The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

I was standing in the tall stacks of literature, leafing through a book by Gunter Grass, but I wasn’t really reading any of it. I was spacing out, thinking about nothing in particular. I suppose my leafing through this thick book was decoy for any wandering sales reps so they wouldn’t disturb my reverie.

However, it was disturbed anyway when I felt a gentle push and tug at the shirt hanging loose around my waist. A tiny had hand gripped it and was begging attention. The tiny hand belonged to a tiny arm which was, in turn, connected to a tiny body.

This boy couldn’t have been more than six years old. He had an archetypal boy’s bowl haircut, blondish brown, totally forgettable. His eyes were large and blue. He was not a handsome boy. He was well groomed, but his wide features seemed to have been smeared across his face with more concern for symmetry than aestheticism.

Without any sort of introduction or greeting, he asked, ‘What happens to whales when they die?’

I was quieted for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. I was not used to being approached by anyone especially not a young boy. More than that, I was intrigued by his question and wondered what the answer could be. I stalled for as long as I could until I could physically see the impatience in his bland face.

‘I don’t really know,’ I said.

He sighed disappointment then said, ‘Wouldn’t the ocean just fill up after awhile?’

I imagined standing on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, gazing out across the waters in which floated the bodies of humongous dead whales, looking like large chunks of potato floating in a dark, angry stew.

I shrugged, ‘I think they rot.’ After a moment, I added, ‘Maybe sharks eat them.’

He mimicked my shrug and said, ‘Maybe.’ Then he turned and walked away, clearly bored with the conversation. The giant diamond shard of truth that children seem to seek through their overwhelming curiosities was not to be found in the bodies of dead whales.

But I couldn’t get the idea of dead whales out of my head. I thought about it a bit longer, idly leafing through the book. Of course they wash up on the shore as they’re dying and people either gather together to mourn the death of the beast or try to blow it up with heavy explosives. But, as an alternative, I was amused by the idea of a mass grave at the bottom of the sea, should dead fish sink rather than float. Great ribs devoid of all flesh laying on the dusty ocean floor through which swim huge, blind fish with whiskers like old Chinese men and eyes devoid of all color and feature. All of this is lit by an unseen mystical force that provides a dim yellowish light flickering fitfully. Perhaps these ancient fish moan as well. A raspy voice that’s groaning like an old man who’s sick to his stomach and feels like death is on him and he’s more afraid than he’s ever been in his entire life.

Rather pleased with this line of thought and the images it brought, I placed the Gunter Grass book back on the shelf then made my way into the bright sunlight. Somehow I felt better about facing the rest of the day, now that I was armed with images of dark oceans, dead whales, and an imaginary dusty land where fish moan like dying men.