Crabs (not the sexy kind)

When I was fourteen my brother got a fish aquarium in his room. He received a 3.6 or something on his report card, and as a reward my parents bought him a super high-tech fish tank that he kept on his dresser near his water bed (his present from the previous semester's stellar grades. My brother snagged all the good parental rewards. All I ever got for making the honor roll, which was always the silver honor roll, never the gold like my brother, was a stupid land-line flip phone and a 98 degrees Christmas CD. But that's beside the point.)

Though it was to be my brother's aquarium, and it was going to go in his room, I was allowed to buy one fish to keep in the tank. Of course, my brother was vehemently opposed to this, but I think my mother felt guilty that her daughter wasn't as bright as her son, and was trying to encourage me.

One afternoon, the three of us drove down the street to Earl May (an Iowan, perhaps Midwestern, pet / landscape design store that always smelled like damp concrete and stale seeds). As soon as we walked in, I immediately sprinted over to the ferret jungle gym and begged for one of the $300 ferrets. I was refused. One tropical fish was all I was allowed.

I scanned the many tanks packed with mostly ugly fish. I, being the aesthetic child that I was, wanted the beta fish. The fish that was kept in its own cubicle of sorts that was suctioned to the side of a larger tank, separated from the other, normal fish. The beta fish was sophisticated and detailed, its tiny scales were blue, purple, and red; all perfectly blending together in such subtlety it made me think it was all one color—some brilliant color I'd never seen before. I announced that that was the fish I wanted, but the salesman quickly informed my mother that this fish was 'volatile', and not the type that could peacefully coexist with other fish. Upon hearing this my brother whined, and my mother refused to buy me a beta fish. (Why I couldn't have had my own tiny bowl of water with my own fish in my own room was beyond me. But perhaps it had to do with my puny, less than desirable 2.5 G.P.A.)

So, instead, I got some stupid kind-of chubby white fish. I can't even remember what type of fish it was, but initially, I hated it. My brother was allowed to buy like five fish, and also, a fucking crab. At first my Mom was hesitant, especially when I let out a tiny shriek at the thought of having a crab in the tank with my fish (suddenly the chubby fish I'd chosen was beloved and needed to be protected by its only defender), but in the end the salesperson told her that a crab could be useful in lieu of a bottom feeder, helping to keep the tank clean of feces and discarded food bits. So, the three of us got back in my mom's mini van with six fish, a tank, some kitschy fake scuba diver and treasure chest set, and a fucking scary iridescent albino crab.

As it turns out, the fish I'd chosen was pregnant. And after a few days, her belly swelled to double its original size. She was huge. I suddenly became infatuated with her in this new state. My fourteen-year-old self identified with her, woman-to-woman. We struggled in all the same ways. She alone in a tank with a fucking crab roaming around on the bottom, and I with a stupid brother bouncing around in his fucking water bed in the room next to my normal boring bed.

I watched dutifully as my fish grew bigger and bigger. I was so excited that she was pregnant. Though, most of my excitement could probably be attributed to my deep hope that the fish would have at least five babies and then, by sheer ownership, I'd suddenly have more fish in my brother's tank than my brother.

About a week later, I went into my brother's room one morning before school to check on my mommy-to-be. She wasn't swimming near the top like she normally was, nor was she idly floating near the wall of the tank, she wasn't stuck in the filter (as I'd heard from someone at school could happen), nor was she inside the fake coral reef playground. I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked down at the tank's lime-green pebble-covered floor (my brother's decision), and saw that fucking crab, sidestepping with its gross claws proudly erect in the air like it was performing for me, mocking me even. Then I saw a glint of white scale slowly fall through the water in front of the crab, followed by another. And, looking more closely at those fucking crab claws, I saw one more piece of white scale clinging to the inside of one of its pinchers. Then I looked to the right and saw my fish, ponderous, floating in the water as lifeless as a discarded candy wrapper. Its abdomen was half-dismembered, its womb ripped open, its insides dangling out of its stomach like the underside of a starfish. I screamed. I'm sure I started crying too. I immediately ran into my mother's room, screaming at her to wake up. My fish was dead, and worse, her children were dead too. It was like my fish was Lacey and the crab was Scott Peterson. "Who kills a pregnant woman?!?!" I screamed to my mom.

Anyways, that was a traumatic experience. And the point of the story is that that one particular instance created in me a deep-rooted fear of crabs. Any size of crab. A great fear that they have the capability of disemboweling my womanhood. Stealing it away, and making me sterile. I hate all crabs.