The Shape of Water review

When I was in high school, my friends and I would drive down to this gas station that was a few blocks away from our school. Every time we went in, the old Iranian guy who owned the store watched us the whole time we were there with sweat-laden eyes. It got to the point where we created entire backstories for this man. My friend Sam thought he was ex-military. I bought it, but he felt more like a cop to me. Later, after a few months of coming into this guy’s store, he started to talk to us. He would ask us what school we went to, where we were from, our favorite subjects. I never thought anything of it at the time, but it’s clear to me now that he had an agenda.

Eventually, the school year ended, I wouldn’t see the old man again until after the summer. I came back in one day after school in October; I had my own car now, so I went alone. We didn’t speak when I first came in, but after a few minutes perusing the porn magazines in the back of the store, I heard him call out.

“Hey, boy, come up here.”

I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I didn’t necessarily feel fear, but I knew something exciting was about to happen. I put down the Hustler, walked up to the front, and put my hands on the counter. It was a tense moment. I wouldn’t speak, neither would he. We looked at each other for a minute that felt like an hour. Finally, he spoke.

“You interested in aquatic life?”

I was intrigued. I didn’t understand this question entirely, but I had an answer.

 

When I was a child, I took a summer class at a local aquarium. It was uneventful, but on the last day there they let us tour the inner sections of the aquarium, the part they won’t let regular tourists see. I don’t remember exactly how, but at some point I found myself separated from the other children in the class. Perhaps the counselors didn’t know; maybe they didn’t care. Regardless, I was alone amongst the pipes and inner-workings of the marine museum. I wandered the tight corridors, the dim lighting showing me a twisting path amid the humid atmosphere. I found one lone tank, it had a single light shining onto it, but it was too dark to see what was inside of it. I advanced towards the tank, not cautiously, but with morbid curiosity. I needed to see what was inside.

My stout figure peered over the edge of the shallow tank. Inside I saw something that remained with me for decades to come. It was a writhing mass. It squirmed, swam, wriggled, and moved in a way that was alien to me. I reached my hand into the tank, the smooth skin of the organism inside was entrancing. Before I could, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I never got to touch the inhabitants of that tank.

 

The owner stared at me. I nodded slowly. He blinked, then turned around to grab a set of keys behind him. He walked out from behind the counter, and then through a door marked “staff.” I waited a moment before I followed him in.

The air was instantly familiar; it was the same air I felt all those years ago. I understood the air, and it knew me just as well. I had lost sight of the owner at this point, but there was only one path through the maze of stock shelves. I turned the final corner past the box of Doritos and saw a tank. Not the same size, but in a similar fashion regardless. Once again, a single light shone onto its contents. The owner was gone, but I had lost all interest in him anyway. I needed the tank, I needed what it contained, and strangely, it needed me.

I walked up to the tank; I didn’t need to stand on the tips of my toes anymore. I had grown where the tank had shrunk. I was in control now. However, when I looked, there was nothing to see. It was dark. The light above had no effect, all I could see was unending wet darkness. I knew what I had to do as I pulled the sleeves of my shirt above my elbow. Slowly, I reached my arm into the tank. I stopped just before touching the dark; the tank was in control. It had always been in control, and it always would be. Nothing could change this; I plunged my hand into the water.

I felt something familiar. It was long and slick, what I imagined those eels to have felt like. I grasped one and pulled it out of the black.

In front of my eyes was a penis, it had fins and gills. I grasped it tightly in my hands as it writhed and tested my strength.

 

I orgasm instantly.

 

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I never found out what happened to the owner, as when I left the store, he was nowhere to be seen. One month later the gas station closed, much to the chagrin of my friends. Now the gas station is a laundromat, improbably large on the inside given the outer dimensions. My friends and I have all moved away from our hometown. I cherish our memories, and I haven’t forgotten the antics we all got into for those four blissful years. But in my current house, in a back room, behind a water heater is a crawlspace. If you go far enough through the crawl space, you find another door. Behind this door is a 5×5 room. Behind a suede curtain in the room is a small aquarium tank with one inhabitant: an eel with the face of a penis.