The Refrigerator Monologues by Catherynne M. Valente

Author:Catherynne M. Valente
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saga Press

That’s where I met Platypunk. I don’t know what his deal was, taxonomically speaking. He had sleek, soft fur like an otter instead of scales like me, poisonous barbs on his heels, webbed feet, a hot pink mohawk, and claws for days. We started a band. Blowhole? Maybe you’ve heard of us? Platy sang and played the lionfish; I was on drums and conch. I bet you think conches just sort of bleat out one non-note, don’t you? No way. Not when an Atlantean is on the horn. My conch did whatever I told it to. Scream or whisper, whistle nice or empty the room. We played all the hot stages in Atlantis, him and me. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend we’re still bringing the house down at Sea Bee’s, right at that part in “Anarchy in Atlantis” where Platy just starts quacking like a maniac at the top of his lungs, and then we both jump into the crowd and they carry us away in their arms and everything is good forever.

Point is, I was happy before John Heron came along. I was fine. I was myself. Every story I told was about me. I was better than a punk. I was a protagonist. No kids, no husband, no throne. No problems. No clawing sense of loss the color of the sea’s guts. No dead mother. No dead son. I didn’t even know what it felt like to have a shark chew my leg off! Good times. The best times.

So, this is how it happened. Strap in, because this is about the lamest part of my whole soggy joke of a life. Falling in love is embarrassing. It is not hardcore. It is not part of the scene.

I was sort of half–shacked up with this guy named Crowjack at the time. He had a swim-up apartment in the Gillage, wrote plays full of halibut whinging about their fathers and the pressures of masculinity. After the show, his or mine, we’d all go down to Platypunk’s dad’s bar, the Great White Whaler, and do some blow. Free pints of sour beer with shot glasses full of real topside air dropped in. Platypunk Sr. always had great air. Kept it in a couple of scuba tanks behind the bar. You had to be in the know to get any, know the handshake, that sort of thing. I was a hard drinker back then. Part of the uniform. A little oxy, a whiff of nitro, pound that garbage beer, lick a shaker of ozone off my wrist, throw back a shot of smog and suck a slice of seaweed to take the edge off. But Crowjack loved to drink. He had his own tank and mask at home, and half the days, he’d just float on the current that flowed between the bedroom and the kitchen with his mask on, sucking down oxy until he thought he was God. Platypunk always said he was a douche bag and I guess he was right.

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