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“Watch where you’re going, young man!” The woman Greasy Johnson had just bumped into in the narrow aisle pushed back and glowered at him.
Wrapping his arms around himself in a defensive self-hug that probably but unintentionally looked hostile, Greasy hung his head and waited silently for her to get tired of glaring and leave. There was no point in trying to apologize, as he’d learned early in his eleven years of life; after the third time he ran into them, people tended to stop believing the apologies were sincere. Besides, if he were to apologize every time he accidentally elbowed someone in the ribs or stepped on their feet, he’d just spend all day saying he was sorry.
He hadn’t done it on purpose. It was never on purpose. The place just hadn’t been set up for someone of Greasy’s bulk, especially someone who was in the middle of yet another early growth spurt. If the shop had been more spacious, the aisles less cramped, or even if this small place hadn’t been the only pet shop in Tadfield, it would have been fine.
Or maybe it wouldn’t have been. Greasy usually did find a way to put his far-too-large foot in it, no matter what “it” was.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to say anything, the woman gave one more annoyed huff, then strode away towards the check-out counter to pay for the cans of cat food in her shopping basket. Greasy waited until she was a safe distance away, checked to make sure there was no one else within crashing distance, exhaled heavily, and continued walking with as much grace as he could manage. (Which was to say, absolutely no grace whatsoever.)
He only knocked one stack of dog chew toys off a shelf as he made his way down the aisle, and managed to clumsily put the toys back where they belonged — without causing any new disasters in the process — before a clerk could come yell at him or kick him out of the shop. The day wasn’t going badly at all, as days in the life of Greasy Johnson went.
Finally, he reached his destination. One of his favorite places in Tadfield; the only reason he ever braved the close quarters of the pet shop.
The fish section.
For a small shop in a small town, Tadfield Pets had a pretty good selection of tropical fish. Greasy took a minute to study the array. Tetras, guppies, rainbowfish…
As usual, his initial good mood at seeing the fish themselves faded at sight of the tiny, bowl-like tanks they were held within. There was hardly room for most of the fish to do more than float and swim in sad, miniature circles, periodically bumping into the glass walls surrounding them.
Greasy had once gotten into a heated argument with a clerk about the fish’s accommodations. It isn’t good for them. They can’t move around. They need more space, he’d insisted, with more genuine passion than he’d known he was able to feel about anything.
That incident (combined, of course, with the various unplanned domino rallies and other near-catastrophes he periodically incited in the aisles) had very nearly gotten him banned from the shop entirely. That would have meant the end of his fish-raising; his parents were willing to tolerate their son’s odd hobby, but finding the time to actually go shopping on his behalf was another story. He was allowed back now only on the condition that he didn’t talk to anyone, beyond the bare minimum necessary to make his purchase with the money he’d won at the last fish competition.
So, he didn’t.
Instead, Greasy just sighed, picked out the betta fish he wanted, and took the long way around to the counter so as to avoid the most hazardous parts of the shop. (The last thing he wanted was to risk dropping the tank. Fish were, somehow, the one thing Greasy had never damaged before… and he had no intention of losing that streak.) The water sloshed as he moved, and he imagined he could see the fish being shaken about inside looking reproachfully at him.
“Don’t worry,” Greasy muttered to it. “I’ve got a nice big tank all ready for you at home. You’ll be much happier there. You’ll see.”
There were many things Greasy liked about tropical fish. They were pretty, and interesting to learn about, and they never called him either a bully or a clumsy oaf. And the prizes he sometimes won for breeding them were definitely a cool bonus.
But really, taking them out of these confining bowls and transferring them to the spacious, well-maintained aquarium that took up half of Greasy’s bedroom was his favorite part of all.
It was nice, giving something the space it needed to thrive.