“It’s past closing time,” said Hiro. “I had to throw away the dumpling batter.”
One of the octopus’s arms struck loudly on the pavement as it shuffled forward, beckoning him.
If anyone asked him why he had just let the octopus slither out the back of the kitchen and into the alley, he couldn’t have given a good answer. He couldn’t tell anyone why he’d followed it, either, leaving three servings of half-cooked shrimp on the griddle.
The octopus stopped and swiveled its bulbous head to look at a sign above a still-lit shop.
“Just go home, Kento. It’s too filthy for akashiyaki now.”
“He’s stopped at an arcade.”
“The animals will get him if he doesn’t dry up first. Don’t be late tomorrow,” Hiro sighed. Kento heard a faint rattle of plastic as Hiro dropped the handset in its cradle.
The flashing red lights of the games beyond the glass reflected off the octopus’s skin. It turned towards the arcade and pushed open the glass door, leaving greasy streaks amidst little round sucker marks. Aside from a teenager who carried his too-big frame with an awkward hunch, the arcade was empty. The octopus moved along the dirty floors littered with candy wrappers and soda stains until it reached a wall in the back.
Skee ball machines.
It looked at him. It held out an arm.
He used to bring dates here. How many dates had he ruined by talking about work? Skee ball, though . . . everybody liked skee ball. He’d heard octopuses were smart, able to escape their tanks. He’d never heard of them asking anyone to spare some change.
Kento fished in his pocket until he found a dollar. He swapped it for quarters in a change machine and tossed one to the octopus. The octopus caught it, but slapped its arm twice. Then it pointed at the coin slot. Fifty cents. Kento wiped sweat from his upper lip and tossed it another quarter.
The octopus inserted the coins. Heavy, baseball-sized brown balls thundered into the rack alongside the game’s ramp.
The octopus stared at Kento. It stretched out a tentacle and pointed at the machine next to its own.
Kento took his position further down the aisle and inserted his quarters. The balls thundered into his rack.
The octopus clung to the edge of the ramp while it fumbled over the lip of the rack, grasping its first ball. Kento caught sight of its beak and suppressed a chill.
The octopus swiveled an eye at him. Kento turned back to his own game. He rolled his first ball into a score pipe for thirty points; faded orange raffle tickets spat out the metal slot beneath the ball rack.
With two arms, the octopus rolled a ball up the incline buffed and faded from decades of use. The ball rolled for a few feet but slowed and reversed direction. The octopus caught it and paused, considering. It curled the ball deep into one arm’s pit and snapped it like a whip. The ball almost reached the top of the incline before it lost its momentum and rolled back, gaining speed as it went.
The octopus held arms out to grab it, but the heavy ball rolled between them and smacked into its head, knocking it onto the floor.
Kento finished his game, keeping track of the octopus in his periphery. The octopus hefted itself onto the game’s structure, collected its heavy balls and slithered up the ramp, dumping each ball in the hundred-point pipe.
“That’s cheating,” Kento said.
Tickets spat out near the coin slot. The octopus collected them. Kento backpedaled when the octopus lurched towards him. It snatched the long tongue of raffle tickets out of his machine as well, then slithered towards the prize room.
A moment later it shuffled back out, carrying something fluffy and brightly colored in two of its arms. A stuffed bumblebee.
Kento peered into the game room. The old attendant was asleep on a stool, a bong next to the cash register. The tickets lay on the glass countertop, streaked with mucus. Kento glanced at the clock. One thirty.
“Are you going to stay out all night?” Kento asked when they were back out on the street. The octopus paid him no attention, squirming down the sidewalk with its bumblebee, clutching it like a little kid.
“We don’t even have to eat you, you know,” said Kento. “You can live in the tank out front. We’ll serve up the clown fish instead. We’ll put your picture on the menu covers.” He started to chuckle but it died in his throat.
The smell of dried fish wafted on the chilly air around him. He pulled the collar of his jacket up and sniffed. “Is that you?”
The octopus stopped at a lit phone booth. It slapped twice on the plate glass, and then pointed at the phone book inside.
“It’s attached,” said Kento. “See?” He reached in and tugged on the metal cable tethering the phone book in its black plastic cover.
He stepped back to let the octopus squirm inside the booth. It reached up, wrapped its suckers on the pages, and tore the entire phone book out of its cover with one powerful yank.
It tossed the pages on the floor of the booth and started sifting through them. Finally it picked up one page with its suckers and held it up to Kento. He pulled it away, and tried not to touch the wet bits.
It was an ad for the city aquarium.
“You want to go here?”
The octopus nodded.
“Hate to break it to you,” Kento said, balling up the paper and tossing it back. “The aquarium is locked at night.”
The octopus dipped an arm tip into a greasy puddle next to the curb and wrote in broad, sloppy streaks on the booth’s glass: PLZ
Kento’s chest swelled. “I’m sorry. We just can’t.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to remember how long ago they decided to outfit the restaurant to keep live octopuses on site. It hadn’t been long.
He was tired. Not knowing what else to do, he turned away. The octopus followed.
He cut through the parking lot between two buildings. If it followed him now, it might follow him all the way back to the restaurant. He had a key to that door, at least. Responsibility or guilt, he didn’t know which, made him glance over his shoulder. The octopus had picked up the wadded ad for the aquarium and was crawling after him.
“Pal, it’s closed. I’ll get you to a tank, trust me.” He hoped Hiro wouldn’t argue about keeping him as a mascot. A sudden chill crawled up his back. Octopus dumplings were on the menu, after all. He couldn’t be at the restaurant to keep an eye on his brother all the time.
The dumpster next to him rattled. Something yowled behind him. Kento walked faster, hoping the octopus would keep up. When he glanced back again, he stopped. The octopus crawled on towards him, a cluster of alley cats now stalking behind it. Childlike, the octopus clutched its bumblebee tightly. Kento’s protective instinct switched on.
“Hey! Get away from him!” He walked back to the group and waved his arms in the air, but the grizzled cats paid him no mind. One inched forward, whiskers protruding, head low. It lifted a paw to bat at the octopus.
The octopus slapped it across the face. The cat backed away and hissed, hackles raising. Other cats took up the noise. The octopus shifted one of its sides up and squirted a stream of ink at a big tabby, which jumped backward with a yowl.
The animals swarmed then, and Kento waded in, yanking them off and tossing them aside. Within seconds his hands were covered in burning scratches. Two smooth, squishy arms shot out of the pile and Kento grabbed them, then reeled backward, drawing the octopus out of the scuffle. Two of its other arms had detached, twitching on the ground. Scratches covered its skin.
He hugged the writhing octopus to his chest and ran, fueled by fear of the caterwauling horde. The animals followed.
They chased him back out into the parking lot, across the street, down the block, frenzied by the smell of fish. No one else was on the street this late at night in this part of the city. He spared a glance at his feet. T
he streetlight behind him cast shadows of a dozen animals, distorted and stretched.
He could smell the bloated wood and rotting market fish of the pier. A suckered arm pointed down a side street. Kento veered that way. The cats gained in number; the odor from the octopus grew stronger.
Kento knew it was dehydrating. That was a bad sign. He ran even faster, fighting the burning fatigue that crept up his thighs and the stabbing pain in knees unused to running. He was just thankful the gulls were asleep at night.
That’s when he heard the shrill cries above.
The octopus cringed against his jacket.
“Here we go,” Kento panted. “Here we go.” He could see the pier and the night-black waters of the inlet beyond. The briny smell of the saltwater roused the octopus.
The cats were closing in. Gulls circled above, drawn from their nests by the overpowering smell. The octopus pulled up its dangling tentacles and wrapped them around Kento’s neck. A gargling whistle sounded just above him, and wings smacked him, coating him with feather dander.
His sneakers suddenly struck loud on the wooden planks of a dock. Cats ran beside him now. The gull snapped at the octopus. Kento shielded it with his arm and cried out as the gull’s beak struck.
“Get ready,” he said.
The octopus retracted its arms and curled itself into a ball. Kento made to throw it over the dock, but the gulls had already started swooping. They’d catch it.
Kento ran faster and jumped off the dock, curling himself around the octopus as the gulls dove for him.
He didn’t have a plan.
His stomach lifted with the sudden pull of gravity, then saltwater and frigid darkness enveloped him. He let go of the octopus and pulled himself to the surface, gasping for air. Cats and seagulls, denied their meal, cursed at him from the dock with yowls and cackles. He swam towards shore.
Something soggy and wet still clung to his jacket. He pulled it above the water line with a sudden urgency, hoping to see the familiar tube-eyes.
It was only the bumblebee.
Kento crawled onto the dirty beach beneath the pier, shattered seashells tearing at the soles of his sneakers, and trudged toward the tourist harbor area. He pulled out his phone, peeled off a piece of seaweed and flipped it open. Its screen was black.
He found a phone booth and called Hiro.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hiro. He sounded like he’d been asleep. “Why are you out of breath?”
“Hiro,” said Kento, the stuffed bumblebee dangling from his hand. “We’re taking akashiyaki off the menu.”
He hung up as his brother’s questions began. He didn’t have answers.
He hugged the soggy bumblebee against his chest as he walked home, sneakers squishing with every step.
Feeding Strays
Nicole Kimberling
By the time most people reach their thirties, they will perceive the obligation to occasionally provide nourishment to at least one child. Perhaps this child is your own. Or maybe it is the child of a friend who is in the hospital producing an additional child. Or the child could turn out be some neighborhood stray who guilelessly shows up on the porch at lunchtime every Sunday clutching a well-worn fork.
I do not pretend to know how to feed little children. Insofar as I’ve observed they exist entirely on ketchup, macaroni and cheese and meat. My experience lies in feeding the vacuum-mouthed, black hole of caloric consumption commonly called the adolescent.
Many cooks staring into the yawning, lightless chasm of the fourteen-year-old mouth will simply buckle under the pressure and call out for pizza. And I don’t blame them. It’s hard to look into that limitless void of hunger and not feel so inadequate to the task at hand that professional assistance is required. I offer a different, cheaper, healthier solution: Beans & Rice.
Step One: Scrutinize your young diner and interrogate.
Is this child a vegetarian? Vegan? Are they allergic to any foods? Do they hate any kind of food? Do they love any kind of food? What’s important to remember during this interview is that, while you are attempting to discern your diner’s taste, the meal that will ultimately be made is Beans & Rice. All answers should fall within Beans & Rice parameters. Should the diner respond with a statement such as, “the only thing I really hate is Beans & Rice,” feel free to invite them to get a job, make some money and use it to dine elsewhere. Remember that you’re trying to be a good host, not an 18th century below-stairs servant. If your diner tells you that they don’t like beans, suggest chickpeas instead. Most people who won’t eat beans because of their texture will eat chickpeas.
If the diner completely refuses to eat Beans & Rice point the youth in the direction of the refrigerator and suggest that they help themselves to whatever meal they find in there. Blithely quip, “Mi kitchen es su kitchen, kid. Knock yourself out,” then make yourself some Beans & Rice. It is crucially important here that you make enough to feed both yourself and the child even though that same child has refused to eat. Few contrary teens will have the coordination, knowledge or attention span to make their own food. Something like 90% of them will slink back defeated and eat what you made. The remaining 10%, who actually follow through and make their own dinner should be commended for their efforts, no matter how bizarre or repulsive they might turn out to be. This contrarian problem-solver will most likely blossom into a cool adult . . . eventually.
NOTE: A very small percentage of diners will refuse to eat altogether if they cannot have exactly what they want. Take comfort in the fact that they are most likely used to going hungry . . . And if they aren’t, going hungry now will be a great life lesson for them.
Step Two: Formulate a Plan.
Beans & Rice has three major components: beans, rice, and sauce. Rice is easy, simply buy what you like and cook it according to package instructions.
Sauce is the most complex part of the dish. It needs to have a base: three easy bases are tomato, coconut milk, and reduced stock. Into that base goes the flavoring. Flavorings are virtually limitless. Here are a few bean, sauce base and flavor combinations:
New Orleans Style: red beans with onion, green pepper, celery, and thyme in diced tomato base. (Optional: sliced smoked sausage, splash of red wine.)
South Indian: garbanzo beans with whole cumin seed, yellow onion, fresh tomato, scallion, and ginger in coconut base
African: red beans with ginger and berbere in diced tomato base. To finish this dish, thin a spoonful of peanut butter with water and stir into beans at the very end, once they have been removed from the heat. (Optional: diced cooked poultry, such as chicken or turkey.)
French: white beans with onion, carrot, celery, and tarragon in a chicken or vegetable stock that has been augmented with a small amount of tomato paste (Optional: diced cooked bacon, splash of white wine.
Persian: garbanzo beans with onion, garlic, and dill in a crushed tomato base.
Step Three: Assemble Ingredients
One can of beans will feed two teens or three regular humans. Count the number and age affiliation of the diners present and gather appropriate number of cans. The ratio of sauce base to beans is 1:1 so for every can of beans, one can of sauce base is required.
Step Four: Cook
In a saucepan, heat cooking oil, about 2 Tbsp for each can of beans. Add flavorings such as whole spices, garlic, or ginger first. Then add diced vegetables such as carrot or onion.
NOTE: the combined volume of chopped vegetables should not exceed one cup per can of beans.
Cook vegetables until soft. Add wine, if using. Add sauce base, bring to a simmer and reduce by half—about ten minutes.
NOTE: when using coconut milk, skip the reduction step. Coconut milk does not need to be reduced.
Once base has reduced, add seasoning such as powdered spices, scallions, and fresh or dried herbs.
Drain and rinse canned beans
, then add to pot. At this point, there might not be enough sauce to lubricate the beans. Just add water or stock until the beans are barely covered. Add cooked meats if using. Cook five minutes more, then taste and season with salt.
Step Five: Plate, Garnish, and Serve
Heap rice in a bowl and spoon beans over half of the rice, leaving the second half pristine. Sprinkle with appropriate garnishes such as such fresh herbs or grated cheese. Serve and enjoy.
Springtime for the Roofer
Brian Baldi
Below, there were five of them. The roofer saw them through the emerging green of the box elder, and the truth was he didn’t much care for all their here and there. What they did was run—if you could call it that—after each other. To the roofer, it looked like a game of tag, mostly because of the tagging. One would follow another through all sorts of turns and circling of the tree. Sometimes they’d go all the way to the black chain link border of the lawn. As soon as contact was made—a hard touch—a switch would happen and the chaser would become the one being chased. All afternoon this happened.
The roofer cleaned up a small pile of stripping felt he’d left on the raised ledge of the building. He looked down at the tag game one more time before examining his work. The new piece of metal flashing was secure and sealed. He grabbed his hammer, and walked to the next corner, sneaking looks at the field. The tag continued, the exchanges pretty quick. Who taught them?, the roofer thought. Who in the world would give them this idea of tag? Who could benefit from it?
He dropped his tools near a reddened piece of metal that was raised ever so slightly from the rest of the roof. He looked at the corrosion, and then at the field below. One of them made a sudden movement toward the others, and the others scattered.
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