When Things Are What They Aren't

Staring at me from its bed of ice

***


I am fifteen and have just landed an after school and weekends job at a small fish market on Texas Street. The owner of the market gives me a walk-through, during which he explains my responsibilities to me.

He shows me how to take ice from the stainless steel icemaker and spread it over the bottom of the display cases. He shows me how to check if the clams on the ice whose shells have yawed open are still alive. I follow him to where whole fish are lined up by species in the display, and he reaches in and removes both a flounder and a salmon. He shows me how to hack off the fishes heads and fins, then scale, gut, skin, butterfly, or fillet.

When it is slow in the market, I am expected to go into the back room without being asked. Once there I would sit at the stone-topped table and crack crab, remove the meat from the shell.

The owner slides open the back door of one of the display cases and removes a pale pink fillet. "This," he tells me, raising it close to my face so that I can see it clearly, "is a Rock Cod fillet. We sell Rock Cod for $1.99 a pound." He takes the same fillet, flips it over in his hand and points out the rich red meat. "See how red?" he says.

I nod.

"It's because this is fillet of Red Snapper. We sell lots and lots of Red Snapper. It's our best selling fillet. And we never get less than $3.99 a pound for it."