The Guppy Girl

She has presence: a quiet solitude, standing amid tanks of betas, goldfish, mollies, guppies, her unremarkable brown hair straight, uncomplicated. “My name is Elizabeth.” She focuses full attention on my wrinkled face. She looks official, yet young.

I hesitate. Is she a fellow consumer, standing with polite attention because, I, a bushy white haired woman of 71, appear out of sorts, mouth gaping open? “Do you know fish…” I stumble over the words as if oxygen deprived. “Guppies?”

“I do know fish,” she says, her voice earnest.

Does she feel a need to convince me? I may appear unconvinced. I suppose I am unconvinced. I am standing in an echo chamber of a mega pet store: a barn. I don’t know why I bothered to come here. Except to say I am feeling desperate and didn’t have the energy to drive across town to a proper Fish shop where elite aquarium aficionados shop.

I gulp down a laugh. As if I need an elite shop. I am stressing over guppies. I can buy two guppies for less than $10. Our zebra- striped brown netrite snail cost $2. I am worried he- Almond, my granddaughter calls him- may need more algae, now that he has cleaned up the glass and is working on plastic plants. I am some sort of joke to myself.

I repeat, “Guppies?”

“Especially guppies. I bred them a couple years ago. I had a 30 gallon tank. Guppies are my favorites. Live births fascinate me. The fry are so cute: survival of the fastest. I am considering breeding them again- but in a smaller tank, now that I have this department to manage.”

I glance at dozens of aquariums lining the walls. She seems to sense my incredulity.

“I know,” she says. “I turned this department around. The fish were in bad shape when I arrived six months ago. Now, when I walk onto the floor in the morning, I know when something is off. ‘Something is not right,’ I tell my employees. ‘Check the tanks.” And invariably the pH is off or the nitrogen cycle needs tweaking or maybe my snail’s shells would benefit from a calcium carbonate Wonder Shell. It's unusual to hire someone like me in a warehouse environment like Pets, Inc., but our manager is forward thinking and I am proud of what we have accomplished here.”

Her intense monologue sounds nothing like a brag. She delivered it with passion and compassion, as if to say, you can trust me, mission accomplished, let’s move on.

“I have spent a lot of time these past two weeks watching six guppies.” I laugh, a bit embarrassed. “I am stressed that I might kill one on my watch! They belong to my granddaughter, age 10. She has named each one and even knows where a slight imperfection exists on our snail.”

Elizabeth nods. She understand my angst. Her dark eyes exude empathy. Her brow is furrowed.

I take a chance; blurt what I fear is a stupid observation. “Do guppies have unique personalities?”

She tilts her head, encouraging me to say more.

“I feel like our two males are polar opposites. One- my grand named him Soda- seems afraid of everything and lies shivering at the bottom most of the time. The other male, Firetail… his eyes turn a violent black as he chases females around. He seems always in a bad mood.”

Her lips turn up; a slight smile brightens her solemn expression.

“I swear Firetail is a bully! He’s Gaston in Beauty and the Beast. Sometimes I feel like I am watching the fish in my tank enact that musical! Dancing and singing up and around the tank as poor Soda’s rose petals wither on the vine.”

Her grin widens. “Firetail, the Musical,” she says. Her voice takes a humorous, melodious tone. She begins to sing, “True that he's no Fish Charming, But there's something in him that I simply didn't see…”

She sparks my imagination. “Yes!” I say, relief tweaking a bit of moisture in my eyes. This fish whisperer touches my heart. I hadn’t considered for one minute that such a shamanic being might exist here.