Learning to Swim

Jane emerged from the clatter and hiss of the kitchen, tying her apron on over her diner-issued peach colored dress. She checked her make-up in the mirror at the waitresses station.

“He’s back again. Waitin’ for you in booth three,” Doris said without looking up from tallying her tips.

“Oh, cool.” Makes the shift a little more interesting,” Jane said.

Doris balanced her float, rubber banded the cash and receipts, and snuck past Jane as she spoke. “He’s all yours, honey. What you call interesting, the rest of us find unsettling. Have a good shift, kiddo.”

He waited quietly in booth three. As always, he had dressed well for his outing. An evening at the diner wasn’t really an event for most folk, but it was an occasion for him. Tonight he wore a button down shirt with a muted yellow and green checkerboard pattern, and topped it with a beige tweed sportscoat. Coupled with his chocolate brown corduroy pants, he looked almost professorial. Some might say drab and boring – almost invisible. But there is no need to dress flashily when you are the man with a fish for a head. His notebook was open to a new page, pencil freshly sharpened, his hands folded on the gray formica table. He faced the window, watching rain fall from the slate gray sky.

It had been raining for almost two weeks solid. A pounding, heavy rain that obscured vision, destroyed crops, and collapsed hillsides. The kind of rain that physically hurt if you got caught in it. The Billington Gazette reported several cases of small children and the elderly being admitted to the emergency room with patterns of tiny, round yellow and purple bruises. The citizens of Billington were uniformly pale, doughy and unhappy.

There were two sullen customers in the diner, lost in their private, damp fugues. Jane freshened their coffees before going to booth three. She sat on the edge of the bench opposite him, and the fish swam in rapid, happy circles in it’s three bolt brass diving helmet-turned-aquarium, bubbles streaming to the surface. “Well, hello to you, too. How have you been?”

The man with a fish for a head reached for the sharpened pencil. The fish swam to the front glass of the modified brass cranium, asserting its tail against the water to keep one eye on the notebook as he wrote. He printed carefully and quickly in the immaculate, practical style of an architect or engineer.
I am well, thank you. Keeping busy. How were your days off?

“Oh, OK I suppose. Weather wasn’t the best, and the kids were with their father. I just stayed in and drank cocoa, watching the rain come down.”

Best get used to the rain, he wrote, there’s more coming.

She smiled. “So, you’re the weatherman now? Y’know, you never have told me what you do for a living, mister.”

The fish swam in fidgety circles before returning to the front glass and writing a response.
Sometimes knowing is more important than doing. He wrote. From behind him, someone signaled Jane for their bill.

“Back in a minute,” Jane told him. “Same as last time, right? Half gallon of fresh filtered water?” He released a stream of bubbles and gave Jane a thumbs up as she headed for the till.

Humans, he mused. Are they worth the trouble? Obviously a few like Jane were, whether they knew it or not. Mostly not.

Physically unchanged for eons, the piscine went unnoticed by most. Nothing more than a food source. Or perhaps, for some of the prettier ones, pets. It had not occurred to scientists and philosophers of the last two centuries that their brains had become tiny not because of inactivity, but due to efficiencies. DNA had folded over on itself generation after generation until information became intuition, probability became possibility, and luck became instinct. If humans were not so damned egocentric, they could’ve realized that there was as much, or more, to be learned from the living as from the fossils.

He shrugged his slight, well dressed shoulders. Oh well. We have our priorities, and the rains have come. Action must be taken.

Jane returned with a picture of slightly cooler than room temperature water. “All right, my shiny-domed friend, time for a top-up.”

He slid to the end of the bench seat, careful to lift himself enough to not snag his pants on the ripped edges of red vinyl. Jane undid the four brass wing nuts holding the topmost valve of the helmet in place. She poured the water slowly, careful not to splash or spill, and replaced the top and screws, ensuring they were tight.

“And for desert,” she smiled and held up a bottle of Windex. He drew a large, perfect circle in the middle of the clean page, and turned it into a happy face. She giggled and sprayed the front, left, and right portholes and made them shine.

Thank you, Jane. Unfortunately, I cannot stay long. I must leave town. Will you come with me?

Jane furrowed her brow, and said nothing. He wrote again:
You must come with me. The rain will not stop. Some will float. Most will sink. Few will survive.

She looked around the diner. There was no happiness here. The town had very much moved indoors, emptying the streets of life. Businesses were failing. Even the churches were empty. Jane shrugged.

“Why not?” she said, and untied her apron and put it on the table. He reached under the table and retrieved a second diving helmet, much like his own. It was attached to an oiled leather jumpsuit with hoses attached to rubber valves. Her eyes widened. “My God,” she said, “if this is how it begins, how does it end?”

The man with a fish for a head turned the notebook to a new page, and wrote quickly and neatly, as always.

It doesn’t end. Not for you,if you come with us.

Jane looked out the diner window. The gutters were swollen, and the street flooded. Cold gray water spilled up onto the sidewalks. She stood, put the helmet on, and stepped into the suit.