Eyes

by Francois Bereaud

Simi sat on the Food 4 Less loading dock, pulling nicotine into his lungs and watching a rat eat the remainder of a bean burrito. He wondered if the rat could feel anxiety. Doubtful. The creature acted on impulse, just as he used to do, whether in the middle of a quick-flowing stream or on the wrestling mat. Impulse which short-circuited doubt.

“You got the eyes, boy,” Eric would tell him. The eyes to read the river for trout. The eyes to see an opponent’s move before it happened. But 4H ribbons and medals were a part of the past. As was Eric. A brain aneurysm at 42. As gone as the dad Simi never knew. Now, at 23, Simi knew the overnight shift stocking shelves. He knew the taste of bile when the assistant manager, a kid his age, called him out for misshelving the seasonal candy. As if Halloween was in August. Simi knew his older sister’s couch, his childhood bedroom rented out. Yet, much of his paycheck went to his mom, her rent payment gone to the latest boyfriend or bottle.

The cigarette nub warmed his fingertips, letting him know break time was almost over. A pallet of bottled water lay ahead. He looked back at the rat.

Enormous wings created a tsunami in the night air. The rat disappeared in shadow and then reemerged with a scream as the owl’s talon skewered its side. Simi flashed back to being eleven when he’d kicked at a trout for being too small, it flopping in the dirt, the barb of his hook piercing its mouth. “Stop,” Eric had said, his voice low but angry.

In the rays of the security light, Simi watched the owl ascend. The rodent cried again, then fell silent, a life extinguished.

Junior year, the regional finals, 158 pounds. Winner goes to State. “Shine at State and a college scholarship is in the bag,” Coach said. His opponent was a kid he’d beaten twice already. The kid was scrappy, but, midway through the second period, Simi had two take-downs and a comfortable lead. Then, right then, it began.

His eyes blurred, and he missed a lunge, a take-down for his opponent. He worked his way out, but his legs felt heavy then numb. He struggled to keep upright as they locked arms. A trout blocked his vision. A trout? Then, his legs gave out, and the kid jumped on. Pinned. Match over.

Coach helped him up. “There’s always senior year,” he consoled. Simi stood and felt the trout slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He staggered out of the gym, shouts behind him. In the parking lot, he vomited greasy, yellow matter behind the dumpster. He heard footsteps as he stared into the viscous pool. The fish was gone.

Tests revealed nothing. Severe anxiety, the only possible diagnosis. There was no wrestling senior year, no scholarship, no college. Nothing.

Simi flicked his cigarette butt into the dumpster and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Only one person would message him in the middle of the night.

Get a life. Take the class.

It was his friend Mona, and she had English 101 (at the community college) on the brain. “One class,” she’d told him a million times, “Just one class. Gotta start somewhere.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket and shook his legs. Fearful, just the thought of school would bring on the numbness.

An owl hooted. Another responded. He wondered if the rat was being shared or fought over. He turned and went back into the store.

Simi walked toward the Humanities Building, notebook in hand, hot and uncomfortable in his khakis. The bus was late, and class started in one minute, but he wouldn’t run. Students in bright colors walked in all directions. Most stared at their phones. A few smoked despite the “No Smoking” sign he passed. Some laughed. They belonged. Shiny happy people. An old boyfriend of his mom’s used to sing that song. He wanted a cigarette.

Mona had hugged him when he said he’d go, then again after she guided him through the online registration process. The course and health fee came to $148, which he had, but it was tight. “It’s worth it. Prof. Denise is the best,” Mona insisted, kissing him on the cheek. Prof. Denise?

The class was on the second floor. Simi felt his head spin and stomach drop as he climbed the stairs. It’d been years since school. He stopped at the top step and then moved slowly down the hall, wary that a hallucinatory trout would soon appear. He looked at his watch. Four minutes late. He approached the door and heard a woman’s voice. He peeked in and saw the class was full. No way was he going to interrupt, so Simi listened from the hall.

Prof. Denise asked the students to take out their phones and Google “Buzzfeed Pirate Evans.” Weird. It was a story that they read aloud. A woman becomes a pirate librarian and travels around promoting banned books. Then, she gets banned for being Black and loses her marriage and kid. Crazy, but good, like nothing he’d ever read in school. He almost wished he could be in the class. Hearing footsteps, he dropped his notebook. Grabbing it, he hurried off, wondering what he’d tell Mona.

“You lied to me. You didn’t go to class.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“You talked to Prof. Denise about me?” Through the phone speaker, Simi could hear Mona breathing heavily. “You had no right,” he said, his voice rising.

“Whatever. You should have gone.”

“‘Whatever’ That’s great. You don’t have anxiety. You don’t see fish—”

“Get over it, Simi. Or not. You think you’re the only person who gets anxious?” Now Mona’s voice rose. “Work at fucking Target the rest of your life!”

“‘Get over it’? Fuck—”

She hung up on him.

Simi sat on his sister’s couch. The living room was dark and sparse, the only other piece of furniture being a mostly empty, oak-finish laminate bookshelf with an even cheaper cobalt blue glass vase on top. He thought about the librarian pirate and how he didn’t come from a family of readers, about how many times he had thought to bring his sister flowers but didn’t. Maybe, he was a fuck-up. Ten years ago, he’d been a wunderkind, traveling around the state doing fly-tying demos. Five—no, six— years ago, he’d been the third-ranked wrestler in the state. Now…now, he had just enough time for a frozen burrito before heading to his overnight Target shift.

During his 11 p.m. break, an email:

Hi Simi. Missed you in class today. I’ve attached the syllabus and a link to a story we read. Tomorrow I have office hours in the campus library from 1-3, maybe you could drop by. See you in class Thursday. Prof. Denise

Simi closed his eyes. “Never miss a day on the river,” Eric always said. The metaphor was obvious, even to him.

“Simi!” called his manager. His break ended a minute ago.

Simi saw the red bag—one of those cloth bags everyone takes to the grocery store—on the path to the library. Next to it was a wrinkled monthly bus pass, much like his. He picked both up to turn in at the front desk. The bag was light, but not empty, the weight of a few notebooks. He didn’t bother to look inside.

The librarian gave him a bored look. “We don’t have a Lost and Found here. It’s probably best to take it to the campus police. They’re—” Simi knew he was being rude, but he turned from her. His face felt hot; he was getting angry. He shouldn’t have come. He stepped away quickly and jerked to the left to avoid bumping into a student heading to the desk. The bag slid off his right shoulder and hit the tile floor, several magazines skittering out across the terrazzo surface. Incredibly, a fish stared at him from the cover of the top one; it looked like one of the magazines he used to devour, Fly Tyer (or something of that sort). He blinked several times. It was real. He leaned over, picked it up, and began leafing through it in singular, smooth motions. Middle-aged white guys wading in scenic streams, multi-colored flies, and ads for reel sets covered the pages. Simi became twelve again—a cute, brown-skinned, gap-toothed kid with boundless enthusiasm. Then, someone brushed his shoulder. He returned to the present and looked down. A man with a very erect penis looked back at him from the next magazine. Fuck! Porn! He dropped the fishing magazine and started to run, his face now burning.  Close to the door, he slowed to avoid a couple holding hands.

“Simi!”

He froze, the woman’s voice vaguely familiar.

She followed him outside, and they stood under a tree next to some curved wooden benches. She could have been one of his aunties, his mom’s younger sister maybe. Skin tone like his, hoop earnings, jeans. Not what he imagined a college professor might look like, but what did he know?

“Those weren’t my magazines.” Why did I say that? His face was hot.

“Did you read the story I sent you?” Professor Denise sat down and motioned for him to do the same.

“Yes.” Simi sat at the opposite end of the bench.

“What did you think?”

“I liked it but don’t think I understood it.”

“What do you think it was about?”

Simi looked across the quad. Students filed into a building with “MATH” in block letters on the side. He looked back at Professor Denise. “Banned books? Race, maybe?” She nodded, unsmiling but friendly.

“That’s a good start. Students wrote a 250-word response in class, but you can send it in reply to my email. I should get back inside. See you in class tomorrow.” She left.

Class tomorrow? An assignment? He didn’t even ask her how she knew it was him. He sat for a while. He had the next few days off and no plans. How long was 250 words? A page? He tried to imagine going to class tomorrow, though Professor Denise seemed cool enough. He thought about Mona; he owed her an apology. His phone vibrated as he pulled it out.

Mom: I need your help. Brian is off.

It was his mom, and Brian was the latest boyfriend. He had a temper.

Simi stood; his pulse quickened. He closed his eyes, afraid of what might appear if he opened them.

The front door was open, and he could hear Brian’s voice from the walkway to the house. The sounds were loud but more sad than angry. His mom sat in the front room, spinning her phone in her palm. “If you can’t calm him down, I’m calling 911,” she said, pointing to the kitchen.

There Brian stood—back to Simi, shoulders shaking, pounding his fists on the counter. The cries came from deep in his chest. He hit the counter hard, rattling the kettle on the stove. Simi paused. Brian was wiry-strong, but Simi had bulk on him. Instinct kicked in. Simi grabbed him from behind, immobilized his arms, and then executed a takedown with his right leg. They landed with Brian half in Simi’s lap. Simi maintained his bear hug and, much to his surprise, Brian’s body deflated. The shouts became sobs, and Simi felt Brian’s tears on his hands. Then, felt his mom’s hand on his shoulder. “You can let go; he’ll be okay now. He has anxiety, too.”

Simi walked the three miles to his sister’s apartment, his head full of unanswered questions about a man he hardly knew, a teacher who actually seemed to care about him, and hallucinatory fish.     

Alone at the apartment, after eating a frozen burrito and rereading the Pirate story, he took out his notebook. What could he possibly have to say about a story he hardly understood? After an hour, there were half-written pages scattered across the floor. He messaged Mona.

SImi: Can I borrow your laptop? And I’m sorry.

She responded right away.

Mona: You should be.

Simi: Ok. But can I borrow the laptop?

Mona: Why?

Simi: I’m taking Prof. Denise’s class. I have HW due tomorrow.

Mona: K. I’ll bring it over. Fix me food.

Simi’s hands shook a bit as he grated cheese for Mona’s burrito. Now, he was committed. He had to take this class; he couldn’t lose this friendship. This opportunity.

He closed his eyes, hoping to see something. Anything. Anything but the life he knew. Certainly, anything but one of those damned fish.

BIO: Francois Bereaud is a husband, dad, full-time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. His stories and essays have been published online and in print and have earned Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. He serves as an editor at Roi Fainéant Press and Porcupine Literary. The Counter Pharma-Terrorist & The Rebound Queen is his published chapbook. In 2024, Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his first full manuscript, San Diego Stories, which is the realization of a dream Links to his writing at francoisbereaud.com.