A 52-Hertz Whale

by Bill Sommer

  Why?

  Well, first off, we’re not two separate species. Second, you’re better-looking than these tiny crabs. Third, I’m not harmed by our relationship. Not even in the slightest bit.

  In fact, the opposite.

  Since we started emailing one another, I began healing from Salt’s death, became arguably the most famous yeti in the tri-county area, waged a campaign to educate my fellow Carlsburg students about the plight of an endangered species, and got asked to Turnabout by the sweetest girl in the school.

  Therefore, I’ve come to the realization that our relationship is one of mutualism, which is another type of symbiosis. A good example of mutualism is the boxer crab, which holds sea anemones (a kind of stinging coral that looks like a flower) in its claws to ward away predators. The crab receives protection because its enemies are afraid of getting stung, but in this case, the anemone benefits from the relationship too by getting first dibs at the crab’s leftovers. This seems like our type of symbiosis because you helped me find my way in this aquarium called high school. Also, mutualism resembles friendship.

  Which brings me to my next point. In order for our relationship to be considered mutualistic, I must do something for you other than be the nerdy girl or the Robin to your Batman. Thus, I want to provide some kind of advice to you now—how helpful it will be, I don’t know. But it occurs to me that there is another interesting piece to symbiosis: mimicry.

  Mimicry is where one animal mimics another for protection. The Indonesian mimic octopus, for example, can copy the color and shape of a lionfish, sea snake, or sole to avoid predators. This is a clever evolutionary adaptation because the octopus basically avoids certain harm from its predators that won’t touch these other fish with a ten-foot pole. (I see your eyes getting heavy. Stay with me now.) In other words, the mimic octopus spends a lot of time being someone or something he really isn’t.

  Most people live their lives like the mimic octopus—because being more like others is just easier. Being yourself makes you vulnerable. And here’s the thing that I most admire about you, Darren. You’re not a mimic octopus. How do I know? Let’s look at the evidence:

  Exhibit A: You could have gone the easier road and coached ball like your dad or taken some boring desk job like your college friends, but instead you followed your interests and entered the film industry.

  Exhibit B: You could have easily stayed at Testy Snobbin, unhappily fetching coffee and enduring boring sitcom plots until retirement. Instead, you decided to forge your own path, which meant making a documentary about a whale-obsessed guy.

  Exhibit C: Even though making a documentary about me (of all people) to try to impress a girl seems a little crazy to me, I have to say, it is a pretty original idea!

  I’m sure it makes no difference to you that this fifteen-year-old charity case thinks you’re the kind of guy he’d like to be someday—blazing a life path without a second thought as to what anyone else thinks. And I can see how blazing said path could be lonely. Very. But that’s why we animals need one another—whether we’re the boxer crab or anemone, right whale or lice.

  Sleep well, man. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Arcade.

  Your fan,

  Jay

  From: ciaosoph@gmail.com

  To: saraannblakely@gmail.com

  Date: March 15, 2013 at 7:25 PM

  Subject: Albert

  Hey Sara,

  So I come home from school today and no one’s in the house, but I hear voices in the backyard. Outside, there’s Albert, wearing Dad’s old work gloves, yanking yellowing weeds from the flower beds and throwing them into a pile. Mom snips at our hydrangea bushes with these ridiculously huge pruning shears. Nonna Rita stands with her hands on her hips, chaperoning. It’s cold and almost dark.

  I’m like: “What are you doing out here?”

  “Cutting back,” Mom goes as though she is suddenly an expert gardener.

  Me: “Since when do we do that?”

  Albert: “It’s healthy to do every spring. Clear out some of the junk so we have a clean slate to work with.”

  Mom: “This summer, we might plant some roses.” And her face is all shiny with sweat and happiness.

  I shiver and go: “You’re already thinking about summer?”

  Mom: “Just dreaming about it, really. Albert’s got a nursery catalog and we were looking through trying to plan things out.”

  Albert: “We were thinking some classic tea roses, like Pink Promise or Change of Heart, here. And your mom likes yellow. So maybe a bush of Monkey Business over there. We could even do some basil and tomatoes for your grandmother’s famous cooking. What do you think, Sophia?”

  After it becomes clear that I’m not going to respond to his question, Albert goes, “Getting cold out here. Why don’t I take Rita inside?”

  Nonna takes the arm Albert offers. She leans towards him as they walk toward the house.

  “Nuh-ting gonna grow in dis soil,” Nonna says. “Too many rocks.”

  Mom calls after them, saying she’ll be in once she finishes with the last bush. I linger and that’s when I notice the patch of earth where Papa and I once grew strawberries. The dirt is newly turned. Even though the wind is stinging my eyes, I wait a couple more seconds to see if Mom will remember. She continues to clip the bushes.

  So anyway, what Nonna told me about the past and moving on and stuff . . . That’s easier said than done.

  Love,

  Soph

  From: the.darren.olmstead@gmail.com

  To: whaleboy4ever@gmail.com

  Date: March 15, 2013 at 9:16 PM

  Subject: RE: Symbiosis

  Hey there Semaj,

  I know I told you in person already, but let me reiterate how moved I was by your last email. It really gave me the warm fuzzies all over. I would never have thought I could be so flattered at being told I’m not like an octopus. The way you framed all that stuff about how I’ve chosen to live my life made me feel like, “Yeah, I’m not just stumbling through life as if blindfolded and wearing one roller skate—I’m doing things my way! I’m like Frank Sinatra, baby!”

  I’m pretty sure this idea wouldn’t hold up under much scrutiny, so I’m not going to put it under much. With some stuff I think it’s just best to think positively no matter what. So that’s what I’m doing. Thinking positive. And I’m going to make this an awesome documentary, with full knowledge that it’s not going to help get Corinne back. I’m going to do it because it’s an end in itself, not just a way to accomplish some other goal. Just like I’m going to be your friend for no other reason than because I want your friendship, not as a self-improvement gimmick. Mutualism, dog. Love it.

  Nerrad

  From: sduckett@gnewc.org

  To: pbrammer@gnewc.org

  Date: March 16, 2013 at 9:00 AM

  Subject: Tile?

  Peter,

  I was gonna try to fix that broken tile in your office. You in today?

  —Stanley P. Duckett

  From: pbrammer@gnewc.org

  To: sduckett@gnewc.org

  Date: March 16, 2013 at 9:40 AM

  Subject: RE: Tile?

  Dear Stanley,

  Give that tile your best shot. The glue clearly isn’t going to hold up and I am sick of tripping over it on humid days. I’m working from home.

  Just had another false alarm yesterday with the investigation into my sister’s disappearance. Apparently, human remains were found in a shallow grave in a remote coastal Mexican town whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce. And for some reason, they thought it was Elsie. The detectives had me do a tongue swab and I was prepared to fly standby to Mexico to identify her body if need be. You’d think this news of Elsie’s possible passing would make me sad, and it did. When I picture her in my mind, she’s still nine years old and her blonde hair is pulled into two messy braids that she did all by herself. But I am also tired, Stanley. So if I’m being honest, I felt some relief at the officer’s news as well, ki
nd of like a caretaker might when a cancer patient dies.

  Then the detectives called this morning, and it turns out that the bones do not belong to my sister. The DNA was not a match.

  Best,

  Peter

  From: the.darren.olmstead@gmail.com

  To: whaleboy4ever@gmail.com

  Date: March 16, 2013 at 10:02 PM

  Subject: Itinerary

  All times approximate:

  6 p.m.—Dinner at Sophia’s grandmother’s.

  Did you give Sophia the release form to appear in the movie? I tell you, she’s a great sport for doing it.

  Have you been in touch with her grandmother lately? Have any idea how she might feel about being in the film? It seems that she’s been a person who believed in you even when others didn’t. From what you’ve said, I think she’ll come off as a “wise but eccentric matriarch” type of character. And I can’t wait to check out her pad. I’m hoping she’s got lots of antique furniture and trinkets from the Old Country. There might be a parallel between her struggles as a young immigrant and your struggles as a whale advocate: both outside of the mainstream of your society, trying to stay true to your roots while participating in the weird customs of this new place, be it America or high school.

  And I’ve been thinking about how awkward it could be, what with you being on sort of a first date, all dressed up, Sophia in a pretty dress and wearing makeup and too much perfume, and then of course . . . me. With a camera. So I figured that I’ll go hang with Sophia’s grandmother and help her in the kitchen while you guys are doing your awkward teenager thing, and I’ll just leave the camera set up and rolling. It’ll be weird at first, but you’ll eventually get used to it, forget about it, and start being yourselves. Then after dinner, I’ll do some over-the-shoulder shots of you guys talking but without the audio. Should work great.

  8 p.m.—Dance.

  As you know, I will be unable to attend, due to my tense relationship with Dobson and Principal What’s-His-Name. But I’ll be looking for a complete rundown of what happened after the fact. With Sophia, Sam, Charlie, all of ’em.

  11 p.m.—Dance over.

  BUT! As you don’t know, I’ve got great news. An incredible stroke of luck. Remember how I told you my old buddy Sash is a poet? That’s not the good news. The good news is that because he’s a poet, he had to get another job because poets don’t get paid jack, so he found work as a . . .

  Wait for it . . .

  Limo driver!

  And he’s driving me to the dance as soon as he picks up some tycoon from the airport and drops him at his hotel. I’ll roll some film in back, and we’ll get our ending, whatever that might be.

  See you Friday,

  Darr-Bear

  P.S. Can I borrow a tie? I want to look respectable for Mrs. D’Angelo.

  From: ciaosoph@gmail.com

  To: saraannblakely@gmail.com

  Date: March 17, 2013 at 1:18 AM

  Subject: Tonight

  Sara,

  I missed you so much tonight! Sam said it was a last minute thing, that he showed up at your house and your mom said you weren’t feeling well enough to go. Which sucks because that blue polish you got at our pedi appointment was going to match your dress so well. And your hair looked sooo awesome too. Just like Jennifer Lawrence’s. I wish I could pull off that cut, but my cheeks are too “full” (which is Glamour magazine’s way of saying “fat”). Anyway, it was kind of pathetic to watch Sam graze the snack table and make small talk with Mr. Tedoni during slow songs. So I’m not the only one who missed you.

  Turnabout was pretty legendary. James actually had to take off his coat at one point because he was sweating, which was good. I was actually worried he’d not want to dance at all and it would be really awkward. But he had some basic crowd-pleaser moves and even danced to the Lumineers. You know the song that is not slow and not fast? Most of the cheerleaders sat it out, which tells you something. James was out on the dance floor though, rocking sunglasses thanks to the strobe lights triggering the Transitions lenses in his glasses. Anyway, I JUST got home (long story) and I’m exhausted and Mom is downstairs asleep in front of the TV which probably means I’ll be grounded for life tomorrow. So if you don’t hear from me, you know what happened.

  Love,

  Soph

  From: whaleboy4ever@gmail.com

  To: the.darren.olmstead@gmail.com

  Date: March 17, 2013 at 1:30 AM

  Subject: Dance

  Hey D-Man,

  It is after one o’clock a.m., and I’m trying to sleep, but I wanted to see if you were okay. I don’t think you realized how numbed up your mouth was, so even though I’m pretty sure you told me the whole story, I couldn’t understand a word you said. Plus, while you were talking, Sash had his phone on speaker as his boss was yelling at him about the limo.

  In case you’re worried, my parents didn’t ground me for breaking curfew. I don’t think that they ever thought such a thing would happen, so they didn’t really have any punishment in mind when it did. Sophia might not be so lucky.

  Anyway, given your dental emergency, we couldn’t really talk about the dance. It’s too bad that you were banned from school because you could have gotten rare (and I mean rare) footage of me cutting a Turnabout rug. Some of the soccer guys started chanting “Whale Boy.” They made a little circle around me. Sophia started doing this little disco move and it inspired me somehow. I dropped to the floor, losing my glasses in the process. When I started to do the worm, this move I saw on YouTube, the crowd went wild. Epic, but I think I pulled a muscle in my back.

  I hope you enjoyed dinner at Mrs. D’Angelo’s house. You seemed a little flustered by her standing over you and repeating “Mangia!” Mrs. D’Angelo’s harmless, but sometimes she feels more like a linebacker than a 4'11" grandmother. What about that gnocchi, though? Mrs. D’Angelo’s an amazing cook. Did you shoot any scenes in the basement? That is where the magic happens, man. It’s something Mrs. D and I bond over—food.

  I’m not sure how much you understood of your interview with Mrs. D’Angelo, especially once she got annoyed with finding words in English and switched to Italian. I’ll give you my best translation (which is probably not much better than what you’d find online given that I am a B– student). Basically, Mrs. D’Angelo was born in a tiny town in Abruzzo, Italy. (Read: larger population of sheep than people.) Her father was a goldsmith and the village mayor so Mrs. Lucca’s family enjoyed local celebrity status. Then World War II broke out and she was sent to America with a man from her village who had started a life in South Philly. She never really wanted to leave her village, but her new husband was her only connection to Italy. They didn’t have much, she said, but they had each other.

  Signing off,

  Whale Boy

  From: saraannblakely@gmail.com

  To: ciaosoph@gmail.com

  Date: March 17, 2013 at 8:01 AM

  Subject: RE: Tonight

  Soph,

  Dance=epic! Sad I missed.

  When getting ready, couldn’t remember last time I talked 2 Sam in person @ skool. Or anyone other than u. Then pain started. Felt bad b/c mom was supposed 2 drive us.

  Luv ya,

  Sara

  From: the.darren.olmstead@gmail.com

  To: whaleboy4ever@gmail.com

  Date: March 17, 2013 at 8:49 AM

  Subject: RE: Dance

  Hey JameSession,

  I’m a little dopey right now from painkillers, so forgive me if I ramble a bit. Here’s what you didn’t see that led to all this nonsense.

  Sash and I had left the limo in front of the gym to step out and grab some nachos and a Slurpee over at the 7-Eleven down the block from your school. We’re on our way back, slurping our Slurpees, noshing on our nachos, and Sash all of a sudden gets super-inspired because he’s loving the nachos so much, and he’s like, “These things are unbelievable. I need to write a poem about them.” And I’m like, “Sash, I’m pretty sure no one writes
poems about nachos.” And he’s like, “William Carlos Williams.” And I’m like, “I have no idea who that is.” And he’s like, “Nobody ever wrote poems about red wheelbarrows either, but then he did and it was awesome! Nachos are going to be my red wheelbarrow.” And I’ve been friends with Sash since freshman year of high school and thus am used to this sort of thing, so I’m like, “Totally.” And he launches into this stream-of-consciousness free-form verse about 7-Eleven nachos, talking about the cheese, thicker than blood and smoother than ivory, and the plastic tray, made of fossil fuels forged in the Earth’s crust for thousands of years for the express purpose of being refined into this sturdy clear container and holding this glorious combination of corn chips and processed cheese foods.

  And it was strangely compelling there for a minute, until we’re nearing the car and he says (again, I’m paraphrasing), “And that you, glorious nachos, should be available to us so readily and for a price so reasonable is a gift for which we should all be grateful. As some marvel at a sunset, I marvel at—WHAT THE HOLY HELL! OH GOD NO!”

  The all-caps section is when he notices the long, looping line of missing paint from the side of his limo. It was clear that someone had keyed it badly. Like, really badly. Immediately I knew it was Coxson or one of his cronies. When we rolled up to drop you guys off earlier, I was watching (and filming) from inside the limo and I caught his reaction. Dude looked like Kermit the Frog, he was so green with envy! Poor Mr. Soccer Stud, watching you step out of a sleek limo with the lovely Sophia on your arm. Then he noticed me and threw a major sneer my way. (Which I can’t totally blame him for—I did karate-chop his head three days ago.)

  That sneer was all the evidence I needed when I saw that scratch on Sash’s limo. So when kids came pouring out of the dance, I had to step up to him. Sixteen years old or not, that kid had to be dealt with.