hobbies, pets, and baggies

We usually met at one of three parking lots. A roulette wheel of rendezvous. They were all public places, and had an unintended theme of “stimulants.” Coffee shops mostly, a Starbuck’s lot being the most recognizable.

He drove a black Audi with red leather seats on lease. A decision Isaac himself recognized as idiotic. There wasn’t an established consensus on who got into whose car, it usually boiled down to whomever arrived last. I’ve been performing this ritual with him for nearly three years, and the parking lots rarely varied. Over the holidays, Isaac added an additional slice to the roulette, a pinned address I didn’t recognize. A surreptitious green, an unfamiliar parking lot. I made my way there, wad in hand.

I pulled into a PetCo lot, wary of the comings and goings of dogs.

“Hey man, get in.” He began clearing the passenger seat for me. I sat and quietly slid him the sweaty wad, and he a small baggie to me. He had stopped counting the wad years ago, and simply pocketed the cash. I’ve never once shorted him, and wasn’t about to start. We usually sat around a while and discussed, well, whatever. We shared a camaraderie over being the children of immigrants. His parents had flen Iran, which I found hilarious given his vocation. He was always a good sport about it. He was the most animated when we discussed Islam, a vitriol I figure he inherited.

“What’s up with the PetCo?” The presence of dogs made me anxious.

“I need new cleaner fish for my aquarium. Some fresh plants as well. Maybe a couple of fish if I see anything.”

“You have an aquarium?”

“Yeah, man. Gotta have hobbies.” This was all news to me. Three whole years he had never once mentioned his aquarium. I guess I didn’t see him as the type. What was an aquarium “type” anyway?

“You mind if I join you?” An eager curiosity. I wanted to know more about this aquarium. I wanted to know more about this acquaintence who had abruptly turned stranger.

“Naw man, c’mon let’s go.” A wave of a hand, a shutter of doors, a beep, and we were off.

We proceeded into the PetCo, directly to the fish. He navigated the aisles with little difficulty, as if he’d done it hundreds of times prior. He chose two cleaner fish, and an attendant bagged them with fresh water. Baggies of his own. He proceeded to give me a tour of his aquarium’s inhabitants.

“Got two of these, three of those, they’re a real bitch to keep alive. This one, this one right here? They’re assholes.”

He was having a good time indulging me, and I was entertained by his running commentary. We browsed the section and I asked him about his aesthetic, what kind of flora and fauna, from what parts of the world. I forgot all about what I was hiding in my pocket.

I followed Isaac to the register, enlightened. He pulled out the same sweaty wad of cash I had paid him in, and paid for his fish.

We left the store, and he drove off to wherever he called home. I sat in my car and thought a while.

Despite the wholesome exchange, I came to a sobering conclusion: I really ought to buy Isaac fewer fish.