Out Of Here

Bigger Fish

Bigger Fish

Originally published in the Fantastic Wonder Stories anthology (edited by Russell Farr)

A stuffy afternoon in the bank. Michael leant back in his seat, staring at the queue of people waiting for the tellers. A brochure about interest rates had become ragged from his rolling it up and unrolling it.

His mind sang She said yes, she said yes, she said yes.

'Mr. Cleveland? The manager is ready to see you now.'

Michael rose. As if walking on air, he followed the receptionist to the manager's office, but he saw only Julie's green eyes, full of love.

A friendly male voice broke into his thoughts. 'Good morning, Mr. Cleveland.'

The man behind the desk--if it was indeed a man--wore a goldfish suit. Big flapping fins of Styrofoam hung over the armrests of the chair. Boggling google-eyes jiggled independently on the top of a monstrous head. Two holes on either side of the body let out orange-clad arms. The mouth was a gaping dark hole--presumably to allow the occupant to see.

Michael stopped two paces inside the door. Giggled. 'What . . . what is this for?'

The goldfish-manager gestured at a poster on the wall. On it, a sour-faced angler removed a goldfish from his hook while the ocean around his dingy teemed with fish. Tuna. Sharks. Whales. Bold text underneath said The ocean is full of bigger fish. Let us help you catch them. A voice rumbled from within the fish suit, 'We're running a promotion. Sit down Mr. Cleveland.'

Oh. Advertising. Michael took the seat on his side of the desk. He smiled. These guys had a sense of humour. He liked that.

The goldfish-manager checked Michael's details--name address, date of birth and such. Then he said, 'Now how can we be of assistance?'

Julie's eyes came back into Michael's mind. 'I'm getting married. I'd like to borrow money to buy a home unit.'

A gust of wind blew dead leaves into the bank foyer. Clamping his arms around himself against the chill, Michael strode to the information desk, letting the warmth inside the building envelop him. The girl behind the counter smiled. 'Can I help you, Mister?'

'Michael Cleveland. I have an appointment with the manager.'

While she led him to an office, Michael gazed around the interior of the bank. The place smelled of new carpet and the tellers sat in glass cubicles which had not been there at his last visit, just over two years ago.

But the manager's office was still the same. To Michael's surprise, even the poster still hung on the wall. In two years, its gaudy colours had faded a bit, and the goldfish looked no longer fat and orange, but a sickly shade of yellow. The blue sky had faded to grey.

The bank manager wore a tuna suit.

Michael sank down in his chair, admiring the life-like shimmer of the suit's skin. Geez, these guys did take their job seriously.

'Mr Cleveland, how can we help you today?' rumbled the tuna.

With a last grin, Michael came back to reality. 'Julie's pregnant--'

'Congratulations, Mr Cleveland! The joys of parenthood are second to none. When is the baby due?'

Michael gave a brief sigh. 'She's expecting twins.'

'Twins! Double the pleasure.'

'Yes, and double the expense, double the space, double everything. I need another loan. The unit is much too small for us.'

'No problem, Mr. Cleveland, no problem. Let me just bring your information on the screen.'

Damn the rain.

Michael braced himself and ran from his car to the foyer of the bank. The smell of new paint assaulted him. Desks along the wall were also new, and chairs covered in fabric the same colour as the carpet.

The manager's office, however, was still the same. And that same ad still adorned the wall. Somehow, the sour look on the angler's face looked worse as if he, too, was sick of looking at that meagre goldfish. That poster had been on the wall for--what--six years?

The chair on the other side of the desk was empty, but Michael sat down anyway, glancing at his watch. He didn't have much time. He had promised Julie he'd pick up the boys from preschool, so she could attend her appointment with the gynaecologist without them running around the surgery. Another set of twins were only a month away. Girls, these ones.

'Good afternoon Mr Cleveland. How can I be of assistance?'

The bank manager's shark suit no longer surprised Michael. What did surprise him was how real it looked. Fish eyes no longer fake observed him. Even the dingy on the poster seemed to roll and pitch. 'I need . . .' He averted his gaze; his stomach felt queasy. 'Julie says we need another car. A big one so she can take the kids. The boys are starting school next year, you know . . .' He sighed. A bigger car, more money, a bigger loan to be paid back.

The shark-manager nodded, as far as one can nod inside a shark suit. 'I understand. You want to add to your loan?'

Michael cringed. 'Yes.' However he was going to pay it back he didn't know. Julie couldn't work when the kids were this small--he didn't expect her to. Hell--they'd spend more in childcare than she'd make. But somehow, they had to find the money.

The shark-manager used triangular fore-fins to bring Michael's details up on the screen. Secretly, in the back of his mind, Michael hoped he would shake his shark-head and tell him that with his current liabilities, a further loan was impossible, but the voice inside the mouth rumbled, 'A decent car--say 70K?'

Grinding his teeth, Michael nodded. He'd have to take a second job.

It was long after dark on a cold winter night that Michael trudged into the bank foyer. They had recently started late night trading, which was just as well, because how else could he still visit the branch?

Only that morning, he had risen at five, clambered his way over Lego blocks and dolls strewn over the floor, into the kitchen to make his lunch, left the house while Julie was still asleep. He had worked filling shelves at a supermarket until nine, rushed to his desk job and back to the supermarket when he finished.

He slouched into the bank, straight to the office, didn't knock at the manager's door and sank into the far-too-familiar chair. That damn poster was still on the wall. The angler looked positively ugly. The goldfish in his hand had shrivelled into a sickly wreck and the ocean surrounding the boat teemed with fish with big teeth.

There are bigger fish in the ocean. Let us help you catch them.

Michael let out a sarcastic chuckle.

He was not surprised when the manager entered the office in a whale suit. Really! How could they maintain a silly advertising campaign for over ten years? He crossed his arms over his chest. He was tired and not in the mood for childish stuff.

'How is the family, Mr. Cleveland?' The voice inside the whale suite was ever friendly, but Michael longed to rip it off, to see who hid in this ridiculous thing.

But he only sighed and said, 'The kids are growing up fast. They need more space. Julie says we cannot have the four of them in one room. I suppose she's right. We really need to extend the house, and--'

'And you want to add to your loan?'

Michael clenched his jaws, staring up at the tiny black eyes of the whale suit, and into the mouth where the real person would be hiding, wherever, to meet the bank manager's eyes. He clenched his hands in his lap. No, please say no. But the whale-manager reached for the computer keyboard, typed and turned the screen towards Michael. 'That's how much a decent renovation would add to your monthly repayments.'

Michael sat.

And stared at the screen.

And had no idea what he would do first: run out, or faint.

In the corner of the room, the printer hummed out a few sheets of paper.

The whale-manager collected them and placed them on the desk before Michael. While the fin pointed at the dotted line at the bottom of the last page, the voice inside the whale suit rumbled, 'Just sign here. You are doing the right thing and looking after your family--'

Michael took the pen. Along its length in white letters was the now-familiar slogan. There are bigger fish in the ocean. Let us help you catch them.

He chewed the end of the pen. Looked at the figures on the page.

Sweat broke out on his forehead.

No.

He slumped on the table and burst into tears. 'I'm sorry, I can't. There is no way I can afford that much. I'm already working two jobs. And then there's their private schooling, and sport, and music tuition, and overseas trips, and University, and . . .' Imagined Julie's face when he had come home from his lawn-mowing jobs, to find the contents of the toy box all over the floor. Him yelling for the kids to play somewhere else, and Julie yelling back But they have nowhere else to play.

A rubbery flipper patted his shoulder. 'There, there. Don't worry. We will help you.'

Michael lifted his head. 'You just don't get it, do you? I don't want your help. The only thing you do is put me further into debt. I'd need to be a bank manager to meet this sort of payment.'

The whale-manager leaned back into his seat, fins folded over his white belly of squishy foam. 'Really? You think so? Would you like to be a bank manager?'

Michael stared for a moment; sensed that this was not a joke. 'You mean, you can give me a job that pays enough to . . .' He gestured at the document before him.

The manager's voice was soft. 'That--and more.'

Michael stammered, 'But . . .'

The manager rose, pushing to un-jam the awkward whale suit from between the armrests of the chair. He shuffled around the desk, to sit on the edge facing Michael. 'Would you be interested in my job?'

Michael shrunk back, unsure what to say. He didn't have diplomas or anything that would entitle him to a job like that. For just a moment, though, it was nice to pretend that he did. He replied a hesitant, 'Yes . . .'

At that, the whale-manager fell forward off the desk, drowning Michael in folds of squishy Styrofoam. His chair toppled backwards, and his head hit the wall.

All went black.

When Michael came to, he sat in a chair. He was hot and sweaty and his field of vision was restricted to a smallish oval which showed the open door to the office. A middle-aged man ran from the building yelling, 'I'm free, I'm free.'

The man bore an uncanny resemblance to the photo displayed on the computer. Underneath it was a name, Michael Cleveland.

But that's me!

'Hey, wait!' Michael tried to get up, but folds of Styrofoam held him firmly jammed in his chair. His arm came into his vision, clad in orange. He turned around to the wall behind him. The poster of the angler had gone back to its initial bright colours.

There was a knock on the door. The young receptionist gestured inside. 'The manager will see you now, Mr. Wood.'

A young man entered the office, giggled at Michael's outfit and sat down on the other side of the desk.

Michael understood. He heaved a sigh inside his goldfish suit and said, 'How can we help you, Mr. Wood?'

The young man wrung his hands. 'Well--it is like this. I sorta accidentally got my girlfriend up the duff--y'know, and uhm--to cut a long story short--we're living in a share house and I want to borrow some money to buy a small unit.'

About this story:

This story is one of a couple of twisted fairytales I have written, inspired by The Fisherman and his Wife, and a couple of insane advertisements at a local branch of a large bank.