the chronicles of slavia, part one

I used to live in a suburb of Orlando called Oviedo, in a little enclave of Oviedo called Slavia. Sounds exotic, but Slavia was pretty much a couple of streets: one that had some farms and a 70-year-old house with "SLAVIA" painted in big letters in front, and another that had a Christian school, a plant nursery, and an apartment complex, where I lived with my friend Katie. I've known Katie for over 13 years now, and she's still one of my best friends. However, we only lived in Slavia a couple of years together before she moved out to get married and I moved out to (unknowingly) meet my future husband one month later.

But we collected many a tale while we were there, and since I'm staring down the face of another yearly installment of NaBloPoMo next month, I thought I'd attempt another Monday regular feature: The Chronicles of Slavia.

Part One: The Geezer, The Survivor, and The Kamikaze Kid

Katie and I ended up with three goldfish one day. My memory is hazy as to how we ended up with three goldfish (Katie, I know you're reading, help me out here!), but there we were, two women with three goldfish.

Little did we know we truly had our hands full.

Things started out positive enough. We had three very cute goldfish. They were orange, they were little, they swam around in circles. We needed to name them. Being a Disney fan, I suggested that two of them be named "Nutsy" and "Trigger", in honor of the two goofball vultures from Disney's Robin Hood.



For whatever reason, we never came to the obvious conclusion of naming the third fish "Sheriff". Or any other Robin Hood-related name, and there were many of those options, too: Little John, Marian, Sir Hiss, Prince John, Friar Tuck. Instead, Katie's future-husband-then-boyfriend Kyle thought we ought to name the third goldfish Peter O'Toole.

Yes. PETER O'TOOLE.

Kyle thought it was a funny name. He thought it sounded like a porno star's name. And I can kinda give him that one, but now I'm wondering, doesn't Prince John - or, you could be all deep and paradoxical, Little John - qualify for that honor, too?

No. Not as much as PETER O'TOOLE.

All arguments about how Peter O'Toole, the human one (Kyle is now laughing), the non-porn-star one, was in fact SIR Peter O'Toole (even harder laughter - porn star with British accent visions) and was also in fact a very respected, decorated thespian (hysterics at this point - I gave up) with a long line of theatrical achievements (continued hysterics) were promptly ignored. And the laughter proved to be very contagious, so in the end, our third fish inherited the dubious honor of being named Peter O'Toole. It was also decreed that when referring to him, this fish would always be called by his full name, Peter O'Toole, because it was funnier that way.

Secretly, I called him Pete. I think he respected me for that.

We had Nutsy, Trigger, and Peter O'Toole in their separate little bowls, swimming around contentedly. In fact, for a while there, we couldn't remember which fish we'd named what, because they all looked the same after about ten minutes. And anyway, we also figured they would only live about a week, because our prior collective track records with fish were not terribly impressive.

A week later, they were still alive. Go figure.

Not too long after we started congratulating ourselves on our impressive fish-raising skillz, we had a floater. One of the fish had moved on to bigger and better vistas. We still didn't remember which name went with what fish, but we concluded that it must have been Peter O'Toole: being the elderly thespian (*snort, giggle*) that he was, he would probably be the first to kick the fishbowl. Poor Peter (*chortle*). Down the Porcelain Express he went.

Nutsy and Trigger continued to thrive. Or at least, they didn't die. "Thriving" and "not dying" look pretty much the same when you're a fish.

Eventually, it got into our heads that perhaps Nutsy and Trigger were lonely, and maybe they should share a bowl. Nutsy and Trigger promptly became roommates, another little bowl was emptied and cleaned, and there was much swimming in circles.

We thought they might be a bit crowded, so a shallow floating-candle bowl was cleaned and the brothers transferred to a new home. They swam in more circles. They continued to, er, thrive, long past our expectations. We congratulated ourselves more. They swam in more circles. A gripping life we led, no?

Little did we know the trouble that lay ahead.

We found out that perhaps there was trouble in paradise, and that maybe all those swam circles were, in fact, a desperate cry for help. We thought they were happy, but I guess we were wrong, or at least half wrong, because one morning, I stumbled out of bed, out to the living room to feed Nutsy and Trigger, and there swam Nutsy, solo, in the bowl. I blinked a few times before it occurred to me to look around for Trigger, that it was improbable that Nutsy devoured his own kin. And there was Trigger, still in the hush of death, lying on the carpet. Trigger had jumped to his death, right out of his shallow little fish condominium.

Here's where I show my true colors: I left him there. I did. I was traumatized, I didn't know how to get him off the floor, and it was really early in the morning and I just couldn't handle it. Yes, it's true: I left him there and went back into my room and pretended I never saw it all. Because, you know, ignoring something will always make it go away.

Twenty minutes later, I hear Katie come out of her room. Yes, that's right! I left Trigger there for her to find, okay? Go ahead and judge me! Argh!

So, okay, Katie came out of her room, and I hear her go, "Uh-oh." And she comes and gets me out of my room to see the carnage, and I was all wow! and surprised and I-never-thought-this-would-happen-how-sad. And even worse than me leaving him there the first time, both of us stand over him and just sort of stare at him. We then argue over who's going to be the brave one: "You pick him up." "No, YOU pick him up. This is creepy." "Hey, this is creepy for me, too - YOU do it."

And we continued on like this for several moments... and then we saw it: the wiggle. Trigger MOVED.

We both gasped. We continued to argue, more fervently now, over who would pick him up and put him back in the fishbowl (instead of the toilet). I think eventually Katie - clearly the better roommate, be quiet, okay? - picked him up and dropped him back into the bowl.

It was pathetic. Truly pathetic.

First, he wasn't quite dead. Dead fish are usually upside down or completely on their sides, and fish who are not dead are upright, swimming vigorously. Trigger, however, was positioned at a 45-degree angle. Not quite dead, not quite alive. He waved his fins every couple of seconds in a futile effort to move his body around, only he never worked up enough force to actually do so. He just sort of floated there at that weird angle.

Second, he was this ghastly grayish-orange color, instead of the bright orange he used to be. A piece of fuzz from the carpet stuck to his gills. And his eyes sort of bugged out, more than usual.

The worst part, though, was Nutsy. Imagine you're swimming around at home, minding your own business, occasionally stopping to eat the food that magically falls from above, and then your roommate leaps to his death in front of your eyes. Only maybe you weren't paying full attention and just thought he'd gone out for some potato chips or something, and just as you were thinking, man, he's been gone for a while... he drops back in, half-dead, a strange color, permanently tilted, with unnatural fuzz stuck to his sides. You would probably be swimming around frantically, freaking out, much like Nutsy. We were convinced that he would make a similar kamikaze leap, he was so spazzed out. But there wasn't anything we could do: we both had to leave for work. We mentally prepared ourselves to come home to one, possibly two, dead fish. It was a miracle that Trigger had any life left in him after at least twenty minutes outside of the water, and we didn't want to press our luck by hoping for recovery. We left the apartment.

We came back about the same time that night, and we were STUNNED: Both fish were still there. Nutsy had not leapt to his death. And Trigger was not only alive, but he was swimming around just as vigorously as before that morning's death leap. He was still a little pale, and the carpet piece was still stuck to his side, but there he was, quite alive. We were stunned.

And alive he stayed, along with Nutsy, for several more months, in fact. We moved them to a special fish tank, complete with a roof and a water filter and some fake fish habitat props. They thrived.

They continued to thrive after Katie and I moved out when she married Kyle, the infamous name suggester previously mentioned. They came in their fish tank with me to a different apartment, kept swimming around contentedly. They met Jason. We got engaged (Jason and I, not the fish and I). Eventually, they hit the goldfish jackpot and retired to a friend's fish pond, where they tripled in size and lived for another year before joining Pete(r O'Toole) in fish heaven.

Funny enough, even when he was at his biggest size, Trigger never regained his full color back. These are the scars we must bear, I suppose.

RIP, Pete, Nutsy, and Trigger. I hope heaven is deep, well-aerated, and full of floating food bits for you.