Fight Song A Novel

What’s wrong with a mouse man?


When last Coffen reviewed the hallowed tenets of babysitting, it was his understanding that the custody of said baby in the said sitter’s stead was a temporary arrangement. As in, thanks, Tilda, for taking wee mousy Schumann off Coffen’s hands for a few hours, but he’s now come to reclaim the great rodent booty that is Bob’s neighbor.

However, a certain Taco Shed employee doesn’t want to cough him up.

“His family gets home soon,” Coffen says to Tilda, standing in the doorway of her apartment early the following morning and hoping that this idea contains the cocktail of persuasion. “We’ve got to get him back to his life.”

It’s approximately 6:30 AM on Monday morning. The mouse runs around Tilda’s cupped hands. “I think he’s happy. We were up all night together; we bonded in a very spiritual way. He has a look in his eyes that tells me he’d like to stay like this forever. Honestly, this might be the kind of change that he truly wanted.”

“Can I please have him back?”

“He might be the perfect man for me,” Tilda says.

“He’s not a man.”

“Sure he is, but he’s also so small he can’t hurt me, and that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Schumann makes some chirpy, mousy noises and is clearly shaking his wee head to the contrary of her statements.

“He has a wife and kid,” Coffen says.

“He told me all about them way back when he first started being one of my intercom clients. And he told me a lot after we did it in the SUV. Honestly, I don’t think he’d miss too much sleep over never seeing them again.”

“He’s a good father.”

“But maybe he’d make a better mouse, at least for the foreseeable future, and trust me: I’ll take incredible care of him.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“He’s the perfect pet,” she says.

Coffen wants to say something supportive, something about how extraordinary she is and that she deserves a partner of the same species. Sure, she’s had a stable of bad relationships. Yes, life can be hard. No, she’s not perfect. But she can’t wrap her heart in muscles, like a fragile trinket in bubble wrap and stop trying to find somebody who might make her happy. Those are all the things Coffen hopes to convey, and it comes out like this: “You don’t need a mouse man, Tilda.”

“What’s wrong with a mouse man?”

“How will you two ever dance together?”

“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You deserve a full-blown human being.”

“Not sure I want one of those.”

Schumann now stands solely on his hind legs and is shaking his wee head.

“But look at how he’s shaking his head,” Coffen offers up.

“His head’s not moving.”

“I can see him shaking it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look at him.”

“That’s an optical illusion,” says Tilda.

“What is?”

“His head shaking.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t even moving his head!”

“Damn,” she says. “Entrapped again. You got me.” She hands Schumann over to Bob, placing him in his flattened palms. Schumann gives a creepy wee mousy smile and scampers up to perch on Coffen’s shoulder. He smells like something … jasmine? Coffen sniffs Schumann several times.

“I doused him in lavender body oil,” Tilda says. “Honestly, the natural smell was wretched.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“The magician turning him back?” she asks.

“Supposedly. We’re meeting this morning.”

“Can I come? I’ve never seen real magic before.”

“I’m not sure he’d appreciate me bringing you along.”

“Only one way to know for sure.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Call him and ask,” she says.

Coffen caves in and calls.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Björn says. “My hangover’s no joke.”

“I am unfortunately asking you that, yes.”

“My god, Coffen, you are high-maintenance.”

“Can she come?”

“I haven’t even decided that I’m going to turn him back.”

“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Coffen says.

“How are you sure of that?”

“Tell him we can meet at Taco Shed and I’ll throw in a round of breakfast Mexican lasagnas on the house,” says Tilda. “As many as he can eat.”

Coffen relays the offer, and the magician says, “I agree to the proposed terms. See you in twenty.”



In twenty, Coffen, Tilda, and Schumann stand face-to-face with Björn. Bob introduces her to the magician, who’s wearing sunglasses; his moustache is smashed and he stinks like booze.

“Looks like you had a long night of floff-mongering,” says Bob.

“It was pure madness.”

“Can I make you boys breakfast?” Tilda asks, and all parties seem extremely interested in that prospect. She unlocks the place, tells them no other employees will be there for an hour, when they begin to prep for the 8:00 AM rush. Everyone lingers around the register while she prepares the breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Schumann still sits on Coffen’s shoulder.

“Why should I do him any favors?” Björn says, not taking off his sunglasses. “He kidnapped me.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” Coffen says. “And his family. Please?”

“Chow time,” suggests Tilda, holding a whole tray of breakfast Mexican lasagnas that are actually completely identical in structure to regular non-breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Soon, they’re all gorging on grease.

Tilda speaks up first: “Maybe Björn is right. I mean, Schumann did kidnap him, which if memory serves correctly is a felony. This seems like it might be an appropriate punishment given the severity of the crime.”

Schumann shakes his wee head very much to the contrary again.

“I’m sure,” Coffen says to Tilda, “if he stays a mouse you’d be happy to watch over him as a kind of gentle guardian, is that right? Is that how you’d like to see this end—you get your pet and his son grows up without a father?”

“I’d be open to that suggestion,” she says.

“We’re talking about a husband and a father and he needs to be human once more,” Coffen says.

“I grew up without a father,” Tilda says, “and I’m fine.”

“Me, too,” the magician chimes in.

Bob sighs. “Me, too.”

Björn unwraps another Mexican lasagna, enjoys a bite, and says, “You know what? After last night’s awful show, I want to get out of this godforsaken town and forget all about it. I don’t want to have this guy on my conscience for the rest of my life. I don’t need that. Believe me, there’s enough on my conscience. You don’t think I retaliated dark-arts-style once the ink dried on our divorce papers? You bet I did. I’m not proud of it, but I got the last laugh. Was what I did to her childish and vindictive? No doubt. I am regretful. Yes, there is shame in my shame-cave. So I don’t need to add to it for no real reason.” Then he puts his finger right in Schumann’s wee face. “But snap out of this quarterback-hero crap. Act like a regular guy or god help me, I’ll turn you right back to a mouse. You got me?”

Adamant rodent nodding ensues.

“What did you do to your wife?” Coffen asks Björn.

“I can’t talk about it. I thought I was punishing her but all I did was make me hate myself.”

Björn picks mousy Schumann up and puts the rodent in his jacket pocket. Then he lightly taps on the rodent-lump from outside the jacket a few times. The magician takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and there’s a clap of thunder outside. Bob and Tilda look at each other. Björn takes another deep breath, and there’s another clap of thunder. Finally he says, “Let evolution take its course.” He taps the lump one last time.

And it’s gone.

“Where is he?” Tilda asks.

That’s when Schumann lopes in the front door of Taco Shed in his football uniform, standing full-sized, dressed as though Purdue might lock pigskinned-horns with Notre Dame any minute now.

“What happened?” he says, looking perplexed and disheveled.

“Where were you?” Tilda says.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I was suddenly standing out in the parking lot, and everything before it is hazy. I kind of remember feeling inconsequential, a sort of afterthought.”

“Where are you coming from right now? Think hard,” Coffen says. “Did you hear thunder just now?”

“I can’t remember anything besides wearing a really warm fur coat,” Schumann says.

“Holy shit,” says Tilda.

“Boo-ya,” Björn says.

“Are you being serious?” Coffen asks Schumann.

He nods and says, “Yeah, the fur coat is really all I can remember.”

“What the almighty pigeon-toed f*ck is going on?” Tilda screams.

Björn cracks up. “I keep telling you people I’m a sorcerer. But nobody wants to hear that. You all only want to rain hate down on my happy little shindig. Let me do my thing. Leave me and my well enough alone.”

Bob wants to ask a flood of practical questions, feels the tug to disprove the possibility that Schumann had indeed been a mouse. The urge comes on strong, almost like a craving, a habit, but Coffen strangles it. The explanation isn’t the point. Schumann’s back. His wife has her husband. Little Schu, his dad. That’s the point. That’s all that matters, and Bob tries to embrace the mystery of it.

Schumann tells all that he’s completely famished and asks if he can have a Mexican lasagna. Nobody objects, so he takes Coffen’s straight out of his hands and digs in, signals that he’s going to wait for everyone outside so he can try and think straight about this. Tilda altruistically volunteers to keep him company in the morning light—no doubt to test his memory of all she said to him while babysitting. He chomps away and Coffen watches her give him quite a speech. It makes Bob kind of sad, actually, thinking about Tilda pleading to her former mouse man, trying to make him want what she so badly wants.

“Good-bye,” Björn says to Bob once the others are outside, finally removing his shades. His cheeks are dry. Moustache flattened on one half. “It’s been interesting.”

“You’re not crying … ”

“Not after the show last night. I’m done bending over backward for people. The world is full of ingrates.”

“Magic is hard for us.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to turn over a new leaf and believe, but it’s hard.”

“Turn it over,” says Björn. “Being a know-it-all is a terrible way to go through your life.”

“I’m trying.”

“What’s the holdup?”

It’s all so much for Coffen to take, to accept, to change years of his thinking. He never before has believed in magic, so why all of a sudden does he want to? And where’s the valve on the parts of himself that don’t want to believe? How can he turn them off, leaving only the open-minded parts of Bob? The ones that believe in Jane’s chances to break the world record. Believe in Björn’s dark arts prowess.

“Hello?” Björn says. “I asked what the holdup is.”

“I’m probably the holdup.”

“Do you want one more trick to prove I’m the real deal?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, this one will knock your socks off. This one will prove beyond any reasonable doubt that I am who I say I am.”

“When’s it going to happen?”

Björn laughs. “Stay tuned and keep your eyes open. I’m leaving this skid mark of sprawl one last spectacle. Do you like rainbows?”

“Rainbows?”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he says, then limps toward Taco Shed’s door, putting on his sunglasses. He looks back at Bob and says, “I hope you turn over that leaf.”

“Me, too.”

Björn doesn’t say anything to either Tilda or Schumann as he makes his way to his rental car. He speeds off.

Coffen makes his way outside, too.

“Can you drop me off at home?” Schumann says to Coffen.

“I’ll drive you home, sweetie,” Tilda offers.

“Thanks, but no. Bob and I need to talk about some stuff,” he says.

“Don’t we need to talk about some stuff as well?” Tilda asks. “We left a lot on the table last night.”

“Yeah, but let me gather my thoughts, okay? I’ve been through quite an ordeal,” says Schumann. His football uniform, which had always seemed symbolic and poetic and larger than life, now looks like any other costume—something a person puts on when he wants to see how the other half lives, when he wants to escape himself.

“Call me later?” she says, to which he nods, something timid in it, something defeated, victim of a fourth-quarter comeback that’s come up short.

Tilda waves wildly as Coffen and Schumann start driving away from Taco Shed. The last thing Bob sees is Tilda bringing her hulky arms up, flexing like she’s onstage in a bodybuilding competition. Bob’s not the only person who’s gotten out of his box this weekend; Tilda is taking a chance and opening up to her mouse man. Coffen smiles, looking back at Tilda’s massive physique.





The plight of the people of now


Bob’s nice enough to drive Schumann home when in actuality what he needs to do is hightail it to work for his team’s Monday-morning status meeting, which will be getting underway in roughly half an hour. Coffen’s boss is not a fan of late arrivals and often attempts to scold those of his underlings who traipse in after the clock has struck late, like a snobby professor sarcastically welcoming a tardy undergrad to class.

“Well, that was quite a weekend you had, Reasons with His Fists,” Coffen says.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What are you going to tell your wife?”

“As far as they’re concerned, I’ve been on the couch watching the boob tube the whole time they were gone. And that’s exactly what I will be doing from now on. My competitive streak has been cauterized. I thought I wanted to relive my glory days, but I don’t. I’m not that person anymore.”

Bob is appalled: “Jesus, you really are a mouse.”

“What?”

“You don’t think she deserves to know the truth?”

“I know the truth. That’s what matters.”

“I bet she’d disagree with that.”

“The important thing is that I’m going to be a better man now.”

“I bet she’d think the important thing is that you had sex with Tilda.”

It disappoints Coffen that Schumann isn’t going to level with his missus, but then Bob figures he has so much to worry about in his own life that he can’t try to control how Schumann’s going to handle things. At the very least, it sounds like Coffen will never endure another cameo from Reasons with His Fists. Thank Christ for pigskinned miracles.

Plus, and maybe this is the heart of the matter, Coffen sees Schumann for what he is: confused, sad, and broken, like so many others their age. Like Bob. Confused about their role in the world. A football game. A video game. It all adds up to the same thing. A way to escape how grueling reality can be, all the responsibilities, all the worries. There’s good stuff, too, as Tilda says, between the cops, monsters, prudes, and mice, but you have to hunt for it, or the routine can pull you under.

“You’re not going to tattle on me, are you?” Schumann asks.

“On one condition.”

“What?”

“For one week, starting now, I want you to take a steady dose of Scout’sHonor!®”

“Why?”

“So you know when you lie,” Coffen says. “I want you to be aware when you lie to your wife.”

“What good will that do?”

“She won’t know, but you will.”

“I can’t walk around all week bleeding from my nose, Bob.”

“Exactly why Scout’sHonor!® works so well. Nobody can afford to bleed all week long. Our lives are busy. Wonder what would happen if you don’t lie to her but come clean about everything?”

“I don’t want to come clean. And because you don’t cheat on Jane, you’re no perfect husband yourself. Don’t you lie to her about other stuff?”

“I more leave stuff out than lie.”

“Like what?”

“Like most of my real feelings.”

“Isn’t that lying?” Schumann says. “You should take Scout’sHonor!® too. Let the pill decide what’s lying and what isn’t.”

He’s spot-on. No disputing that. If one of Coffen’s goals going forward is to do right by his people, then he has to find out all the facts. Try to be honest about everything, even issues he’s previously avoided or downplayed or gone dumb about. Bob should go into his future with his eyes open as to when he’s being dishonest. A week of Scout’sHonor!® will help keep him on track.

“Fine,” Coffen says. “I’ll do it.”

“Right on. Good man. You take it for a week and after your time is up, maybe I’ll decide to take it once we see how it works on you. That makes perfect sense.”

“Take it or I tattle.”

“What if I bleed to death?” Schumann whines.

“Stop being so selfish and you won’t bleed to death.”

“It’s not that easy. You can’t stop cold turkey.”

“Choice is yours, Schumann. But I’ll rat you out.”

“These are the moments I know you never played on a football team. Teammates have each other’s backs no matter what, until the game clock of life expires.”

“What’s it going to be?”

“What choice do I have? I’ll take them and try not to bleed to death,” Schumann says. “But if I do die, you can have my bagpipes. Every time you look at them remember that you murdered me with your truth pills.”

“I can live with that.”

They shake on it. He squeezes Bob’s hand hard. Really hard. Hard enough that Coffen winces and emits a little girly yelp.

For the first time during the conversation, Schumann smiles, still crushing Coffen’s hand. “Now who’s peeping like a mouse,” he says.



After dumping Schumann at home, Coffen makes it to the status meeting with ten minutes to spare. It’s just him and Malcolm Dumper in the conference room, Coffen’s young cohorts only arriving seconds before these meetings commence, risking late arrivals to maintain a persona of youthful ambivalence to structure, rules, the asinine consideration of other people’s time.

Dumper is plopped on a beanbag, while Coffen hooks his laptop up to the overhead projector, so Scroo Dat Pooch will appear on the large white screen.

“Are you excited about your unveiling this morning, Coffen?”

“I’m excited to see what you think of it.”

“I bet the Great One will love it like a bee loves smelling the roses.”

“I hope you love these roses.”

“We still need to have that dinner we’ve been talking about for years,” Malcolm says.

“Yes, you’ll have to come by the house sometime soon.”

“Is your roof helipad-friendly?”

“I doubt it,” says Coffen, “but I’m not sure.”

“That means no. I won’t make that mistake again. One mighty big check I had to write those buffoons who are too dumb to know the specifications of their own roof. While we’re alone, I wanted to tell you that the layoffs I was mentioning are probably going to happen soon for some of our teammates. We need to whittle some pudge. And while we’ll miss those members of our family who are no longer our teammates, truthfully, it probably could not come at a more ideal time for them to take a hiatus. They’ll thank me in the long run. Go to Paris. Go backpacking. Fish in Alaska. Big things are afoot outside these walls.”

“Big things are about to be afoot inside these walls, too,” Coffen says. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“I’m pro-information. I want my people knowing as much as my people can know. Especially those who are plock-worthy. Those who hold plocks hold a special place in my heart. Some things, of course, are for my eyes and ears only. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, if you get my drift. Don’t worry about the pudge purge for now. Hopefully, your new game will help the layoffs be more of a simple cleansing than an all-out flush.”

“I’m glad there’s no pressure.”

The team scampers into the conference room, planting themselves on various beanbags.

“We’re all yours, Bob,” Dumper says, smiling.

Coffen launches Scroo Dat Pooch. What makes this tricky is the possibility, nay, the probability that Dumper won’t much care about the game’s feel, the game’s overall look. It’s conceivable that he won’t be concerned with such analytical components once he observes that Malcolm Dumper himself is the main character of the game, the head honcho of pooch screwing.

Bob has used a JPEG of Dumper’s face to build the avatar, so the likeness is top-notch. It’s almost a perfect match. And if Bob is too biased to make any objective observations about the facial likeness, as the test level launches, all of his teammates crack up and clap. Everybody in the conference room, except Dumper, is hysterical and nothing’s even happened yet.

All that’s on the screen is Dumper in his signature Gretzky sweater, #99.

All that’s up there is Dumper and his big, thick tongue lolling stupidly from his mouth.

All that’s there is Malcolm Dumper licking his filthy, bestiality-loving chops.

Kiss’s “Rock and Roll All Nite” starts playing in the game.

All Bob’s teammates tap their feet.

The mouth-breather says, “Awesome!”

Coffen is the only one standing in the conference room. His movements control the avatar. He now marches in place, his movements moving the Malcolm in the game. It’s an empty cityscape. Malcolm prowling the barren street. Then, over behind some dented garbage cans, he spots a collie. It’s looking generally frightened. Coffen’s even incorporated some audio: a sad, furtive series of whimpers and whines coming from the collie.

Coffen runs in place, quickly moving Malcolm toward the crying dog. Malcolm leans down and pets the mutt, strokes its head. A voice comes from the game, Malcolm saying, “There, there. There, there. Shhh. Hey, do you like to party?”

The collie turns its head to look at whoever is playing the game. The dog’s eyes bulge, seeming to say: Did this creep just say what I think he said?

Seconds later on the screen, Malcolm is undoing his belt and dropping his trousers.

Seconds later, he picks up the collie and mounts the poor thing.

Bob furiously pumps his hips in the conference room.

“Scroo dat pooch!” says the avatar of Malcolm, giving the hang-loose sign.

His teammates go crazy.

Coffen is practically hyperventilating.

The faster Bob pumps, a series of graphics appear above Malcolm’s head—lightning bolts, throbbing hearts, pulsing stars. Bob goes as fast as his out-of-shape physique can handle and about twenty seconds later a message flashes across the center of the action:

Money shot!

Malcolm finishes giving his business to the dog.

Coffen gives his hips one last pump.

The mouth-breather whistles.

Once Malcolm’s done sullying the collie, he sets the dog down and it wanders off with an awkward gait. Then the avatar pulls up his pants, buckles his belt. Then he says, “Me want the next one.”

Bob says to his teammates and Malcolm, “That’s all I had time to put together, but you can see the direction. From here, he’d move on to the next breed. What do you think?”

None of the teammates utter a peep. Everyone’s waiting for Dumper to take point on this one. It’s tough to read the boss’s face, utterly blank of legible expression, tongue stowed away.

Coffen braces himself for the worst: security being called, roughing him up a bit on the walk from the building. Dumper refusing to honor his three-hundred-plus hours of paid time off. Dumper slandering his name with every contact he’s ever made in the business, making it almost impossible for Bob to get another gig. It’s a risk but one Coffen has to take; he sees no other way. He has to get fired. He needs permission to never come back here, as sick as that sounds. He won’t do it on his own.

Finally, Dumper says, “I doubt I’m alone in wanting to heap congratulations on top of you like syrup on pancakes. I asked for edgy and you gave me edgy. It’s extreme, but I think the targeted demo will froth for it.”

“You like it?” Bob asks.

“It’s exactly what I hoped for.”

“Really? What about the avatar? Do you like his look?”

“What a dope! I love how he’s dressed like your average Tom, Dick, or Harry. It’s actually funnier that you didn’t make him some creep. He looks like any working stiff.” Dumper starts laughing. “A working stiff who likes to boink dogs.”

“I’m surprised you like it,” Bob says.

“You are a genius,” Dumper says. “Isn’t he a genius, gang?”

“Yes, yes,” the teammates say, still howling. “He is indeed a genius!”

Coffen panics. Getting fired is the only way to get out of this job. He’s not strong enough to do it on his own. He’ll never make the change without being shoved, like a baby bird being heaved from the nest, a fledgling forced to fly under its own power.

Everything Bob once loved about building games is gone. It’s been tarnished, denigrated. It’s digressed from art to the ultimate farce, and it’s his own fault. Nobody made him stay at DG. Nobody made him earn that f*cking plock. He acted through his inaction. He chose a path by default. Scroo Dat Pooch and these kinds of imbecilic games are futile. He can get back to his art—he can build new ones, he will build new ones—games that are fun and smart at the same time. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Escapism doesn’t require the inane. Yes, his next title will be about simply preserving your sense of self—or re-establishing a sense of self you’ve let rust. A sense of self that hasn’t gotten the necessary attention. The game doesn’t need an antagonist hopped up on mutated genetics. It doesn’t need lasers. Or cannibals. It doesn’t need Navy SEALs infected with a flesh-eating virus or vampires hunting you down or werewolves capturing you in a corner, licking their chops, eyeballing you as their next square meal. It doesn’t need to take place on another planet. Doesn’t need terrorists or dinosaurs or nuclear weapons or mutated crocodiles. Psychopaths aren’t a necessary ingredient. Rogue pooch-screwers aren’t foundational elements. No, the peril is right here. Peril covers more of the earth than the oceans. Peril is around us with every gasp, each lap around the sun, every whirl on the axis. Every sunup, sundown. Every eclipse. Every greenhouse gas. Every oil spill. Every endangered species. Every unfounded fear. Every founded fear. Every nightmare. Every diagnosis. Every time an alcoholic takes that next sip. Every gambler losing the mortgage money. Every affair. Every backhand. Every abandonment. Every deception. Every time a family falls apart. Every divorce. Every life. Each life. Bob’s life. Your life. The peril is simple. The peril is us. It’s the plight of the people of now.

“You guys got my green light,” Dumper says. “Build this bad boy. Make it a masterpiece.”

“You can keep the plock,” says Bob. “Robert’s days are done.”

“You’re taking a personal day?” Dumper asks.

“You’ve seen the last of Robert Coffen.”

“What?”

“Robert’s officially stepping down.”

“What about the new game?”

“Have him do it,” Coffen says and points at the mouth-breather.

“You’re quitting?”

And that’s that. There’s no screaming scene. He doesn’t demean Dumper with a melody of profanity. No need to go down in any kind of spectacle—he already tried that by building the damn game and it didn’t work. Seems the only way for him to leave this place is of his own accord. Under his own power. And there’s no time like the present. Might as well march out. So he struts from the conference room, past his teammates and the beanbags. Past Dumper and LapLand and its lifeguards. Past the whole preschool of his coworkers. He sees their young faces. He sees their futures. And while walking outside, he finally sees freedom.





Geraldine the giant squid


Coffen camouflages his spying. Hiding in plain sight. All afternoon and evening, he’s another anonymous member of the health club relaxing by the outdoor pool, safety in numbers. He’s another sucker kicking up his heels on a chaise lounge and soaking up some sunshine. Nobody pays him any mind, even though he has a pair of binoculars and spends most of his time aiming them through the huge window and toward the indoor pool, where Jane is trying to break the world’s record for treading water.

Bob respects Jane’s wishes, heard her loud and clear when she uninvited him to stand by the pool and purr moral support. Nobody, not even Gotthorm, knows more than Bob about how much Jane wants to accomplish this remarkable feat, and so he follows her instructions, stations himself outside the confines of the building, hunkering down for some average, run-of-the-mill peeping. She’s none the wiser to his presence and Coffen can feel as if he’s offering every nickel of his support, safely stationed away from her.

Unless Bob’s binoculars deceive him, Jane is doing great thus far. She’s been in the water for about five hours. She looks relaxed. Braids hidden under a swim cap.

Erma is there with Brent and Margot. The kids sit in folding chairs and fiddle with their favorite devices: Brent, his phone; Margot, her iPad.

There’s also a judge present: the stickler who oversees if in fact Jane’s able to tread water eighty-six hours straight. It’s a woman, probably in her forties. She holds a clipboard, which strikes Bob as odd. What can there possibly be to take notes about? Either Jane breaks the record or she doesn’t, but the judge periodically scribbles something mysterious down.

And of course, Gotthorm, clad in his red Speedo. He’s right next to the pool, the closest one to her. He has some kind of huge taxidermied fish and he glides it around in his arms; some kind of visual aid, Coffen assumes. Bob wishes he could read lips, wonders what Gotthorm and the bulge whisper to his wife while the fish dances in his arms.

The problem comes when a voice pipes over the intercom system and says, “We will be closing in ten minutes. All members need to leave the club in ten minutes, please.”

Bob is relatively prepared for this. He has a plan, of sorts. There’s a thought to how he can evade detection. Of sorts. Coffen’s not the most stealth fella, but he thinks he can hide behind the hut that houses the pool’s cleaning supplies. Once it seems like most of the lights are off in the facility, he’ll come back out and spy more.

He has a ski jacket. He has a blanket. He has a thermos of coffee and fifteen Mexican lasagnas.

He has everything he needs to support his wife from one hundred feet away.

That first night is lonely. About 10:30 PM, Erma and the kids leave. Bob’s sure they’ll be back some time in the morning, but he doesn’t like the idea that it’s only Gotthorm and the judge with Jane. She should have a bigger cheering section. She should have French Kiss playing songs to keep her alert. He almost calls Ace before realizing that’s a terrible idea. His only job is to stay out of sight, and he’s not going to screw it up.

But apparently he’s already screwed it up. It’s not half an hour later and Gotthorm comes out to where he’s hiding, sort of wedged under a chaise lounge.

“What’s that?” Bob asks, pointing at the big taxidermied fish in Gotthorm’s hands.

“It’s an African pompano.”

“But why do you have it?”

“A mermaid has the upper body of a human and the tail of a fish.”

“Thanks for refreshing my memory.”

“Jane needs to be supported by both her land family and those family members from under the sea.”

“And that stuffed fish is like an aquatic cousin?”

“I’m going to let you stay and watch us from out here,” Gotthorm says. “But you can’t come inside and Jane won’t know you’re present.”

“Why can’t I come in and cheer her on?”

“No one cheers on a piece of sea grass, being bandied by the tide.”

“Right, but she’s … ”

“Nobody applauds a jellyfish feeding on plankton.”

“That’s my human wife in there.”

“Jane is transcending human endurance. She is of two worlds right now. And her mind needs to be like this fish’s mind.” He moves the taxidermied thing in an arcing motion. “You pollute her state of nothingness.”

Gotthorm turns and starts walking back toward the indoor pool, leaving Bob and his binoculars all by their lonesome.



About 4:00 AM something sort of beautiful happens. Gotthorm gets into the pool with a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar. He approaches Jane. Slowly, she seems to emerge from her trance, her nothingness, and she slowly drinks the whole Gatorade, eats the snack. Then she shuts her eyes again and returns to her puckered breathing.

Coffen climbs into the empty lifeguard chair, the perch giving him a better view. He watches Jane in awe. Watches and feels washed with affection.



Tuesday looks a lot like Monday. Besides intermittent trips into the locker room to relieve himself, Coffen stays fixed to the outdoor pool deck, spying with grave intensity, snacking on his stash of Mexican lasagnas.

If Coffen’s calculations are correct, she’s been treading water for twenty-nine hours now.

And while he can’t see her legs working in the pool, he can see her face, her arms, her cohesive motions. Gotthorm is right—there is something otherworldly in the way her body moves.

Erma, Margot, and Brent are back.

Apparently, the judges rotate to stay alert. The woman who was there the day before is now gone. A small gentleman is positioned close to the pool, scrutinizing each of Jane’s strokes, clutching a clipboard of his very own.

Bob texts his kids the same message: How’s our girl doing?

Margot: fine

Brent: you mean mom?

Bob: Think good thoughts for her!

Neither of them knows he’s out there, hiding with the masses on the congested pool deck. He figures it’s better to keep them in the dark about his distant attendance, so they don’t accidentally tell Erma, who would probably call the cops on him. Or worse, buy a stun gun and handle things herself.



Gotthorm comes out again to chat with Coffen late Tuesday, around 11:00 PM. The health club is closed. He’s not carrying the African pompano this time, but instead is eating a banana.

“Aren’t you cold?” Bob says, pointing at his Speedo.

“I’m Nordic.”

“Don’t remind me. How’s she doing?”

“She is accepting the ocean as another home. And it is accepting her.”

Bob fights back laughter. Why is it that the first thing through Coffen’s stupid mind is a wisecrack? Here his wife is going on forty hours straight of treading water and all he wants to do is say something snide to Gotthorm: How is a heated indoor pool anything like the open ocean?

He stops himself, embarrassed. Why can’t he focus on what’s important? He catches himself, composes himself, then says to Gotthorm, “She’s going to do it this time.”

The coach snorts. “Too soon to know. She’s made it this far before.”

“This time’s different. I can tell.”

“Fish swim forever,” Gotthorm says.



Wednesday looks a lot like Tuesday. It’s a bit after high noon. Coffen has run into the locker room to shower, shit, and brush his teeth, and then flees back to the pool deck to eat another Mexican lasagna—a snack that doesn’t age well. Each bite a chore. Each bite probable food poisoning.

Jane’s just crossed the fifty-hour plateau, which puts her nine hours away from her personal best. Nine hours away from uncharted waters.



That night, Gotthorm doesn’t come out to talk to Bob, which he takes as a bad sign. Coffen’s up on the lifeguard chair, peering in at them. The coach looks worried, leaning down and talking a lot to Jane as she treads. The African pompano has been thrust to the side. This can’t be good.

Erma, Margot, and Brent have gone home to get some sleep. The same judge is there, alert as always, clipboard in his hands.

Coffen channels his inner Gotthorm, thinking to himself, Why would a fish need any words of encouragement to keep on swimming?

Through the binoculars, Jane appears no different. Her eyes are closed. She paddles and sways her limbs with the same nimble fluidity. She breathes her puckered breaths.

But Gotthorm’s shift in demeanor has Bob flustered, and a flustered Bob Coffen isn’t known for shrewd decision-making. Pretty soon, he’s creeping up toward the window. Pretty soon, he’s pantomiming a big thumbs-up with a simultaneous shrug of the shoulders to Gotthorm, who responds only with pursed lips and a shaking head.



At 5:00 AM on Thursday, Jane’s been treading for sixty-seven hours, and this is the moment when her eyes pop open. The skin tone changes, going pale. Her rhythmic, puckering breaths go into shallower, almost panic-stricken sucks of air. Her head slips a bit under the water. She catches herself, rights her stroke, but it’s the first slip she’s made.

Coffen sees all this through the window. Face pressed right up to the glass.

Coffen sees this and wants so badly to whisper in her ear: You’ve come this far. You can do it. You can do anything in the world you put your mind to.



Gotthorm comes out to the crowded pool deck at 10:00 AM. He has the exhausted look of a surgeon who’s been doing his best to keep a patient alive, but whose tireless efforts might be in vain.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” Bob asks.

“We’re at seventy-two hours.”

“She’s really struggling, it looks like.”

“She’s exhausted.”

“Will she make it?”

“I worry she’ll cramp soon.”

“And that’s it?”

“Fish swim until they die,” says Gotthorm.

“Before you said that fish swim forever.”

“Nobody can wiggle a mackerel’s tail but that very fish.”

“Is there any way to help her?”

“You are in your own competition, like Jane and me,” Gotthorm says. “You’ve been here as many hours as us. You’ve been competing. I’m impressed. You are stronger than you look.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“She needs more strength. She’s used up all her dedication to me, used up all her personal willpower. She’s drawn all the fuel she can from having your children present. Now it’s up to Jane to keep her humanness shut off. She has to stay aquatic or she’ll give in to fatigue.”

“Maybe her fish-ness has gotten her this far, but she needs her humanness to cross the finish line,” says Bob.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gotthorm says. “Only the ocean can baptize her. Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.”

It’s certainly not the intention of Gotthorm to plant any seeds in the head of a certain Bob Coffen. That’s the last thing the coach is trying to do. What is he trying to do anyway? Why does he keep coming outside acting chummy with Bob? All Coffen can figure is that he’s impressed Gotthorm with this round-the-clock peeping and has miraculously weaseled into his good graces.

The seed that has been planted in Bob now drills down into his cranium and an idea grows. Time lapse. The seed is buried and the sprout shoves up out of the soil in one fell swoop. The seed itself is in these previous words from Gotthorm: “Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.” And the idea growing inside Bob’s head is this: If the coach’s fish philosophy seems as if it’s failing, really failing—Jane’s head going underwater, Jane seeming as if she’s going to come up short of the world record—if this happens, then Bob Coffen has a plan to help her with some good old-fashioned humanness.

“I need to get back to her,” Gotthorm says, starting his Speedoed strut back toward the indoor pool. “The sea can flick a catamaran like it’s a cigarette butt. The ocean can hack up a submarine like a wad of gristle from a fat man’s throat after the Heimlich maneuver.”

“I still say she has some human in there,” says Bob.

“I pray not,” Gotthorm says.



The club closes at 7:00 PM, which happens to be the eighty-one hour mark. At midnight—when the plock strikes its only time—she’ll have broken the record.

Once the outside deck clears of other club members, Coffen climbs back up on the lifeguard perch to get the best view. Jane’s once lovely rhythm is shot. Her puckered breathing seems more like someone waking from a nightmare. Stunned. Scared. She is pale. Her eyes are wide open, blinking lots.

Erma, Margot, and Brent are no longer there. Gotthorm sits on the side of the pool and says things to Jane—words Bob so badly wants to hear. He so badly wants to help. On one hand, sure, he wants to respect her wishes to stay away, yet also he wants to disassemble those wishes. Obviously, they’re not the right ones. He hasn’t been near the pool and it’s clear to anybody’s eyeballs that she’s about to go under. She’s about to lose. And Bob Coffen isn’t about to let that happen, not without a fight, not without trying to help her.

Jane is not an urchin.

Jane is no manatee.

She’s not an anemone or a dolphin or a cuttlefish.

Jane’s no shark.

She is a human, a woman, his wife. This is real life, and she needs to hear real encouragement, needs to know her family believes in her. Whether Jane knows it or not, she needs her husband to be there.

Coffen throws the binoculars down, hops off the lifeguard chair. He runs toward the door to the men’s locker room. It’s locked. Of course. They’ve shut down for the evening. He knocks on it. Nobody answers. Duh. He slams his shoulder into it. Twice. Four times. Six.

Why is breaking down doors so easy on television? That’s going to bruise.

He kicks it. He moves and tries the door to the women’s locker room, too. No luck. No shoulder slams. No kicks. Think. Coffen has little time. She looked so pale. No choice but to try and lure Gotthorm to invite Bob inside. So he runs to the huge window. So he knocks on it. So he waves at Gotthorm. The judge looks over. Gotthorm only shakes his head. Gotthorm only keeps talking to Jane. Coffen only keeps knocking. What can he do? What options are there? He’s trying to bring Jane her humanness. He has to help her. Jane pulls her swim cap off. It drifts in the water like a small octopus. Reminds Coffen of their first date. Their first online date. In the chat room. In the Italian restaurant. Jane said a two-ton squid escaped the zoo. It lived under her bed. She fed it a steady diet of saltwater taffy. Bob fell in love with her right then. Wanted to kiss her imagination right on the mouth. Imaginations should have mouths. Imaginations should have great big puckering lips. Imaginations should sit on people’s shoulders like mousy Schumann had been sitting on Bob’s. Coffen needs to get inside. Needs to tell Jane she’s not a fish. Needs to tell Jane that she’s a gorgeous woman. He should mention he quit his job. But not until later. Not until she’s broken the record. After that the job thing won’t be so bad, maybe. The doors are locked. He’s knocking on the window and Gotthorm and the judge don’t move to let him in. Her swim cap starts to sink. Bob can’t see Jane’s face and he knocks harder. She said that every squid who ever escaped the zoo after that first one always came to her house. Word travels fast with squid. Everybody knows that. Nobody’s going to help Bob get in there. This is going to be a Bob-only enterprise if entering the indoor poolroom is his chief pursuit. Coffen runs back to the outdoor deck. Coffen is getting good at throwing things. Ask that flowerpot. He is no longer afraid of consequences born from the sound of shattering.

Coffen says, “Bob is me.”

He doesn’t throw the chaise lounge at the window so much as he uses it as a kind of battering ram and it works. The window explodes. The judge’s face is sort of scared. He clutches the clipboard to his chest like it’s a crying baby. Gotthorm’s face is not scared so much but wearing a wondrous What the hell? Bob can no longer see the sinking swim cap. Bob climbs through the busted window. Bob is still fully clothed. Bob is still wearing shoes. There are problems with his plan. He is saying to the judge, “Will she be disqualified if I enter the water but I don’t touch her or interfere in any way?” and the judge is saying, “Who are you?” and Gotthorm is saying, “That is her husband,” and the judge is saying, “What’s wrong with using the door?” and Gotthorm is saying, “What are you doing?” and Coffen is saying to the judge, “Can I get in the pool so long as I don’t physically aid her?” and the judge nods, Sure, do it, go ahead, you window-shatterer.

So:

Fully clothed Bob Coffen leaps into the water. About twenty feet away from his wife. Jane is really struggling. Bob swims over, not getting too close. Judges probably love to issue disqualifications and Coffen won’t give the smug prick the satisfaction. Her swim cap is flat on the bottom of the pool. Bob is treading water maybe ten feet away from her now.

He says, “Jane, it’s me, Bob. You’re almost there. You almost have the record. You can do it. I know you can do it. Don’t give up now.”

Jane doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head above the surface. But barely. Her strokes are arrhythmic, all over the place.

Bob says, “You’re only about four hours away from the record.”

The judge says, “Five hours, eleven minutes.”

Bob says, “You’re only five hours and eleven minutes away from the record.”

Jane doesn’t say a word.

Bob says, “Do you remember a two-ton squid that escaped from the zoo? You told me that it snuck in your bedroom window and hid under your bed. You fed it salt-water taffy.”

“I named it,” Jane says, eyes finally focusing on Bob.

“What did you name it?”

“Geraldine.”

“How did you know it was a girl?”

“She chewed her taffy in a very feminine way.”

“Geraldine the giant squid,” says Bob.

“What are you doing here?” Jane asks.

“Gotthorm invited me. He said that all your training has worked perfectly—that you’re the best athlete he’s ever trained. But he thought you might be getting tired and he asked if I wanted to tread water with you for the last five hours.”

The judge says, “Five hours, nine minutes.”

Bob says, “Five hours and nine minutes.”

Jane says, “You’re going to tread water for five hours and nine minutes?”

Bob says, “Only if you’ll do it with me.”

Gotthorm smiles at Coffen: “Yeah, Jane, we thought that seeing your husband might help you finish it off.”

“Yes, we did,” Bob says, already wishing he’d taken off his shoes.

“Are the kids here, too?” Jane says.

“I can call your mom,” Gotthorm says. “She can bring them back. They were going to set an alarm and return at midnight if you broke the record. Would you like them back here now?”

“Yes,” Jane says.

Gotthorm goes to call Erma.

The judge stands on the side.

Bob bobs. Jane bobs.

Jane says, “I’m so f*cking tired.”

Bob says, “A porpoise is one with the water.”

Jane says, “Don’t make me laugh right now.”

Bob says, “Sea otters look like my uncle Mickey.”

Jane says, “What are you doing in here with me?”

Bob says, “I needed some exercise.”

Jane says, “I don’t think we can do this.”

Bob says, “Watch us.”

Five hours and nine minutes is what Jane needs. What Bob needs, too. He has a sturdy guilt about doubting her likelihood of breaking the record earlier and the only way to purge it is this.

Getting rid of his guilt is like sucking venom from a wound: Coffen has to draw his doubt out of his system or it will poison him, poison them, and he’s not going to let that happen. If she can make it well over eighty hours in the pool, Bob can handle five hours and change.

Bob tries visualization to fight his fatigue: he and Jane are in a bathtub, relaxing. It’s not working. He tries counting his exhalations, inhalations, tries humming a tune to himself. Nothing seems to ease his exhaustion. He tries silently chanting, We need five hours and nine minutes in total, five hours and nine minutes, five hours and nine minutes …

“How much time has gone by?” says Bob after half an hour.

“Nei, nei,” Gotthorm says. “Kelp can’t decipher the clock.” Bob looks at Jane. She seems to have stabilized, her stroke improving. She’s not as pale as before. Her breathing’s steady. Her eyes are shut.

Coffen copies her, shuts his eyes, too. Trying to rally. He has no idea that you can sweat so much while swimming. Has no idea how woozy an individual can get simply treading water. Certainly, he has no idea that you can almost hyperventilate just staying in the same place, flailing your arms and legs, head slipping under the water every now and again.

The fatigue and cramping pain poking up his thighs are getting worse.

He notices he’s hungry.

Notices his vision isn’t quite double, per se, but it’s certainly more than single.

And yet there’s something about Bob Coffen that’s enjoying this arduous task. Digs the exertion and mounting headache. Thrives on how thirsty he is.

He accidentally swallows the chlorinated water and coughs. The taste left in his mouth is salty, almost like a cured meat.

We need five hours and nine minutes, keeps ringing in Bob’s mind.