Pisces Fish

The river runs through my soul…

George Harrison woke up in the bedroom of his sixteenth floor apartment in a sweat. He'd had the strangest dream that he had been in a Vietnamese rice paddy helping villagers harvest the rice when the sound of giant propellers on a helicopter came whipping through the fields and scaring the workers, and him, half to death. He saw the pilots as green people; not like Martians from vintage posters from the 1950s, but more like hairless chimpanzees with green skin and dark orbs for eyes. They grinned at him and he told the villagers not to worry. And somehow, though he was speaking Vietnamese, he understood them and himself. But there was cause to worry, for the green chimps cast nets over the workers in the rice paddies and began to lift them off the ground to take them to some mysterious place. George tried to grab on to the nets and the struts of the helicopters. He tried to call out to the kidnappers and the people in the nets, but to no avail.
And then he tripped over a wet tussock of rice and fell, then he realized he was in his own bed, heart racing madly and causing him short breath.
He inhaled and exhaled slowly to calm his beating heart. Then he looked over at his clock: 3 am.
He got up and strode toward the large window, vertical blinds blocking off the light, and parted the blinds to look down on the city of Salhai – all lit up in neon and twinkling zipper lights, and the head- and tail-lights of passing transports.
He touched the window glass, its coolness simultaneously comforting him and sending shivers down his spine. The day looked especially rainy, he could see; the colors of the lights were somewhat muted while at the same time rising up a half-step in glow. He looked up at the sky, still dark yet promising that daylight would not be far away. But he lost hope for that as yet more clouds covered what would have been a sunny orange sky. George sighed; today, he thought, would be the longest day of his life.

He and Vera had not parted on good terms and she was determined to get a divorce after two years of marriage, despite the fact that she was three months pregnant. George was saddened at this; for when they would settle the divorce today, he would never see her again and doubtless never know what his child would look like. Not know if it was a boy or a girl. Vera had forbidden him to see her and had won over the debate of visitation rights; he had none.
George dressed himself accordingly, knowing that this was virtually the last day of happiness in his life. Dear Lord, forgive me; I still love her. But these thoughts and prayers were not going to improve anything. The final papers would be signed today, and bye-bye Vera, bye-bye child he would never know.
By the time he had gotten into his personal transport car, the rain started to obscure things and fog up the front window. It was as if the weather was in perfect resonance with his emotions; the sky was crying for him.
He wiped off the condensation and drove off in the upper lanes of the city to stop at the fifth floor of the Salhai Network building, Marcy McLean, LLC, Suite 510. He left his car with a valet near the fifth floor door and met his lawyer, Richard Cain, in the lobby. Fake ferns in rubber-bark-mulched plastic or Formica containers decorated the area to make the place seem more domestic and friendly, but its purpose was not met, since it only served to make the place a stiff and uncomfortable place to wait for his wife – pardon, ex-wife – to show up.
"I know how hard this must be on you Mr. Harrison," said Cain.
George looked at him. He must be kidding! Cain had no clue what it was like to love someone who didn't love you back anymore. He had no clue what it was like to be denied rights to see your own child when it was born. He had no clue what it was like to be denied the happiness of what used to be the happiest marriage a man could ever ask for. George balled his hands into fists and wanted to strike the man, but instead said, civilly, "Yes, thank you."
That was the problem with him; he never stuck his foot out into the street of authority. He was supposed to have been the man of the house, paying the bills, bringing home the bread, and having a hold on his wife. However, he was the one to cook and clean and have a part-time job. According to Vera, he was too sweet and nice. He'd smothered her with affection, yet Vera wouldn't have it; she was too busy with her full-time job as a corporate executive, bringing home the bread, and paying all the bills and going over the taxes. She claimed that George wasn't enough of a man. Too much a weak point in their marriage. Apparently, their marriage was one that would not stand unless George put his foot down and got Vera under his thumb. But George didn't want to control her; he wanted her to be happy and feel free from an abusive husband. He wasn't the type of man who wanted to be rough to his wife just to prove he was masculine. Vera was not happy with this. She was not happy always being in control of the household expenses. Even when they had sex, Vera was the one in control. Vera was the one to suggest that they try new things. Vera was the one who ran things. Vera, Vera, Vera – the head of the household. George was more of a dependent. So he was named as such on their health insurance. Pathetic in Vera's mind. And then she just couldn't stand it anymore. She knew, even when she found out she was pregnant, that she could make it better on her own instead of with this… thing, this powerhouse of unmanly emotion. Hence, the divorce.
Finally, Vera, belly slightly pooched from the beginning of her second trimester, arrived with a red patent-leather bag over her shoulder, red high heels, and a black skirt suit that accommodated her growing shape.
"All right," she said, swiftly clicking by George and into the Suite where Marcy McLean was waiting for her client. "Let's get this over with." She didn't even give George a glance. Just brushed past him without a second thought.
Richard Cain gestured in front of him, suggesting that George follow his soon-to-be-ex-wife into the office. George complied, shuffling past his lawyer and wilted in chagrin when he saw that Marcy McLean had no readable expression. She sat there, rimless glasses neatly perched on her prim face and no-nonsense business-like nuances in her posture.
They sat there for at least three hours, George not even listening to anything being said until Marcy McLean asked: "Is there anything else before we conclude, Mr. Harrison?"
George looked up. "Huh?" He bit his lip and looked at Cain, who shook his head slightly. "Uh. No. No." George answered.
"Good," said Marcy McLean, right after the last syllable 'no' had left George's lips. "Now, here are the papers. All you need do is sign them Mr. Harrison. And my client shall also sign. Then you are free to go your separate ways."
George nodded. "Yeah. I get it."
Marcy McLean gently pushed the papers over to Richard Cain, who in turn passed them to George. George sighed, took the pen that Cain proffered him and signed in the two or three places required. He didn't bother to sign quickly; he labored over the signatures and felt his hand cramp up as he finished the last letter in the last signature.
Richard Cain took the papers away from him before he could even think of crumpling them up and setting them on fire in the wastebasket behind him.
Marcy McLean nodded and handed the papers to Vera. Vera took her pen and signed as quickly as if this were a normal action for her, like eating or breathing, or talking about the weather.
Then it was over.
Richard Cain and Marcy McLean shook hands. Vera got up and thanked her lawyer then proceeded out the door of the suite. George's heart pounded. He quickly turned around. "Vera!"
Vera stopped in her tracks and turned around in such a fashion as to say 'what do you want now, you loser?'. But she did not say this.
"Goodbye," said George. "And good luck."
Vera's face brightened somewhat. "Thanks!" she said cheerfully, though no smile came to turn the corners of her mouth skyward. And she clicked off on her red high heels as fast as she had when she had come into the lobby three hours ago.
And that was it.
Cain walked out with George and clapped a hand on his shoulder in a very non-business-like way. "Good luck Mr. Harrison. I know these past few months have been hard on you."
George just nodded and shuffled back out to the fifth floor door in time to see Vera take off in her expensive new car, as red as her bag and high heels, without a trace of regret or sadness. He paid the valet that brought his old beat-up jalopy of a car to the front, and got in.
He drove off back to his apartment and laid back in his bed and sobbed. He thought of what he might have done wrong. And what he could have done to prevent this most unwanted ending to a marriage.
Then he thought of Vera and how responsible she was. She was free now, he guessed. And she would find someone else that she loved more than him. And that would marry her and take care of the child he would never see. She was a free woman.
And he was a free man, he thought. He was free enough to go drown his sorrows in drink without worrying about a wife that needed his attention. Not that he hadn't enjoyed paying attention to her; she was a beautiful woman, and he had been lucky to have her. No longer the case, now.
He got up and went to the bathroom sink to wash his face off. He looked in the mirror at his face: the three-days-unshaven beard forming, the red-rimmed eyes, the wrinkles in his brow from worry. He was a mess. He must have looked a sight, coming into the office that way. He hadn't even bothered to comb his hair, now even more disheveled from sobbing into the pillows. He splashed more cold water onto his face and dried off. Then changed his clothes and picked up his car keys to go out.
He needed to find a bar.