Eel in the Tank, Shark in the House

---11.26.1999---

While on St. Mary’s yesterday I picked up some fingerless gloves for the now colder at home evenings. Wearing them I felt very Oliver Twist. All I need to do now is throw some lumps of coal around the place and I’ll be all set.

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I took a bath this morning, not that that’s so unusual, but a proper bath in which you clean yourself up beforehand and then use the tub to just soak. It’s always with a bit of childish reticence that I approach the bath. It’s not the bathtub itself that’s the problem—it’s a nice, big, old tub. Nor is it the moss, which seems to have cleared itself out in a green welcoming-blast the first time I ran the thing. It is also not the fact that, about a week ago, over dinner, Ellen casually mentioned that there was an eel in our cistern. What!?

It was cold and blustery that night but I ran out in disbelief to check. I heaved up the corrugated metal sheet lying across the top of the tank, propped it open, and probed the depths with my flashlight for any sign of an eel. Clear water, slightly fuzzy tank innards, grass blades, and a leaf or two—yes—but there was no eel to be seen. That said, I did feel a bit Jacque Cousteau, for having a look.

I asked Hans about it a couple of days later. And in his usual, quiet, laughing voice he said, “No, no... no eel. He escaped a few months ago.” Ha—so there had been and eel! Apparently a heavy rainstorm had flooded the tank and he just floated out over the edge. But as I said, it’s not that either, even if he had still been in there. Oh, the reason they put him in there in the first place is that apparently eels keep the tank clean. They eat bugs and moss and stuff. I should have realized after those first few moss-soaked days that our eel was missing. Sheesh.

Really though, what a great, maintenance-free, ecologically-sound cleaning system. But anyway, it’s not that. It’s simply that it’s a bit of an ordeal, plus the little bathroom window doesn’t close all the way and it’s always a little chilly in there. Sometimes, going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I can see my breath. There’s no shower, just a little, fiddly, hand-held thing that attaches to the faucets. I usually bathe that way because it uses less water than filling the tub. The process is simple really: squat in the tub, splash yourself with water, lather, freeze, rinse, repeat.

Today though, I went the super-luxury route and ran a whole bath. After showering off, I curled into a wet ball and ran the little hot water tap for all it was worth and waited for the tub to fill up around me. Slowly, freezing, slowly, butt warmer now, slowly, still freezing, stomach warmer now, slowly and... ah... yiiee, hot.. ahhhh... and eventually I could recline in comfort. Then I closed the tap with my toes. It spat and gave up with a gasp.

In a chilly, damp environment like this, you can probably imagine that a hot bath is one of the few ways to completely warm up. That and a good walk will do it too. Being so utilitarian all the time, I rarely bathe just for pleasure. I’d had forgotten how nice it is. I let my head sink so that just my eyes, nose and lips were above the water and I could hear my heart, a steady drum. Rubbing my stubbly face produced reverberating, subsonic, deep-space rumbles. I did that for a while then eased my mouth open, feeling the water on the cusp of my lower lip, resisting... resisting... and then let it in with a rush... once, twice, again. I played a little while longer, then wrapped my toes around the drain plug cord, gave it a tug, and called it a morning.

There’s something fun as well about lying there as the tub drains: the weight of the water on your chest, the refreshing cold as it recedes, the last tugging drops at your side. I had my arms tucked in close to my sides and my hands just under my bum. I lifted my back slightly to get out and made the most amazing sound, like... well, have you ever seen that huge bull at the end of Wall St. in New York? Well, imagine him breathing—an amazing invention, the bathtub! I laid there for a full two minutes making chortling, gasping dragon-bull noises, my body in concert with the leftover water, before self-consciousness kicked in and hoisted myself out of the tub.

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Bitey Cat came by again last night as he does every once in a while. He was sitting outside on the windowsill, which is, as we’ve agreed, the signal for us to let him in. Unfortunately, this is not a foolproof system since he’s a black cat and usually drops by after dark. All we can ever make out are two little eyes in the window. So I don’t know how long he was out there but I went and opened the door. He seemed happy to see me and jumped down to roll around on the cement forecourt for a while, a ritual precursor to making his actual entrance. Then he came in, offered some meowing, made himself available for some pets, rubbed up on my legs a bit, and then began to lick the linoleum floor. This seemed like a desperate act and one I hadn’t seen before, so I took pity on him and decided to offer him some cold cuts. As soon as I opened the fridge he snapped into Alert Hunter Mode.

Now I don’t have a lot of experience with pets. My roommate’s chubby, little fuzz-heads back in San Francisco eat their fair share of lunch meat too. As soon as they smell it, they both meow like they’re going to die if they don’t have... the... lunch... meat... right... neoooooowww! Feed us—for the love of God, pleeeeease feed us!! I tear off a little piece for each of them. Otis sniffs his and then decides he isn’t really interested in mesquite-smoked turkey after all, thanks just the same. Rico, on the other hand, grabs his, downs the little sliver in three gulps and then finishes Otis’ as well.

I gave Bitey whole slices of turkey at a time and I still had to make sure I didn’t lose a finger. Harmpf!! Hmpf, hmpf, hmpf!! My God! I felt like I was on the Discovery Channel feeding a fuzzy, four-legged shark. Neck craned, eyes keen, jaws snapping, he pulled slice after slice to the floor and devoured each one in half a second—no extraneous meowing. Then he looked around, realized the supply had dried up, stayed long enough to be polite, thanked me, and headed back out the door.