THE GOLD FISH: Agony of Defeat (1.5)

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The shock and blessed relief of the cool water took Barbie’s breath away. But she settled in quickly. Soon, only the tip of her nose was above the water, her hair swirling around her like a red corona. She floated, if only metaphorically given the depth of the water, and allowed the orange glow of sunshine and the sloshing of water to lull her. She felt cocooned. Content. Entirely herself.

She fluttered open her eyes, and through water-droplet-clad eyelashes, watched tree branches and clouds shatter into a kaleidoscope of shape and color. Almost as beautiful as her beloved caustics, she thought. But not quite.

Taking a deep breath, she submerged herself again, letting her mind and imagination drift. She was no longer in a cramped makeshift pool held together with electrical tape. No. She was gliding through crystal clear, turquoise water. Twisting like a mermaid over fantastical coral reefs and among towers of sea kelp. Riding a giant sea turtle like Poseidon himself.

Of course, with no real world experience, these underwater fantasies relied on the magic of television. Imagery from past episodes of Flipper, Sea Hunt, and The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau. But Barbie could see it all. Darting fish in all colors of the iridescent rainbow. Octopi. Starfish. Spiny crabs. Moray eels with their sneaky ways and their sharp teeth. Sleek muscular dolphins that whistled and clicked in their own secret language.

Until, at the very edges of her awareness, the dolphins’ chatter merged into a drawn out “eeeeeeee…” Which could, unfortunately, only be coming from outside the pool.

Barbie resisted the distraction, and despite burning lungs, tried to remain in her imaginary world. But it was no use. The spell was broken and besides, she could no longer hold her breath.

With a burst of bubbles, she launched herself upright. Right into the livid face of her mother, Joan.

Cigarette between two fingers, the family’s ratty, toy poodle, Gigi, clutched in her arms, Joan bellowed, “What the hell are you doing?!”

Barbie flinched backwards, blinking. “I... um... made a pool.”

Joan stared at her in annoyance. “Well unmake it, goddamn it. Are you trying to drown your sister? And turn that hose off!” Joan nodded towards the garden hose, which left untended, had created a muddy lake in the yard. Joan huffed in Mr. Charles direction, as if seeking his validation of her daughter’s folly.

Mr. Charles knew it was cowardly, but he looked away. As if completely unaware of the goings on only ten feet from where he stood. He just couldn’t bring himself to side with Joan OR challenge her. Neither was in his nature. Instead, he feigned intense interest in one of his failing tomato plants.

Robbed of an audience, the outrage drained away from Joan, leaving put-upon resignation in its place. “Come on. Get out of there. Put those benches back where they belong.”  

Shifting the cigarette back to her lips, she held the dog out towards Barbie. “Besides, Gigi needs cleaning up.”

And with that, Barbie heard Jim McKay from ABC’s Wide World of Sports extolling the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. She sighed. One minute she had successfully built a swimming pool and was Mohammed Ali waving her fists in victory, and the next, she was a Yugoslavian skier pinwheeling into a building.

Here’s why. Gigi was groomed once a year. In mid November, which was the only time Joan could justify the expense. Don and Joan hosted Thanksgiving for the extended family, and on this special day of giving thanks, the family dog must be presented -- along with a sparkling clean and polished home -- as evidence of the perfection and stability of the household. Especially to that demander-in-chief of familial perfection, Hazel. As a result, Gigi made an appearance every third Thursday in November in flawless feminine form. Pom-poms encircling each ankle. Pink bows adorning each ear. The rest of the year, the dog was left to her own devices. And those devices weren’t good.

It had been nine months since Gigi’s last grooming and she looked more like mop dipped in India ink and rolled in dust than a toy poodle. Her long black coat was dirty and dreadlocked, but worse, her southern hemisphere was so matted with old excrement it seemed as if she’d switched genders and grown a pair of fecal testicles. It was disgusting, and something had to be done. And as per usual, Barbie was the one to do it. Every summer, she and only she, was given the unenviable task of using a dull pair of old kitchen scissors (a pair expressly reserved for this particular task) to cut away the nasty clumps, leaving Gigi with a nether region that was, in contrast with the rest of her, as pink and as clean as on Thanksgiving Day.

Barbie drooped.  “Oh Ma. Why do I always have to do it?”

To Joan, the answer was obvious. “Who else would do it?”

Barbie slid further down the pool in defeat. Not necessarily because of Joan’s statement. It was true, and she knew it. Aside from her mother, she was the only one in the family who was willing to perform household chores of any kind, let alone -- pun intended -- shitty ones. If you’d asked her why, she might have said that doing stuff, being good at stuff -- at anything really -- was a kind of superpower. Look at Mr. Charles! Was there anything he couldn’t do? Why not learn how to groom a dog? Who knows when that might come in handy? Besides Barbie loved Gigi, and Gigi was currently gross.

But that wasn’t the real reason Barbie always did what her mother asked. In truth, she wasn’t aware of the real reason. At least not on any conscious level. The real reason lived in a dim corner of Barbie’s brain, the corner sensitive to invisible undercurrents in the household. Little eddies of tension that could not be seen, but were definitely there. And felt. This current -- this undertow, if you will -- seemed to be increasing in volume and strength of late, and carried with it a foreboding of doom that threatened to carry the entire family away. To God knows where. Doing what her mother asked seemed to calm the undercurrents. Allowed Barbie to breathe easier.

So Barbie nodded her acceptance of the task as she always did, but couldn’t quite rouse herself into action. After only 10 minutes of existence, she thought miserably, her pool would have to be destroyed. It was what her father might have called a real punch to the kisser. And what was worse? Her mother hadn’t even acknowledged how cool the pool was. Because it was, wasn’t it? Just once, it would have been nice if her mother would praise the stuff she did.

But just like Joan was never going to get validation from Hazel, Barbie was never going to get it from Joan.

At the sight of Barbie’s crestfallen face, however, something softened inside Joan. She made a rare peace offering.

“I’ll give you money for a Slurpee after, k?”

“Okaaaay,” muttered Barbie.

Good deed done, Joan dropped the dog on the ground and marched into the house. “Come on, now. Chop, chop,”

And with that, Barbie submerged herself one last time, blew out a host of bubbles, then hauled herself out.

Much as he wanted to, Mr. Charles couldn’t avert his eyes as Barbie ripped the tape off the benches, kicked them aside, and watched the water gush out over the grass. And it incensed him.

Look, Mr. Charles felt compassion for the difficult row Joan had been given to hoe. He had seen the signs, suspected (correctly) the dynamic between Don and Joan. He respected Joan for her fortitude, her forbearance, admired her even. But the woman was cold. Especially, it seemed, to Barbie. How could she not delight in the girl? And admire -- oh, how could he put it? -- her grit?

Lord knows if he’d had a daughter, and indeed his hopes did spring eternal in that regard, he would encourage a lively spirit like Barbie’s. And for chrissakes, love it.

Why didn’t Joan?

Who knew? Was she somehow wiser? Did she figure Barbie should get used to the slings and arrows of the world early, lest they kill her later on?  Or maybe -- and here was a less generous, more horrifying thought -- did Joan simply want to knock the girl down a peg because she was secretly resentful, jealous even, of Barbie’s joie de vivre? And the potential, the possibilities, that still lie ahead for her?

There you go again, Mr. Charles chided himself. Forming opinions on which you know nothing. The one thing he did know, however, was to keep his smart mouth shut. As you do. Especially when you’re an unmarried, childless dwarf living alone in the suburbs. But it didn’t mean he didn’t have thoughts and feelings. Like his hopes and worries for Barbie, he had too goddamned many of them. And the sight of Barbie watching the water drain out of her little pool struck him as one of the saddest things he’d ever seen.

“Hey Red,” he called.

She looked up.

He gave her a wink and nodded towards the pool. “Nice work.”

Barbie shrugged. Then put the benches back where they belonged.

Next → Orange You Glad (1.6)