Algae Eater

Twenty years ago, my small brown feet, encased in glitter-specked jelly sandals, stopped abruptly at the edge of the back porch. The dying lights in the heels flickered an erratic pattern, then ceased as I took note of an spotted belly exposed between the dandelions.

I'd come in from play, or maybe school, to find the tank empty. I walked through the house, also empty, and descended into the basement on the hunt for one of my elders. I walked outside, greeted by a black, fan-shaped fin pushing through the grass. A soft brown mouth was frozen into a blunted diamond, screaming silently into an atmosphere unforgiving . Despite the dryness of the day, the ground was soggy beneath my feet. Papa was in his workshop, which is where the fish tank has taken residence for the better part of a quarter century.

I had a dream the other night. I was a child again, and my waify frame leaned over the side of the loveseat, ribcage shifted upward by the armrest pushing gently into my abdomen. The room was dark, and I was alone. My nose was inches from the glass, and soft white light illuminated the curiosity in my tiny face. I carefully watched the movement in the tank, just as I had all those years before. But the beloved creature of my memory was replaced by a sea of koi flashing obsidian and tangerine within the quiet glow. They flooded the tank, fighting for space. They were not the same fish I knew from my childhood but still, I woke with a memory unlocked.

The fish didn't have a name. They called it Oscar, based on a misclassification of the species. I know now that the fish is known as a common pleco. Hypostomus plecostomus. An omnivore from South America that locks itself onto the side of the tank and sucks growth from the glass. They grow beyond expectation and are surprisingly sensitive to their environment. They're armored, but that serves little purpose for the domesticated fish. I've read that they're able to breathe air, though I doubt that extends to the wind sifting through the blades of an overgrown backyard in the Carolinas.

I asked my grandmother about the fate of the fish. As she tells it, the tank leaked often and many of the inhabitants attacked each other. They had the pleco for a long time, but my grandfather grew weary of the problematic upkeep. I had no memory of its problems. Only of an unyielding fascination with the beautiful black fish.

"It was an ugly thing", Grandma said. An ugly thing, sold deceptively -or ignorantly- for a utilitarian purpose. The pleco was never destined to be the star of any display. It was a custodian. A forgotten descendant of an exotic, resourceful lineage commanded to clear the muck that refined, celebrated fish wouldn't dare to touch. An ugly thing. Undeserving of a legacy of its own.

My grandmother didn't specify if the pleco was alive when they dumped the tank. I didn't press. I'd asked enough questions and the answers I received were unsurprising and made me weary. I chose instead to focus my attention on internet articles discussing tank conditions and growth sizes.

Soulless eyes stared into the sunlight. Sandal lights spun on heels and crossed back through the doorway. The fish became bones in the next coming days. Soon the bones were gone, too, carried off within the voracious maw of memory faded.