A Mermaid in the Shark Tunnel

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“Chad, it’s Meg. Look, you know how I was getting married next summer? Turns out I’m getting married next Friday night. At the aquarium. And no, I’m not pregnant. It’s a small invite, family and a few friends, and I need you there. Will you be there?”

“Hell yes I’ll be there!”

And so, the following Friday, the boyfriend and I arrived at the Aquarium at closing time for a very Meg wedding. She wore a beautiful form-fitting white dress, cowboy boots, and a tiara that she made herself out of seashells. Her children, his children, their parents, and selected loved ones lined the walls of a narrow shark tunnel. Sharks, sea turtles, stingrays, and colorful fish swam on both sides and above us as Meg’s father played guitar, and Meg’s daughter sang “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes.

“This is the first day of my life. I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you. But now I don’t care, I could go anywhere with you, and I’d probably be happy.”

Meg’s new step-daughter officiated, using the words that Meg wrote, perfect and authentic, in the voice that only Meg has. Then she and her husband pledged their commitments to each other. The crowd took sips of sparkling cider from plastic cups. And then it was done. Five brief, life-altering minutes.

In the time leading up to the wedding, Mike and I walked through the sleepy aquarium. I’ve been there many times before, but never so late. The otters were all curled up on each others tummies and tails in a woody corner near the window, and I could see their breath in their stomachs. The penguins were all perfectly spaced across their tank, as if they each had an assigned space to stand during the evening hours, with heads tucked into wings. The light was different. It was magical.

In the shark tunnel, a giant sea turtle looked as if he’d crashed into the ground. His head was on the floor, and his giant shell rose up into the air, like he had a balloon tied to the back of his body. I asked the attendant about it, and he informed me this was a medical condition that they jokingly called the “bubble butt syndrome”; the turtle was fine, the back of his shell just floated like that. I watched the majestic sea life flowing around we mere human spectators, and thought, “This is the perfect place for a mermaid to marry.”

Meg is half-fish, half-human. She doesn’t dwell in one place, or in one form. She gracefully flows through multiple worlds, seamlessly existing in both. She is both elegant and white-trash, mother and lover, ethereal and grounded, confidence and confusion, writer and dreamer, wisher and hoper. Meg both buys and sells magic beans, both tells and receives the stories. She’s a true original. She’s the mother who volunteers to help judge the poetry slam at her kid’s school, and she’s the woman who places snarky comments on certain forums under the pseudonym Tits MacIntonsh.

She’s a mermaid.

I’ve known Meg less than a year. As part of a New Year’s resolution at the beginning of 2017, I set a goal to do more reading performances, to share my stories and hone my skills and talents as a writer. I created an event called “Voices Heard”, and established a format of me, with two other writers, sharing two stories each on a particular topic. I wanted to keep a steady influx of writers passing through, and I saw Meg’s name, at random, in an online group dedicated to local writers. I sent her a message about the program, asked if she might like to be involved, and she responded with an elegant and enthusiastic, “I would love to share! I am so on board!”

And so I drove to her home on a random evening to share stories on betrayal, a topic we would explore in readings just days later. Her home was decorated with a bizarre assortment of knickknacks, collected from thrift shop shelves and eclectic galleries. She had a food tray of fruits and meats ready when I arrived. We became acquainted, laughed a bit, and then read about raw painful stories from our pasts in a way that made us both want to laugh and shed tears at the same time. I read about being mugged, punched, and left unconscious as a closeted gay Mormon missionary; she read about losing a child to stillbirth and making the decision to end an unhealthy marriage while eating a meat sandwich. It was a match. Meg and I have been reading together ever since.

After her wedding, I gave Meg a huge hug. “You’re married!”

She gripped my shoulder, almost scandalously, and leaned in for a whisper. “Did you notice that the bubble-butt turtle got up and started swimming the second my husband and I were walking down the aisle?”

“Well that is a god-damned miracle,” I laughed.

After more hugs, greetings, and handshakes, Meg, in her dress, boots, and seashell tiara, left the sharks behind and gathered her family for a celebratory dinner. At the Old Spaghetti Factory.

And I drove home, thinking how fortunate I am to be friends with a mermaid.

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