Fish, Chips and the Meaning of Life

There was a pool in our town. In the middle of a drought, when the ground was brown and dusty, peppered with upright stalks clinging determined, and the wind like from an oven howled from the north, hot, dry and thirsty. When the wells ran dry and the ground springs stopped offering up clear puddles of cold, rock-cleaned water, and all the tadpoles had long since dried out like prunes in the shrinking dams. Even then, the town had a pool.

We lived out of town, so the pool was an outing. It was 20 cents and had two pools, a baby pool warm like wee, and a big one. The shop sold Samboy chips in salt and vinegar and chicken, and Wizz Fizz and White Knights that would last all day once the chocolate wore off.

The only problem was, the pool was too cold to stay in it. Even in summer, even in the drought when the roads melted in the sun so that cars going too slowly left tire prints in the tar. The shallow end was bearable if you leapt and bounced and splashed, and squealed and got straight out again. But the deep end was so cold it was dark blue. And it was so deep you could dive off the third level, the highest and the bounciest level, of the diving board and not hit the bottom.

In the deep end everyone turned blue, and a person's ears would ache and push in on soft brains and temples, peoples' skulls would contract, and shrink from the water, squeezing their brains 'til they thought it might come out of their eyes or ears. Worse than an ice-cream headache it would follow ear canals slow and creeping right into the middle of a person's brain.

Normally so out of reach, the deep end came within my reach on a single flamboyant day. The older boys who were in high school tended to own the deep water. They used to dive in and get the iron grate that lived at the bottom like they were claiming a badge of street cred. Us younger ones always waited until the burning sun was gone and the deep end was deserted before we'd sidle up on the edge of the pool, clinging like mud crabs to the rail. All the way we'd go, inch by inch, until we could look down and see our purple feet dangling uselessly over the inky depths of the deepest part of the pool. Then we'd take big hypothermic gasps of air, let go of the rails and try to sink to the bottom, to the grate.

I don't think we ever sank that far. Until I learnt to swim in a fit of determination not to be laughed at in a pool in the desert hundreds of kilometres away where they generally found excuses not to let our sort in, well, until then, it never occurred to me not to kick your arms and legs. As soon as I'd let go of the rail and start to sink my arms and legs would get active, and I'd sink a little, but then generally just bob to the surface, looking down to the depths as if looking would take me there.

The time I touched the bottom I stopped kicking and sank. Fast. And I kept sinking, with my skull shrinking and my brain screaming. Looking up at the bright sky made me feel like I was still in the shallow end where I liked to lie on the bottom on my back. This time I watched the sky recede until I felt the softest 'thunk' on my reaching pointed right toe. 'Thunk' again on the other. At my feet, something cold, and hard, and rough. The grate. I swallowed a gasp and kicked my legs and flapped my arms until I surfaced, yelling, 'I tooooooouched it!!'

No-one believed me, so I tried again. Didn't make it. I tried again. Again, I didn't make it. I kept trying, getting bluer and bluer until I turned a mottled greeny purple colour. I lost the power of speech as my lips froze the way they do when you eat ice cream. I kept trying until the pool closed.

After the pool closed my sister and I rode home on our BMXs, in the shade of the ancient old gums beside the road, dodging the long freckled shadows they cast. It was a long ride. Normally we were boiling by the time we got home again. But this time I was still cold, still blue, as we dropped our bikes and thundered in the front door. Our Mum, who was always tired, always stressed, worried and gaunt, looked rested after her kid-free day. She took one look at me and suggested a trip to town for fish and chips.

It's hard to say just how much of a rare treat this was. In our town, full of people on welfare and in varying degrees of poverty, possibly with us amongst the poorest, fish and chips was the food of the gods. All that batter and grease and salt. It put meat and blubber on the bones and probably thickened the blood for winter. We'd sit with the paper as our plate, picking out the crispiest, saltiest bits first, and drowning the rest in butter, vinegar, and lemon salt.

Mum piled us in the car with the heater on, for me. While she ordered we stared through the glass wall at all the one cent lollies, and when it was ready I got to carry the package home, warm and steaming on my legs. Unwrapped at home it sat gleaming with yellow crusts of fried golden skins and sizzled batter as we sat in a reverent semi-circle around it, eating in decadent silence.

Maybe it was my frozen state jamming up my brain, or maybe it was jsut the utter bliss of the moment, but at that time, munching on the extra potato cake that was routinely thrown in to the mix, a question occurred to me.

'Mum'.
I stated.
'Why are we here? What is it about? This? All of this?'
Mum's eyes widened then narrowed a little, the corner of her mouth turned up just ever so slightly suppressing a smile reserved inappropriate earnestness.
'Sweetie. It's the fish and chips. We're here for fish and chips'.
'Oh.'
I said in an arched tone.

And right then, with my fingers starting to thaw wrapped around a succulent salty potato cake, my big toes still tingling from where I'd touched the grate, I thought perhaps that was the most profound moment of my life.