Suzy Eynon

Sea-Monkey God

Advertisements for Sea-Monkeys depict whole families darting in and out of castles. They bob hand-in-hand, wearing crowns. It’s unclear why they’re underwater royals but you attach the fact to a memory of hearing about Atlantis in school and question neither their social status nor their size. The smirking cartoons are on the verge of arrogance. You don’t need robe-clad princes in your tank. Instead, you imagine the animals will be several inches in length, tadpoles capable of smiling up at you from the depths of their plastic container. You assume they won’t be clothed despite the crowns, but this won’t prevent each from having a personality which shines through its mercreature body.

You unwrap small packets of powder and read these mixtures give life to your new pets. You assume the live animals may need to be sent away for once you assemble their residence, mailed to you in the desert, and don’t picture them just exploding into existence from bathroom sink water heavy with calcium deposits. Regardless, you follow the directions and stir the powder into room-temperature water with care lest you injure the creatures with misplaced enthusiasm. You must wait twenty-four hours for the water to magically transform into hospitable environs for your friends. 

You pass hours turning pages of product literature, browsing the accessories you will buy for your future friends: a lighted top for their container; a child-sized magnifying glass; and the most desired object, the bubble transport necklace suspended from a crimson cord.

“I don’t see them,” you say. You carry the tank to your father.

He bends down to inspect. “Oh! They’re there – look.”

Dots float in the water. “Those are bugs,” you say. Swimming, faceless ants.

When you transfer one of them to the necklace, its microscopic body disappears in the transport cup though you’ve selected one of the girthiest monkeys. You realize the suspension bubble can’t bear the weight of the water.

To give the monkeys access to sunlight, you place the tank on the bare windowsill. Absent miniblinds, the monkeys faint from the heat of a midday sun, and you return from hours of cartoons to find the tank obliterated. You wonder if you too are not meant to dwell in the desert. You feel no attachment to the artificially cooled interiors of your youth. Likewise, the searing of leg flesh against errant metal seatbelt buckles reminds you of the uninhabitability of the desert.

You find the dried-out Sea-Monkey tank on the shelf in your father’s garage long after you abandon it and your childhood home. You carry the tank inside to fill it with water, to clean it out. Maybe you can locate a monkey refill pack if they still make them. You leave the tank to soak, and when you peek at it the next day, you realize the Sea-Monkeys have been reanimated. Resurrected. You are responsible for all the years they weren’t alive, when they were just waiting on a shelf for you to add water.