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{shortcode-e64d65eabc2c8945c17364f3d09655b667e30e03}ast Thursday, when I was on my usual twilight trudge around campus, ripping posters about “Funny Improv Shows” and “Free Boba” and “Mental Health Counseling” off of poles, I was stopped dead in my righteous rampage by a flier that, for once, made me smile. (It was a moment of weakness.)
“Fish Funeral Friday,” read the flier, which was black. Finally, I thought. A community event that’s up my dimly-lit alley. The memorial of an unidentified Cabot fish who had lived out his mortal days in the dining hall aquarium was to be held on my favorite day — Friday the 13th. It would take place from 8 to 9:30 p.m. on the Quad Lawn, a disappointingly open and convivial locale. Peering closer at the flier, which depicted several mourners surrounding a fish, I noticed a smaller subtitle that said, “Drinks (inc. 21+), Snacks, Friends, and Camaraderie.” At least three of those four things are objectionable to me, but I brushed them off, and decided to go anyway.
Stomping across the Quad Lawn, I heard music floating towards me. In retrospect, I should have turned around right then. After all, it wasn’t my kind of music — cheerful Colombian pop with a catchy tune and lively beat like the pulse of a lovesick puppy. I caught awful words like “amor” and “corazón,” which translate in English to “my Kryptonite.” I was about to plow right into the group that lay sprawled out on the grass and suggest that instead of this offensive and irreligious music, they should DJ something more appropriate, such as “Ave Maria” or “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Thankfully, before I gave them a piece of my mind, I realized they weren’t doing anything fish-related. There was another group nearby. I redirected my course.
I was pleased to see that most, but not all, of the mourners present were wearing black. That’s the best that can be said of them. Gathered around the picnic tables, Cabotians were immersed in all four of the things promised by the flier: Drinks (inc. 21+), Snacks, Friends, and Camaraderie. But it was even worse than I had expected. I was appalled to see a grab-bag of liquors, six-packs of Fanta, and the worst offense of all, so obscene that I almost upended the table: round platters of SUSHI! The salmon draped over the tops of the rolls struck me as so fresh, it could have been swimming alongside the deceased mere hours before. The whole affair was disgusting.
A few of the “mourners” I talked to didn’t even bother making excuses for themselves. “I’m really happy about this choice of sushi,” said a sinister character. “I feel like it’s fitting for the funeral of such a fish… He was just a disrespectful fish.” When asked about this disturbing lack of remorse, she replied forthcomingly. I asked her what on earth she meant, calling the deceased “disrespectful.” She was forthcoming in her reply: “I’m the murderer,” she said. Her motive? “It was really rude. It called me some names while I was eating in the Cabot dining hall. So I grabbed it out with my bare hands, and let’s just say Remy took a little field trip to the Quad that day.”
I stumbled away, reeling as though I, too, had consumed Drinks (inc. 21+). My worst suspicions about human nature had been confirmed. What was this I had heard? I had been told that the fish died of “natural causes”! Several mourners present appeared to still be gobbling up this lie like a piece of tuna nigiri. “I saw the fish die,” said one attendee. “Just flopped around. It, like, turned upside down, and went up. It was a little sad.” He made no mention of a sinister young woman reaching into the tank and seizing the fish with her bare hands. I would have asked about this, but it was time for the eulogy.
A young woman stood up — “Dear Friends, Cabotians, and Aquatic Enthusiasts,” she called out. (I am none of these three things. I am neutral towards aquatic life at best.) “We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of one beloved Cabot fish.” I assumed, at this point, that she was the priest. In reality, she turned out to be a much lowlier authority: “My name is Aytana, and I am the Cabot ‘O-Fish-al.’” I shuddered at the pun. Not a minute into the eulogy, and she couldn’t refrain from wordplay? This did not bode well. She proceeded to make some trite remarks about “Cabot community,” as well as the moral excellence of this fish (“He was a fighter. He was a swimmer”).
But the worst was yet to come. As the applause — and, worse, laughter — was dissipating, another person rose to the makeshift podium and declared that he would now give the fish an “o-FISH-al” name: Tina Nina Spartina Marina Gibson Rebecca Bartholomew DeLorean Junior Esq. the 3rd. There were beers, and cheers. I found it all very unamusing.
Disgusted, I retired to the shadowy solitude of the big tree where the fish, they claimed, had been laid to rest. I removed my phone from its cloth coffin, my pocket. Then I took this photo. You can’t see it, but the moon, hanging low in the sky, appeared to me like a fish’s enormous silver scale.
— Magazine writer Clara E. Shapiro (and her alter ego, Grouchy Funeral Beat Clara) can be reached at clara.shapiro@thecrimson.com.
