The Old Man and the Fish Room
by Rick Bolger
As printed in the North Jersey Aquarium Society Reporter, 10/00
Aquarticles
The old man felt empty, alone, and confused. Walt stood among the cobwebs and corroded
tubing that now defined his once spotless fishroom. Leaning on a rack of 2 x 4s, he
recalled the days when thousands of fish swam among dozens of brightly lit bubbling tanks.
Today the room was dimly lit by just one 40 watt bulb. Somehow Walt was able to look past
the darkness, and past his own personal darkness. In spite of it all, today was one of his
better days.
Walt hadn't ventured downstairs for a few months. Most days he knew he had a fish room,
but couldn't remember exactly where or why. Most days passed in a fog; it barely occurred
to Walt to leave his chair. Occasionally, the endless blare of the television made sense,
but eventually it always sent him spinning into another disconnected corner of his mind.
Today the sun was bright. In a rare moment of focus, Walt realized that the angle of
the light washed out the picture on the screen. Warmed and energized by the sunshine, the
old man slowly pushed himself up and out of the recliner. He trudged off toward the
kitchen, and perhaps by instinct stopped and opened the cellar door. Expecting a pantry,
Walt was momentarily startled to see a dark empty hole. Looking down, he was angry for not
remembering yet at the same time pleased for finding the worn dusty steps leading to the
cellar.
So there he stood. Waves of memories brought him back through his first kribs, and back
to the countless discus breeding failures before finally achieving success. He couldn't
recall exactly how or when he assembled this room, but he knew that he had, it was the
envy of his fish club, and he knew that it had served him so well for so many years.
By the mid 1980s the annual winters in Florida had taken a toll on Walt's fish room.
His attendance at club functions tailed off, and the breeding efforts all but stopped.
Tanks were drained. As the 1990s rolled around, Walt could no longer keep up with the I-95
speeds, so the annual trips stopped and his hobby made a brief comeback. Welcomed back to
the club as a "legend," Walt put on a slide show that wowed attendees.
But after a while the water changes became a strain, and his enthusiasm began to wane.
He backed off on a few tanks; they were donated to a club auction. Only a year after
his triumphant "return," Walt was slated to speak at the annual workshop. He
forgot his slides and gave a rambling, disjointed presentation.
Things worsened the following spring. Walt showed up at the meeting hall on the wrong
night. He sat for about 40 minutes, unable to grasp the program, and wondering why
everyone in the club was wearing funny hats with tassels. After realizing his error, Walt
tried to shrug it off. "Can happen to anybody," he said to himself, but he knew
something wasn't right.
Sometime later -- days or weeks, he couldn't be sure -- the walk downstairs was met
with a foul odor and a few dozen dead fish. This was very peculiar...hadn't he just been
down there this morning...or was it yesterday?
After lunch, Walt went downstairs quite purposefully and drained his six remaining
tanks. He disconnected the power, turned off the lights, and went back upstairs. That
evening he went to the club meeting with a heavy heart -- he had the right day this time
-- and was welcomed warmly by a lot of people that looked vaguely familiar.
"Jimmy coming tonight?" Walt said as he tried making small talk with one of
the fellows shaking his hand.
"Jimmy who?"
"Oh, come on, you know, with the killies...Jimmy...uh, little guy...aw, it's on
the tip of my tongue..."
"Baxter? Jimmy Baxter?"
"Yeah! Jimmy Baxter! How's Jimmy doin'?" he asked.
The man looked at Walt sadly, noticing that he seemed distant. "Jimmy passed away
a couple years ago, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah. Right. Ha! I must have a few screws loose."
Nobody noticed Walt talking with Jerry, the club president. Nobody noticed when he left
before the speaker's presentation. Nobody realized that it would be his last meeting;
nobody said good-bye.
Later Jerry spoke: "Walt the living legend is unfortunately beginning to slow
down; he's offered to let a few members come and take the equipment he's no longer using.
Anybody want to meet me tomorrow night and drive to Walt's house? When I was a kid, Walt
was the guy who got me into the hobby...his fishroom should probably be registered as a
historic site...I used to go there and look around with my mouth dropped open...so even if
you don't need any stuff you may want to come just to say you saw Walt's fishroom. He also
said we could take his magazine collection...that alone has to be worth something."
A few hands went up -- just eight people said they were interested in visiting Walt and
picking over the remains of his fishroom. The next evening, when the appointed time came,
only one member showed up to join Jerry for the last crusade.
Ever the gracious host, Walt opened the door as enthusiastically as he could. Serving
coffee, he asked "where are the others...isn't anybody else coming?"
"Uh, well, we uh decided that it would be best if we came and brought the stuff
back to the club, rather than have a whole bunch of noisy fish friends trekking through
your house."
Walt was keyed up by the prospect of hosting his fish friends, and beginning to feel
like his "old self" again as the trio reminisced about some of his past show
triumphs. And when Jerry recalled the rare characins Walt netted back in the late fifties,
the fish room of memory came to life once again. Bright lights came on, airstones churned
the water, and the wall of gleaming tanks flashed with color.
"Well, come on down and have a look!" Walt bounded down the stairs with the
enthusiasm of ten year old. Suddenly he realized he was standing in a dimly lit cellar
with six dirty old 20 gallon tanks and a small box of disused, corroded tubing, box
filters, and air pumps. A musty pile of FAMA magazines had fallen over and lay strewn
about the floor. Walt couldn't speak.
Jerry finally put on brave face: "Gosh Walt, it must've been tough to retire from
the hobby. We're really honored that you want to give us some of your stuff...but are you
sure you want to totally get rid of it?"
"All of it's yours, boys...use it and enjoy it!"
The men waved off the tanks, and began sorting through the box of junk. They soon
pulled out a large old Tetra Luftpump..."this looks good" and plugged it into a
nearby outlet. The old pump lumbered to life: Pluffa pluffa pluffa SCREEK SCREEK SCREEEEEK
-- Jerry quickly pulled the plug.
"Oh you boys can fix that easily, you just have to re-seat the diaphragm and lube
it a little..." Walt quickly chimed in.
Jerry responded: "Well, sure, that's still a good pump...we don't want to take
your last pump, Walt...what if you decide to start up a tank this summer?" The other
man nodded, and when Walt redirected his offer, the man shook his head no. "I have a
central system...you keep it, Walter. I don't have room for it."
The old man began sorting through the rest of the corroded junk, pausing now and then
to offer some odd fitting or heater part. "You guys gotta take something."
"I tell you what," Jerry spoke out of loyalty, "Why don't we take a few
of these remaining tanks as a donation to the club, and we'll put them in the trailer to
use at the show."
Walt shrugged and nodded, and his guests left with the four best remaining tanks. He
knew that the tanks would waste away in a pile outside the storage trailer, eventually
cracking with the first winter frost.
Today, all these events went through Walt's mind as he stood in the littered decay of
his once famous fish room. Today, feeling better than usual and with the bright sunshine
forcing him away from the TV, he would make peace with this fishroom. Walt knew he
wouldn't have many more days like today.
Hustling up the concrete steps that led outside, Walt pushed open the rusting metal
doors at the back of the house. (It would be easier going this way than negotiating the
narrow wooden stairway up to the kitchen.) One at a time he carried the heavy tanks.
Remembering how he had once carried champion show fish up these same stairs, Walt paused
to rest at the top of the stairs, and then again about halfway down the driveway. Slowly
but surely, the two remaining twenty gallon tanks made it to the curb. The box of junk
followed. Walt saw that his fishroom was now a small, insignificant pile of refuse.
Cleaning up the mold magazines back in the cellar, the sun streamed through the narrow
windows near the unfinished ceiling. Suddenly, the light was blocked, and Walt could hear
the sound of two car doors hurriedly opening and closing. Standing up stiffly, he saw part
of an old station wagon through the narrow cellar window, and listened.
"Dad! Dad! These tanks have to be twice the size of the one we have! This is
great! We can take 'em, can't we Dad?"
"Well, that's why they put this out with trash, I guess...what have we here? Looks
like a pump...wonder if it works. I'll take it home...bet if we fiddle with the diaphragm
we can get it to work...this is really nice stuff."
"Hey Dad, I'm going to see if anybody's home -- make sure it's ok..."
Walt heard the excited footfalls bound up on his front stoop, followed by an energetic
BANG BANG BANG on the screen door.
"Nobody's home...well, THANK YOU, whoever you are! These fish tanks are really
GREAT!"
The doors slammed, and the car rattled slowly away.
Walt smiled; today was a good day. Today he could finally close down his fish room
"officially" and it would be ok. He pulled the light cord, and went back
upstairs. The torch was passed.
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