{"id":8990,"date":"2025-04-30T23:58:29","date_gmt":"2025-05-01T05:58:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8990"},"modified":"2025-04-30T23:58:29","modified_gmt":"2025-05-01T05:58:29","slug":"interview-with-a-trout-at-a-sidewalk-cafe-in-amsterdam","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8990","title":{"rendered":"Interview with a Trout at a Sidewalk Cafe in Amsterdam"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

James A. Foster<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We face each other across a linen-draped table at a crowded outdoor cafe in Amsterdam, me astride a giant tortoise and the trout floating in midair. Between us, a crystal trumpet vase sprouts a single black tulip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHit me,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tuck a cigarette into his mouth and light it. \u201cThose things\u2019ll kill you,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tips a pectoral fin toward his head and says, \u201cCan\u2019t. No lungs.\u201d Smoke puffs from his gills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An organ grinder holds a leash tied to a monkey, who wears a waiter\u2019s uniform and little red kepi. His name tag says, \u201cHello. I\u2019m Bobo.\u201d The organ grinder wears thick black glasses, and a white cane with a red tip lies beside him. He turns the crank of the hurdy-gurdy. \u201cSmoke Gets In Your Eyes\u201d comes out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone but the trout and I\u2014and Bobo\u2014pairs up to dance. As the couples rotate slowly, Bobo slouches, hangs his head, and sobs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A fleet of silver dirigibles swim into view high above us, blotting out the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s cold as death,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t notice,\u201d the trout says. \u201cCold blooded.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I ask, \u201cWhere do trout go when they die?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He blows two perfect smoke rings, one out of each gill, and shrugs. Or something like a shrug, since he doesn\u2019t have shoulders. \u201cDepends on how.\u201d The smoke rings rise and merge into a figure eight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMeaning?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUsually, something takes us up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo Heaven?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shakes his body, which wags his face. \u201cNo, no, no. Just \u2018up.\u2019 As in, \u2018Out of the water.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOsprey. Eagle. Sometimes otter. Or one of you. To eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dancers\u2019 feet leave the ground and they begin to rise, still rotating slowly with the melody. \u201cEveryone has to eat,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI tell you secret. Little fish? Full of protein. Once I am old, bugs are not enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think of Swift\u2019s Modest Proposal<\/em>. It\u2019s a good thing human babies aren\u2019t smaller, or shaped like minnows: like long, thin, slimy cigars, perfectly suited for a big fish\u2019s gullet. Babies would stick in my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dancers stop dancing then tip over, backs to the ground, stomachs toward the dirigibles. They accelerate upwards. There are no birds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ash falls off the end of his cigarette and rises, toward the horizontal bodies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat if you just get old, and die?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He did the fin-shrug. \u201cWe float off. Bear eats us. Or something. Or wash up onshore and rot.\u201d He makes burble, which I suppose is a laugh, \u201cFinally. Bugs<\/em> eat us<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shade from the dirigibles chills my espresso. \u201cThat\u2019s your body<\/em>,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat happens to you<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He doesn\u2019t answer at first\u2014just stares through lidless eyes. I wonder if he misses his river. There\u2019s a canal nearby, but that\u2019s saltwater. That would<\/em> kill him. He says, \u201cBeats me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The un-dancers zoom upwards now, far above the rooftops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you mind?\u201d he says, pointing with his eyes at the stub dangling from his lipless mouth. It makes him look cross-eyed. I take it and drop it in my cold coffee. It sizzles then floats, belly up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The music stops. The organ grinder begins to snore. Bobo unties the leash and shuffles over. He tugs his little white apron and tips his tiny hat. He nods to the cigarette butt floating in my cup and says, \u201cAnother?\u201d His voice is surprisingly deep for such a tiny fellow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo thanks,\u201d I say. \u201cWe\u2019re done here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The trout bobs his head, as if nodding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bobo returns to his station, ties the leash around the blind organ grinder\u2019s neck, and turns the crank. It plays, \u201cSo Long It\u2019s Been Good to Know You.\u201d The organ grinder begins to tap dance, beating time with his cane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Far overhead, the floating bodies smash into the undersides of the dirigibles, like bugs on a windshield. Their shoes fall off and flutter down, like snow. The airships drift silently away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The trout is gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

JAMES A. FOSTER<\/strong> is a retired Distinguished Professor of Biology, Philosophy, and Computer Science, with an extensive academic publication and editorial record. He lives with his wife Martha and calico kitten Skitterbutt in a tiny former logging town in Northern Idaho. Since retirement, he\u2019s been writing fiction, and has published a poem and a short story in Bowery Gothic and Synkroniciti. He holds an A.B. in Classical Philosophy from the University of Chicago, and an M.S. and Ph.D. in Computer Science from the Illinois Institute of Technology. In his spare time, he reads classical Greek, plays the Blues, pursues wild fish in remote places, and drinks excellent whisky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

James A. Foster We face each other across a linen-draped table at a crowded outdoor cafe in Amsterdam, me astride a giant tortoise and the trout floating in midair. Between us, a crystal trumpet vase sprouts a single black tulip. … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":8984,"menu_order":6,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-8990","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-2l0","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8990","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8990"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8990\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8998,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8990\/revisions\/8998"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8984"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8990"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}