Plum Gut

“Benny, I need you to bleed the fish.”  

I stared at him as if he’d asked me to cut off my leg. 

“I can’t do it.” I couldn’t participate in this butchery. This bluefin was watching us, watching me. It was frightened, desperate, and unable to escape its fate. I now regretted coming for a new reason. 

“You have to do it. You’re the smallest. We’ll hold the fish steady for you. Do what the book says. If the fish isn’t bled, it’ll spoil on the way back and this would’ve been for nothing.”

The fish was going to die in minutes, whatever I did or didn’t do. I needed to act quickly and mercifully. I knew I’d never eat that fish.

I remembered the hundreds of hours Gus spent in our print shop as we experimented to find a technique to give his lithograph the same color intensity as his neon pieces. It was a quest to find a series of hues that would visually vibrate when placed adjacent to each other and radiate like light. Paper and ink are not illuminated by electricity like neon. Periodically, Gus wanted to abandon the project as hopeless. But Celeste and I convinced him to keep working with us to find a solution. He trusted us and we eventually succeeded though it took every technique we could conjure. The edition we produced, using lithography, etching, and screen-printing, sold out during his art show. He trusted me then. Now was my turn to trust him.

 “Where’s your knife?” 

“Arnold put on these gloves and hold the fish still on one side. I’ll take the other. We’ll steady it for you. Benny, cut right behind the gills as it said in the book. These flaps are the gills.” Gus pointed.

I held the knife as steady as I could with the boat rolling from side to side. Kneeling by the tuna, I hesitated. I couldn’t do it. I began to turn the knife away from the fish. Gus leaned against me and nudged my arm. The blade disappeared behind the gill, as if by magic. 

I sliced. It felt like cutting raw chicken. Bright red blood pumped from the struggling fish and flooded across the deck, soaking our knees and the toes of our shoes. In less than a minute, the fish was dead. Its eye turned opaque, and the scales lost their luster. Gus slowly flushed the red fluid down the stern drain, sprayed the blood from our legs, and removed the barb from its mouth with care.

Arnold and I stood as silent, respectful mourners on either side of the fish. I hadn’t had a stomach spasm since the battle to land the fish began, but I could sense them returning. Gus didn’t speak as he tied the rods together and stowed the equipment. He opened a trapdoor in the deck and eased the fish by its tail into the refrigerated compartment. He latched the door, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine to guide his boat toward the sunset. 

Arnold and I took seats on the stern bench. The day cooled fast with the sinking sun, though the breeze was as steady as it had been all day. I started to shiver and put on the hoodie I’d brought. My stomach was calm for the second time all day. Arnold was silent watching the water and I was grateful for the quiet. 

I scanned the horizon for the first signs of land, like sailors from the past had done, yearning for an unyielding surface to stand upon and a cessation from the constant motion. In less time than I’d imagined possible, we pulled up at the dock behind Gus’s house. Celeste, Jenny, and Arnold’s wife greeted us, smiling and relaxed after their day spent on shore. 

The men, such as we were, had returned triumphant from the sea. We were sunburned, sweaty, and soaked in fish blood. 

“I need a shower.” I waved Celeste away. “Give me a few minutes.” 

Struggling to find my land legs on the pebble path to the guest cottage, I held my battered belly and dropped my clothes in a trail as I entered. Turning on the shower, I sank to the floor as the warm water rained on my head. I rested against the tile and tried to relax my punished muscles one by one. It was quiet, except for my breathing and the shower spray. I saw the fish watching me and sobbed until I fell asleep sitting on the shower floor. I dreamed I was a big fish sliding into the hold of a boat, cold and dead.

“Ben, wake up. Was it terrible?” Celeste stood outside the shower looking down at me. She looked concerned.

“Worse than I imagined, but I survived.” I smiled as best I could. “I’ll join you shortly.” 

Later, dressed in my loosest clothes, I walked over to the outdoor kitchen. 

Gus, who hadn’t changed yet, was in command gutting and cleaning the massive fish, his tee-shirt and shorts smeared with blood and guts. Mounds of pink flesh streaked with red covered the table. He was animated and beaming.

Arnold and his wife, dressed in white linen, stayed well away from Gus, the entrails, and the fish. Jenny chatted with them.

Celeste and I held hands as we reclined on lawn chairs placed side by side and watched Gus work. He was methodical. Every move he made had a reason, a purpose; every decision was carefully considered.

I’d often chafed when Gus treated me like a little brother. At his core, he was an alpha male, a teacher, and a mentor who’d welcomed me into his friends’ circle. I wasn’t sure if I’d measured up to his expectations, but I’d exceeded my own. I’d endured the day. It wasn’t pretty, but I persisted. I wouldn’t do it again.

Gus motioned me over as he lit the grill, “Benny, I know today was hell for you. I’m real proud of you. You’ve got a lot of grit for a little land-lubbing Texicano.”

“Thanks, you bastard. You nearly killed me.” I heard my empty stomach growl. 

“Yeah, well, I guess I failed.” He laid the first strips of tuna onto the grill. “Remember this? ‘But a man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’” 

“The Old Man and the Sea, Gus. Fuck you.”

“You hungry?” Gus pointed the barbecue tongs at me like a sword.

“I am, but I’ll stick with the veggies.”

“Suit yourself, Ben. All hands get their portion. Rule of the sea.” He turned to tend the grill.