters.

A scroungy bark complained that I had not yet made my way to his corner, and I realized that I needed to feed and clean the pups and kittens. The growls, chirps and scratching sounds of the animals played their normal orchestra, but I was far away. How could they open the store today? It’s offensive. And this headache must go away. I cannot get through the day with this headache.

I opened the cage where the scruffy white wire-hair terrier who wasn’t selling greeted me with over-enthusiasm, such enthusiasm that he knocked over his water bowl, making a wet mess of my white tee-shirt. At almost three months now, he was beginning to outgrow the cage. I pitied him and would often let him run around the store as I cleaned to allow him a break from the confinement. He and I had become friends. I set him down where he took off immediately toward the kittens’ cage, interrupting their calm vigil. They hissed and Terrier gnashed his teeth. Havoc ensued: screeching, squawking, the whipping of wings, of tails; the kittens growled and Terrier did the only thing he knew to do in response to all of the frenzy. He peed on the floor.

“No!” I scolded. He took off in a sprint as if a reaction from me was a playful invitation. “Damn you, I said no!” I jerked him up by the scruff and glared into his eyes. He let out a yelp of hurt from my squeeze. My glare turned into shame. I held him to my chest, his rough coat like a coarse rug pressed under my chin. I will not cry. I have to open this shop in thirty minutes. I will not lose control.

Still facing me were the tasks of cleaning bird cages, sweeping away the piles of birdseed, changing sandy litter pans, feeding the fish, scooping deads. The dead fish must be disposed of, every day. First thing. Never open the store to customers without having scooped the dead.

I felt sick. The space around me began to shrink and look dreamlike. I made my way to where there was a small sink and a counter reserved for bagging fish for customers. It was cleared so that room had been made available for leisure.

Upon it sat two empty Coke cans, the tabs pulled off, and a pile of empty boiled peanut shells. Our peanut shells. I hugged my shoulders. Fell to my knees. The sobs came, like
choking. The animals shrilled, shaken and unprepared. Even they had never heard such a sound, guttural and primal, like their own shrieks when injured.

I could eat these things all day, mmmm, mmmmm!
Please – stay here and do that. Don’t leave.
I peeled and popped another peanut into my mouth. It’s nice we’re slow on customers. I never get time alone with just you. Even as you downed your Coke, traded cigarette for mouthful of peanuts, you were handsome. I pretended that your four years ahead of me and experience beyond mine didn’t matter. You had better things to do than finish cleaning a pet shop with a girl of sixteen who’d only been kissed a few times. Your work was done.
I watched you leave, yearning.

Smearing away the tears with my index finger, collecting myself, breathing again. I approached the shells and empty cans and weakly re-composed. The last minutes of this place, where he had been as permanent a fixture as the displayed words PET SHOP above the entrance, belonged only to me. My grief turned into a flicker of gratitude: the pebble of strength that I needed to make it through the day. I slipped a peanut shell into my pocket and felt its salt still fresh inside my fingers. I pulled down the string to light up the sign: Open. The customers were waiting.