Cold rain fell from the leaden sky as gusts of wind blew paper cups around the salt-stained tires of parked cars. My feet were freezing. Monday. It felt like forever.

I pushed into O'Riordan's and waddled up to the bar. The place smelled of smoke and old beer: every surface was scarred and gouged. The joint's corners were filled with an ooze of decomposing ketchup and peanut shells.

I looked towards the bartender. "Got any fish?"

He looked at me as if someone had stolen his Prozac. This wasn't going to be pretty.

"Listen you moron, get your butt out of here before I ram this broom down your throat. Fish. Fish! You think this is 'Red Lobster?'"

The rest was inaudible, sullen, a mix of dullness, rage, depression. Shouldn't forget our meds, should we?

I hit the street, hoping that Briney's hadn't gone out of business again. Monday.

It was different Tuesday, maybe better if you like the cold. Thin light from the low sun glinted off post-season tinsel, ice in the high clouds, crumpled cigarette box cellophane. It hurt the eyes. My feet were still freezing. The wind didn't help.

O'Riordan's was drafty, gusts blowing through gaps in the winter-dry doorframe. Dust flashed in the few searchlight slants of sun. Peanut shells littered the sticky floor. There must have been a game last night. I could feel the shells with my feet.

The bartender's porcine eyes were on me, dull recognition and suspicion mixed with hostility. So Wal-Mart won't sell Prozac either. Funny--

I waddled to the bar, shaking the shells from the bottoms of my feet. I hope he left the tool box out in his car today.

He waited, leaning on the bar, a damp rag under the ruined fingers of his right hand. The man did not look glad to see me.

I thought the customer was always right. Postmodernism means a fellow can't get what he wants anymore. Jacques Derrida should have thought about that before he took on Albert Einstein.

I know what I want, but I'm polite, so I ask for it. "Got any fish?"

The man really does need to find another pharmacy. Gray water seeps from the rag in his clenched hand as his face turns violet. He is about to explain something to me. I can always tell.

"Listen, bird-brain, this is a bar. A BAR. I sell beer, NOT FISH!" His color changes even more as his blood pressure spikes. A stroke would be OK, I think, I don't have to do anything except call for help. I think about that first aid class, and about how a penguin looks trying to do CPR. Please, make it a stroke, not a coronary. Maybe not even a stroke, unless they've replaced the old phone in the back. A keypad I can handle.

The place sells beer. I know that, of course. How am I supposed to drink beer? I don't even have lips. Ever meet a bartender who'd serve a bowl of beer to a customer? It's hard enough getting the peanuts open. I don't drink beer.

El Nino melted the snow overnight and brought back the mosquitoes. Even on a good day, eighty per cent of them don't see the next sunrise. They're not cut out for the long haul; maybe they're better off that way. As for me, I still know what I want. The "For Sale" sign at Briney's doesn't help.

O'Riordan's is a disaster. It makes me think of the Mississippi delta during Mud Season. Melting slush drives trickles of water under the door, carving clear channels in the dirt and peanut shells. The humidity is unbearable, and the frenzied mosquitoes have befriended the bartender. Maybe I should tell him to switch from Wal-Mart to the Osco on Mattis.

He sees me through a corona of insects and holds up a hand before I can speak. "Don't, just don't." I think about the tool box, afraid I'll see its reflection in the curve of a Stolichnaya label behind the bar. I can't tell if he's got it.

I am playing for keeps now, but I'm not a fool. I clear a path back to the door, pushing the shells under the dark tables with my feet. Maybe I'll be unlucky, but in a good way if you know what I mean. If it's a Sears model 28, he'll have the hammer below the screwdriver tray. That ought to buy me a few seconds. I knock the shells off my feet and go back to the bar.

The bartender sees me coming and turns pale. I can't tell if it's the work of the mosquitoes or just his calcium channel blockers cutting in. He hasn't reached under the bar yet, and the adrenaline rush makes me lightheaded, like I'm skating on the edge of the void. Maybe he'll go for it with his right hand. That'll buy me another second. I can make it to the door in four, maybe less. Maybe it'll be OK.

Balanced, ready to move, I choose my words carefully. I see he's even paler, now that I'm ready. It won't be a stroke, I think. The breaks are going to go my way, this time, I can tell. As I begin to speak, a growl comes from deep in his gut, like the Titanic breaking up. Wordless, it swells as I say "Got any fish?"

He's roaring now, the color back in his shaking jowls. But he keeps both hands on the bar so I try to remember the EMS number instead of using my escape route.

Finally the words come, on this flat, heavy Wednesday. "Listen, idiot, this is a bar. Not a fish store. You're a penguin. Bars don't sell fish to birds." Something is happening. He drops his left shoulder in the classic gunfighter feint, and I see he's going for it with his right hand. Maybe it's a bluff, but I don't want to wait to find out. In full retreat, I hear him explain how he'll "nail [my] webbed feet to the floor next time" as I rush through the door.

The wan January light picks out the shadows in a bowl of oatmeal like crows going after roadkill. I think that I can't keep on like this, at least not while Briney's is for sale. The arctic winds have frozen yesterday's slush into groves, like on an old 78, or maybe the rifling on a .45. All of mine lead back to O'Riordan's.

I waddle past the photo in the Re/Max window. It shows a new chevette parked in front of Briney's. Sunlight picks out the feathers blowing from its defroster vents. So they're still using the same shot, for the tenth time in twenty-five years. It's death to be a fish merchant in this town. People here eat fish sticks. I want something with all the parts attached.

The door sticks on gray slush and peanut shells. I'll have to allow for that, I think. I know he has a hammer, and that he'll go for it with his right. I need to check on the rest of it before popping the question. You have to be careful, and you have to be prepared. I leave the door open, but just a little so he can't tell.

He sees me coming and his eyes narrow as he leans to his right. I hear the noise of the latch, and the clack of the handle as the top flips back. There's another sound, and it hits me that it's chrome-plated sockets rolling around. So it is a Sears model 28, after all, but he's already taken out the screwdriver tray. This is happening too fast for my tastes. It's time, sooner than I'd like.

I move to the bar to ask him two things. He's on the balls of his feet now. I know he'll be taken by surprise, and that'll give me an edge.

The growl in his throat sounds like the chevette after it needed a head gasket. The first question will go fine, but it's the second one that I really care about. That's where the danger is. He's waiting for me, so I ask it. "Got any nails?"

He blinks twice and leans back. It makes me think of a good uppercut, delivered by somebody who can make a fist. Didn't see it coming, did you? He's off balance now, so it's time, and I hit him with the main event. "Got any fish?"

His head snaps to the left, like he just caught the right cross hiding behind the uppercut. That's not what I expected so I decide to wait him out. He keeps turning, his shoulders following his jaw, his face towards the mirror now. That's not what I expected either.

He turns some more and his left arm rakes bottles off the shelf by the register. His face goes Roy G. Biv, but skips the middle stages as his eyes bulge. I can tell he's not going to answer my questions.

The rest happens in slow motion. Shall I dial 911? I am thinking about peaches and flannel pants as he drops. Do I dare to buy Briney's? The phone has buttons so I make the calls, one after the other. Re/Max arrives first with one of the answers, followed by the ambulance.

I'll never know about the nails, but that's OK.

George Gollin
University of Illinois
Department of Physics
Email: g-gollin@uiuc.edu
Phone: (217) 333-4451
Fax: (217) 333-4990