The only way to catch tiger cubs is to go into the tiger’s den—Fortune cookie
“Liss! We’re leaving!”
The bar is called Sharks.
“Okay.”
That’s where my dad works.
“Liss! We gotta go.”
That’s where he met her.
“But I’m reading about cuniculus.”
Her name is Candy.
“Bring it with you.”
They have a real shark behind the bar. It’s in a cage.
“I’m out of power!”
“Liss. Right now.”
It’s very small. It’s about as long as my arm.
“Is there a plug there?”
“We’ll find one.”
Candy is the bartender. She serves my dad drinks.
“There better be a plug.”
Candy is maybe twenty.
“Liss. I’m late.”
My dad is fifty-two.
“I’m late. I’m late.” My dad was always late.
“Why can’t you work in Hollywood?”
“Because. That’s not where the money is.”
“I need to find a plug when we get there.”
“Do you have enough power for the drive?”
“I might, I might not; I’m not sure—look, I have one bar.”
“Get your toothbrush.”
“Why do I have to get my emphtoothbrush?”
“Because. Alice. Liss. We’re leaving now.”
“What about my toothbrush?”
“Forget it. Liss. We’re outta time.”
Daddy does the work. He’s the one who’s always working. Me and Edy have all the fun. Mom gets in the way.
“Hannah. This isn’t what we talked about. I thought you had Pilates on Saturday.”
“Liss has Pilates on Saturday. I have Pilates today.”
“Why can’t you go together.”
“They’re different classes.”
“What is it,” my dad says, “that makes Pilates for children different than Pilates for adults?”
“How many bars do you have now?”
I stare at him. “One.”
He’s opening the ashtray.
“I already told you it was one.”
Now he has a cigarette between his lips. “I’m just checking in with you. I wanna make sure you have what you need.”
“It was one before. How could it be anything but one or zero now?”
“I’m trying to make sure”—the unlit cigarette bobs—“that it’s not zero.”
He looks over. We’re stopped on the 101. I have his lighter in my hand. “Can I have that?”
I twiggle it in my fingers. “Looking for something?”
“Liss. Thanks.”
My finger is on the window button. Index finger, down.
Cars are stopped. There’s a carnival, there. They have a balloon slide inflated next to the gas station. No one’s on it.
“You might want to get gas.” I’m looking out the window.
“Liss, can I have my lighter.”
“There’s a gas station right there.”
“Thanks, Liss, just, can I have that.”
I’m lighting it, the flame between me and the driver of the next car. It’s a girl, she’s got her mirror out, smacking her lips. Done. I stick my tongue out. She doesn’t notice. I make my face to the side-mirror of our car.
“Liss, can I have my lighter.”
“It’s almost out. You need to get gas.”
“Oh fuck. Can I get over?” Dad lays on the horn. He’s smacking the steering wheel, looking over at the girl like emphwhaaa? She doesn’t even give us the finger. She just puts her car in park and takes out her mirror again. “Liss. Am I clear?”
The highway is stopped. There’s a half a car length in front of Makeup before a truck of Mexicans. It’s a work truck. My dad always says whenever you see two or more Mexicans together the chances are they’ll be moving a couch. I look down at the road, then peek back at Dad. I drop the lighter on the highway and we can hear it click.
“What was that? Liss.”
I press the unlock button but Dad presses lock.
“It fell.”
Dad smacks the horn. Then he has his phone out.
“How many bars do emphyou have?” I ask.
He says: “Four.”
He hands me the cigarette, which I throw out the window.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” he says, and he’s squeezing us between Makeup and the Mexicans, and we’re creeping over to the right side of the highway, where the exit is.
The bar is called Sharks. That’s where my dad works. Candy is maybe twenty. My dad is fifty-two.
“We need an outlet. Can you plug her in?” “It’s USB.”
Candy’s face is perfect. We could lick it. She shines, especially her lips. Some high-gloss finishing.
“What do you call those boxes?” “What boxes?” “Dad, the boxes we get at Sushi.” “Bento boxes.”
That’s Candy’s lips. A bento box.
“Can I touch the shark?” “Come’on, Liss.” “You want to touch it?” That’s Candy. “Yeah.”
The shark is very quiet. His cage is labeled. It says, “SHARK!” It’s labeled for safety. Sharks bite, even very small ones. “Have you ever had a shark attack?” “No.” Candy opens the top of the cage. She sets it on the bar. My dad is over there looking at the menu. It’s like 10am. “Pet him gently.” “I will.” “And the scales—the skin—it only goes one way, so—like this. Go front to back.” “Liss, be quick. What do you want for breakfast?” “Mexican Benedict,” I say. Mexican Benedict is the best. “He won’t bite.” “Has he ever bitten anyone?” “Not that I know of. His mouth is too small.” “But his teeth are still sharp. What about baby snakes?” I ask. “What about them?” Candy says. “They have more poison than their adult counterparts.” “Do they?” she asks. “Of course they do, haven’t you ever heard that?” I say, but Candy is over with my dad laying out our napkins.
Baby shark, tiny shark, what can you do for me? Do you answer prayers? If I wrap up a sushi roll and drop it in your cage will you eat it? I feed my dog mozzarella cheese and beef, which is strange to imagine a dog dining on a cow in the wild, so would this work? Would a shark eat a shark if he was especially hungry? What if you disguised the shark as a cake and fed it to him? Would he fall for it? I think this SHARK! needs a birthday hat. He needs one. Pink to go with his blue. A pointy hat, with elastic to hold it on him.
“What’s his birthday?”
Candy’s typing on a plastic screen, ordering our food. “What?”
I tap on the glass. “His birthday.”
“I don’t know,” she screams to the back, “Pila, what’s his birthday?”
(Pila is pronounced emphPillah.)
Pila yells back: “What?”
“SHARK! What’s his birthday?”
“Candy, what’s our Facebook password? I need you to log me on.”
“I will, but when’s SHARK!’s birthday?”
Silence.
“Pila?!”
“I need to get online. Does Tara know the password? Candy. It’s half-price night. Half-price bottles. I gotta put the—can you get me on Facebook?”
“Tell me SHARK!’s birthday first.”
“What the fuck. Can—” Pila’s coming up the bar. “Liss!” He looks over at my dad. Dad holds up his hand and goes back to his work.
Candy’s got a bottle of Don Julio in one hand. She’s pouring for my dad. “SHARK!’s birthday.”
Pila leans across the bar and touches my elbow. He’s bald. “You wanna know his birthday?”
“Is he a he?”
Pila looks at SHARK! “I don’t know.”
“He looks like a he,” I say. “It’s hard to tell.”
“I can tell you his store birthday. Candy I need my Facebook password.”
“Tell her his birthday first.”
“His birthday..is on Facebook.”
“SHARK! is on Facebook!?”
“No—he doesn’t—he doesn’t have his own page—”
“He should.”
“Candy.”
“What.”
“He should have his own page,” Pila is saying.
Candy is squirting orange juice in my dad’s marguerita.
“When you finish that would you please go look up SHARK!’s birthday on Facebook?”
“I thought you said he didn’t have a page.”
“I want you to make him a page. He doesn’t. I posted the day we got him. He does look like a him, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I say.
But my dad has it. He looks up from his screen. “October 30, 2010. So he’s..what..twenty months?”
“He’s a baby.” I would pinch his cheeks if he had them.
“That’s just his store birthday,” Pila says.
“Store birthday,” I say, “is good enough.”
And Candy gives my dad his drink.
“What do you want for breakfast, Liss?”
“Mexican Benedict.”
“I’ve got it.”
“What do you want to drink?”
I look over at my dad. “A virgin red-headed slut.” My dad looks at me.
I’m not backing down.
A virgin red-headed slut, with cream, cream swirling, the way Candy makes it, red and white mixed together. I like it in the angular glass. The cream swirls like smoke. Angles of the glass coming together like legs, then that long stem. Red-headed slut, a virgin. Cream coming together, swish it in my mouth, swig it, lick the top of the glass with my tongue. “More cream.” “Sure.” Then you’re back talking with my dad, and he’s ogling you. I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way, but if you’re not careful it won’t just be Dad who’s late, it’ll be Candy too, and then Pilates arrangements back in Hollywood will become even more difficult.
Concentrate on what you are doing. At all times. Concentrate. Use the entire body. Focus. Breathe. There is nothing more critical than focus. And focus should be intense. Focus should be burning. It should pierce. Pierce. Nothing about our Method is haphazard. You must be in control of every aspect of every movement. Control-ology. That is the name of our game. Tighten the buttocks. Mind your inner thighs. We’re building a powerhouse. Concentrate your mental focus with every movement, lest improper control leads to the loss of every vital benefit we pursue. Clean your body. Clean your house. Circulate the blood. Breathe. Breathe. This above all else: Pilates is learning to breathe.
I wonder if you can teach a shark to breathe above the water.
“Candy, will you bring me a bowl?”
Maybe we’ll find out.