A Fish Tale

I am peering through the glass tank wall at colorful schools of golden yellow barbs, blue green danios, and orange mollies swirling around cabomba and java ferns, and darting through the miniature shipwreck. I am not in some public aquarium, but in my long-time family friend Herbie's basement "fish room" in his house around the corner from where I live. He and his wife Sonnie are wintering in Florida with their fellow snowbirds and I have been tasked with babysitting his collection of tropical fish.

Herbie is an avid fish hobbyist. Well, that's a bit of an understatement; he was obsessed with his underwater pets, but in a good way. He had turned his entire basement into a menagerie of freshwater tropical fish habitats, housed in 20 aquariums that took up the better part of two rooms. The glass tanks, ranging in size from 30 to 75 gallons or more, held different varieties of fish, happily co-existing or reproducing more little fishlings. Neon tetras, brightly colored discus, tiny rasboras in many hues, shimmering guppies, black and white zebra fish, and multicolored rainbow fish populated Herbie’s underwater worlds.

He'd had a regular fish sitter, but this season she was unavailable and he needed a substitute. Herbie approached me gingerly with his request: would I take care of his fish kids while they were in Florida? He would train me, and pay me for my time. Herbie and Sonnie are as close to me as family (like my second set of parents or an uncle and aunt) so I felt like I needed to help them, but I was hesitant to accept compensation – until I learned how much work was involved with caring for his fish.

We agreed on terms, and he spent time teaching me how to feed the fish, clean the tanks, maintain the electric filters, heaters, lights, and aerators, and refill the tanks when the water levels were low. He wrote out detailed instructions for each tank of fish: what food to give them; how often to feed them; what chemicals I needed to add to the water to maintain the pH balance; what to do if fish died on my watch. It was a lot to keep track of, and I set up a notebook to monitor the activity so I could give him updates each week.

I'd go to the house several times a week and check in on my aquatic charges. I wasn't particularly fond of fish as pets or had anything but a passing interest in them as an aesthetic room decor, or subjects to occasionally marvel at for their natural beauty. It's not like you can make eye contact with a fish like you can with a cat. I'd make my rounds to each tank, sprinkling in flakes or pellets, checking the tank temperature, and general condition of their environment.

I learned that fish can jump out of the tanks. I discovered this unfortunate fact when I'd arrive to find a dead fish on the basement floor. With no cameras monitoring the room, this was purely circumstantial evidence. I did not suspect foul play and didn’t think we needed to call in the CSI team to study the forensics. I'd make an improvised chalk outline and report my findings.

My nemesis was a foot-long banded tilapia - let's call him Bluto. He lived in a large 100-gallon tank with several other large semi-aggressive fish. Part of successful fish-keeping is matching up fish personalities so the different breeds don't bully each other. I didn't know such bullying went on in fish schools, but it wasn't surprising that this giant tilapia would be aggressive and territorial just based on its size alone. Bluto was a fish on steroids. He was the muscle-bound gym-goer who hogged the equipment and wouldn't let others get a set in. If Popeye was the little puffer fish eating plant-life; Bluto, the carnivore, ate steak pellets with a vengeance. I was intimidated to open up the top of the tank to drop in his food, afraid he could somehow leap up and bite my fingers.

Dealing with that mean dude turned me off to tilapia forever, and knowing its demeanor, I swore I would never eat it as food. If anyone cooks tilapia and offers it to me, I politely decline.

I got into a routine of feeding the fish and maintaining the tanks on a weekly schedule. The curveball was New Jersey weather in the winter, which was frustratingly unpredictable. I'd get all the tanks cleaned and filled, and secure the house until the next slated check-in date. Then, unexpectedly overnight there'd be a power failure, which meant all the electrical equipment would need to be manually restarted. I'd slodge through the snow to get to the house, and make my way down to the basement to check on the fish. Did any not make it? Was Bluto still antagonizing his roommates?

One by one, I'd pull out the filter and pump, flick the motor with a stick, and get the bubbles moving to provide oxygen to the tank. Tedious work.

I think I saw a wink of a thank you from the graceful, marbled angelfish, but I couldn't be sure.