Eighty-Six Cheerleaders

You had an uncanny ability to evaluate a person’s character instantly upon meeting them, and I think you would have liked this guy. He looks like he’s at least ten years older than me, but I see that as a non-issue; Mom and Dad were almost exactly the same age, and we both know how they panned out. There is no algorithm for determining success with a romantic prospect—all we can do is find someone who seems nice, stuff our baggage into our bras, and hope that neither of us gets spooked when the time inevitably comes for us to take off our shirts.

And he does seem nice, at least so far; I’ve only known him for about half an hour. Admittedly, the first impression could have been better, but I blame myself for that. I planned to have the eel fileted and on the grill by the time he got here, but I spent an hour at the market deliberating on Sakes, so I was still in the early stages of the cleaning process when he arrived.

When I answered the door, rather than going in for a presumptuous and creepy hug, he offered an amicable handshake and a bottle of Merlot.

“I’m Travis,” he said, but he didn’t hear my own introduction—his gaze had ventured to the metallic countertops of the Chef’s Kitchen which you know so well.

Lying on the wooden cutting board next to the industrial sink, its tail flailing feebly and with a silver stake driven through its heaving head, was the eel. To make matters worse, it was probably the cutest eel I have ever seen; Its eyes were outlined with blue, and the panic within them was palpable from where we stood just inside the living room; Its unusually greyish-white color and overly grown dorsal fin made it look like a miniature dolphin. Blood and pus discharged from its all-but-detached head, and its innards quickly became inflamed and visible as it thrashed around on the chopping block. Its tiny circle of a mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if attempting to solicit mercy.

Travis tried to play it cool but was obviously skeeved out, at least initially; his brown eyes, saturated with the natural light which shone in from the balcony, widened in consternation when they landed on the small fish, and I’m almost certain I heard him let out an involuntary gasp. But the shock wore off pretty quickly, and he even held down the tail for me while I ran the knife down the backbone, splitting the eel open like a book and exposing its guts. He either isn’t bothered by watching his dinner die, or he really wants in my pants.

Do you remember when Dad taught us how to clean eels? It was in this kitchen, before the restaurant went under, before Mom and Dad got divorced, and before you died by lethal injection. Mom covered the restaurant during the summer days, and we stayed home to help Dad prep for whatever the special was going to be that night.

We must have decapitated thirty eels that day. After boiling the bite-sized heads, Dad seasoned them with Sansho, grilled them, and dared us to eat them whole. We were squeamish at first, but moments later were devouring more each time he turned his attention away from us; I swiped them from the plate and tossed some to you because you were too short to reach the countertop. Dad soon looked down to find the entire plateful had vanished.

I thought he might be angry, but he just smirked down at us; “Welp, eighty-six soup, I guess.”

“This is the best Unadon I have ever had,” says Travis, “and I’ve been to Japan.”

I nod, finish chewing, and swallow. “Eel is actually endangered in Japan, so most of the eel there is imported from China, or from here.”

“Huh,” he says, parking a mouthful of food inside one of his shadow-covered cheeks, “I never would’ve guessed that.”

Now, in true “first date” fashion, a heavy silence falls for a minute or two. I berate myself internally for sounding like a know-it-all, simultaneously attempting to conjure up something to rectify the lack of conversation. I think of Mom and Dad’s story of their first date, and how Dad, to ease the tension, informed Mom that most Calamari served in restaurants is actually fried pig anus. Interesting, though probably best left unsaid.

Travis continues to shovel eel and rice into his mouth. He’s using the stainless-steel chopsticks I got from Santa that one year—when I offered to get him a fork, he smiled and declined, picking them up and using them with perfect competence.

He says the apartment is gorgeous, which is an undeniable fact, but is still really sweet of him to say. I tell him thanks and that I inherited it from Dad, and he says sorry for my loss, and I say thanks, but he doesn’t need to be sorry, Dad died years ago. I say this because I don’t want to be a total downer, and because that is what you’re supposed to say after it's been this long since someone died. You’re supposed to tell people that they don’t need to pity you anymore because your allotted mourning period has expired.

I attack the remaining wine in my glass and grab the bottle to refill it. The label reads “Meet Cute,” which I find remarkably coincidental. There is a fair-skinned woman on the label with rosy cheeks and wavy, shining black hair. She looks like Mom, and as I taste the wine again, I am reminded of her. I hold a mouthful of it and close my eyes, exhaling from my nose in satisfaction, like she does when she tastes an exceptional red. She would have pushed this on Sunday nights when the special was English Lamb, and she’d call it a strikingly tangy Merlot that is remarkably refreshing. It sneaks over my tongue like chocolate, and my stomach floats to my throat, reaching for more.

I realize that my eyes have been closed for an uncomfortable amount of time, and they jolt open to see if Travis has noticed. His attention is still firmly on his food.

“This might actually be the best wine I’ve ever had,” I say.

“Right?” He asks, looking up excitedly. “The website is called Bright Cellars, if you want to get more.”

I smile. “My mom would go clinical if she saw me drinking a red with fish, but somehow it goes really well with the eel.”

He smiles so bigly that his eyes become small, curvy crevices. “I guess even the experts get things wrong. People just—like what they like.”

This reminds me of one of our walks with Dad. Do you remember when he used to take us to that park across the street? We would sit on that rigid green bench, the one that left indentations on my thighs when I got up, and watch the clouds’ shadows roll over the grass. We would follow the squirrels jumping from tree to tree and uniting under that massive old willow, with its leafy branches sinking so low that it looked like it had a shaggy head of hair, swaying harmoniously in the wind, creaking as it wavered from side to side.

“Y’know, one day, I’ll be old and lazy like that tree, and I’ll creak when I move,” Dad once said to us, on a particularly windy and cloud-covered day, as we sat on the paint-chipped bench. I didn’t answer him; I wasn’t in the mood for his jokes. I’d kill to hear one of those stupid jokes now.

He nudged me with his elbow, and I looked up at him with tears in my eyes, and he asked what was wrong. I dug my face into his armpit as tears cluttered my cheeks. I told him that Charlie Swanson had broken up with me two days earlier and was already dating a cheerleader, and that everyone had been talking about how she was much prettier than me.

Dad held the nape of my neck in his hand for a moment, and then removed me from his embrace. He told me to close my eyes.

“Take a deep breath, hold it in … and let it out,” he said. “Now, I want you to think of a tree in your head. Don’t open your eyes yet, just picture your tree. You got it?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now open your eyes, and find the tree that looks the most like the tree in your mind.”

I opened my eyes, surveyed the dim park, and pointed to a bulb-shaped finger tree in the center of our view.

“So that is what trees are supposed to look like?” He asked.

I nodded.

“I’d have to agree with ya,” he said, examining the tree. “So, is that the prettiest tree in the park?”

I shook my head no.

“Which one is?”

I scanned the park for about twice as long as I had the first time, and finally picked out a white-barked birch tree, sprinkled with black knots, with golden leaves and a trunk splitting into three massive branches three-quarters of the way up.

“Wow. That's a nice-looking tree. I like that one too. So, why would we both think that tree is prettiest, when we just agreed that the other one looks the most like what a tree is supposed to look like?”

I shrugged.

“It’s because typical doesn’t mean most beautiful. If Charlie wants typical, then it sounds like he’s picked the right girl for him. But one day you will meet a boy who knows you are the most beautiful tree in the park, and he will appreciate you more than Charlie Swanson ever could.”

I wiped my eyes, and smiled, and looked from him to you, and my heart lifted.

“Hey,” Dad said, nudging me again, and I looked back up at him as the clouds shifted and the sun illuminated his creased smile; “eighty-six cheerleaders.”

As I sit across from Travis at our old dining room table, the succulent eel disintegrating on my tongue, I simmer in the ardor of that memory. But then I remember what would happen in the months following that day at the park. I remember the corporate-owned steakhouse opening across the street from the restaurant, and I remember us going broke. I remember Mom and Dad’s divorce.

I remember Mom moving to New York, and Dad going to work as a line cook, leaving us to take our summer walks alone.

I remember you and I racing to the park that day, and you running too far ahead of me, and I remember screaming at you to slow down.

I remember that blue pickup truck barreling down our street. I can still hear the country music blasting from its windows. I remember screaming at you to stop.

I remember Dad finding us in the driveway, tears falling from both of our eyes as I pressed my cheeks into yours and rubbed your ears. I remember telling you that everything was going to be okay.

I remember sitting in the back seat of Dad’s car with you bundled in your favorite blanket, humming to you as we rushed to Fairfield Hills Animal Hospital.

I remember wrapping my short arms around your fluffy, golden neck as some twenty-year-old vet-in-training gave you a shot that made you sleepy, and then another that made you sleep forever.

I remember Dad dying, and I remember wondering whether I am meant to ever love a boy again. Since then, wonder has turned to doubt.

I realize that Travis and I have been sitting in silence again, this time for at least five minutes. I push the memory to the back of my crowded frontal lobe.

“So, what do you do?” I ask.

“I’m a vet,” he says, and my stomach twists; “at Fairfield Hills Animal Hospital.”