June 25, 2000
fish stalkings

Somewhere in San Francisco, there is a fish harboring a dark, obsessive passion for me. I know this. He stalks me.

I first encountered him while waiting for the bus to San Rafael. I say 'him' because I lack the capability to distinguish between genders when it comes to ichthyological life forms. Being a two-year resident of San Francisco, I am quite aware that alternative life styles are more the norm than not here; certainly, I'm not prejudiced against the idea. Since the primary challenge here is the concept of the interspecies relationship however, I'm more prone to stuff the subject under a 'he' appellation rather than a 'she,' and make everything easier for everyone concerned.

Anyway, as I say, I first encountered 'him' while waiting for the bus to San Rafael. It was fairly early on a Saturday; a regular MUNI bus pulled up and disgorged, in order, one old Chinese man, a fish, and two alarmed tourists with cameras. The fish padded around the little old Chinese man towards the corner, where he was obviously intending to catch a light across the street. The tourists hastily took a picture or two, sneaking in the shots with frightened determination as though worried that they might -- if caught -- be forced to acknowledge the incongruity of encountering a fish on the corner of Van Ness and Union.

The woman waiting for the same bus I was gaped after it, wobbling uncertainly on her heels. As a non-ichthyologist, I was unable to identify its exact type, (cod, pike, salmon, trout?), but was quite capable of identifying the legs, (orange tights), and shoes, (Adidas runners). The fish bobbled at the street corner, perhaps poking around in invisible pockets, then disappeared from view around the front of the bus.

"Chemicals in the water," I told the woman next to me, wearily. "Environmental sabotage and mutant growth, oh my."

Three days later, I ran across the fish again. He was walking along Van Ness Street yet again, trailed by a small herd of fascinated children. Oblivious or simply indifferent to his entourage, he stalked past Filbert and Lombard with great dignity. Halfway down the two blocks, he lost the train of children, only to pick up pointing tourists and some not-so-jaded City Citizens along the way. I lost him when our bus turned a corner. Behind me, a pair of plump, lobster-reddened tourists leaned precariously towards the window to stare out after him.

"You see that?" one demanded of the other.

"Is that a fish?"

The next day I went down to Chinatown, where rows and rows of scaled, sleek carcasses stare up at passersby, eyes glazed, mouths agape, tails shredded and frozen on shredded ice older than they are. The fish, that is. Live fish swims in tanks behind the counters; a cook diligent on the subject of fresh seafood will request a selection, and watch while it is netted out of the tank and its head whacked ruthlessly against the edge of the counter until it gives up the ghost.

I hovered over a flank of trout and attempted to match colorings to my twice-spotted walking fish. Despite myself, I was drawn to the staring eyes, and gingerly poked several of them with the edge of my fingernail.

One of the fish sellers chased me away, shouting angrily in Chinese. I fled, head down, hands in my pockets, and only later realized that the man had been asking me if I wanted to buy a trout. Over my shoulder I could hear him shouting in the exact same tone of voice at another, more obvious customer, a shriveled up little woman in a kerchief.

Once the initial contact was made, it seemed as though every time I turned around the walking fish was waiting for me. I caught a glimpse on Fisherman's Wharf, a little later; the next day, I spied him marching next to a naked man in Washington Square. A few hours after that, I spotted him in a completely different outfit -- a flounder, identifiable by the flat round body and the eyes on only one side of the head -- with the same bright orange tights and Adidas runners.

And yet again on Union Street, outside Coit Liquors.

Before I moved to San Francisco two years ago, a friend of mine came over to the house and played with my Tarot cards. "You'll find love in San Francisco," she predicted, gravely.

Just my luck; a trout man is dogging me.