If there was one thing that Morton Capgras enjoyed, it was the immutability of routine. Every day ran like a well-oiled machine, and that was because it was a routine that Morton had tweaked and finessed for many years. On Mondays he arose at 7:15 and immediately breakfasted on muesli, orange juice, and black coffee while perfecting the week’s online grocery order. He fed his fish, Stray, and did twenty minutes of exercise with a Jane Fonda VHS tape. The morning was devoted to his work stuffing envelopes for a mail-order dandelion company. A BLT for lunch, and Monday was Bette Davis day, so there was one film right before a nap, and one right after. When the second film finished, Morton Capgras called his mother. Dinner was a frozen tv dinner eaten at the dining room table. After dinner there was reading (new library books were dropped by on Fridays, exchanged for the previous weeks’ tomes) and a classical music record. Mondays were Mozart.
Each day had it’s own specific tastes and flavors: English muffins on Tuesdays with strawberry jam, grapefruit on Fridays, French chanson songs on Wednesdays and strictly musicals on Saturdays. Rain or shine was no difference to Morton, as the shades were closed and covered with posters of English pastoral scenes. A number of lamps for seasonal affective disorder gave him all the light he required, and Morton’s little apartment was its own little world, made by Morton entirely to his own specifications. Everything he needed was delivered, and the only time he stepped outside of his apartment was for his yearly checkup, which he dreaded, but could at least rely on to occur on the first Monday in September every year. And as long as the health food store around the corner kept delivering his vitamins on the third Tuesday of every month, well his doctor said that there was no cause for concern, he was as healthy as a horse.
He wasn’t lonely. He had his nightly call to his mother in her retirement home in Florida, which was close enough for both of them, thank you very much. They were terribly fond of one another over the phone, but the last time they saw each other in person, seventeen years previously, there had been so much screaming that a neighbor had called the police (they were having an argument over who was a worse mother, Mrs. Capgras or Joan Crawford). There were several regular delivery people that he almost enjoyed. When Elaine came from the library, he sometimes stood and chatted with her for a whole five minutes. He carefully pronounced “Hola” whenever Diego came up with his groceries. Once, he even told Nevil from the pet store a joke. Not that there weren’t those he hated with the white-hot intensity of a thousand miles. DaMon, for instance, the postman. And naturally, Morton received an awful lot of mail, so DaMon visited every day but Sunday. Most times, Morton didn’t even remove the chain on the door. DaMon would say he was just a friendly guy, Morton would say that he was just nosy. Asking questions about every single piece of mail that he passed through the crack in the door. Morton often wished that he could live in England, with slots in the door so the mail just dropped to the floor, but when he asked his landlord about it, Mr. DiFazio told Morton in no uncertain terms that mail slots were not allowed. It wouldn’t have really been practical anyway. The dandelion company refused to ship the catalogs he stuffed into envelopes via UPS, so once a month he definitely had to open the door so DaMon could bring in the new boxes and take away the stuffed envelopes. Always tried to get a peek past the foyer too, the little sneak.
But, slight annoyances like DaMon aside, Morton’s life was going according to his plans. He knew early on that the daily rigors of a nine-to-five job, not to mention the commute involved, were too much for a gentle soul like himself. Growing up, he’d suffered terribly from asthma, allergies, and a veritable host of nervous bowel disorders. Since shutting himself off from the world at large, his health had improved by leaps and bounds. Predictability agreed with Morton.
One Thursday in July he awoke at 7:15 as always and smartly shut off the alarm. He checked just to make sure, as he always did, that the automatic coffeemaker had started itself, which it always had. Morton enjoyed a brisk shower, wrapped himself in his pin-striped Thursday robe, retrieved his paper from just outside the door, and settled into Thursday’s breakfast of plain yogurt, muesli, and two bananas. He opened the paper, discarded the sports section, and read the rest, taking particular delight in the day’s “Prince Valiant” cartoon, which involved the introduction of forks to a medieval society that had no knowledge of such things. Morton preferred the non-humorous daily comics, the soap opera-like “Apartment 3G” and the informative nature story “Mark Trail” were particularly good, but the historical “Prince Valiant” was his favorite.
Still chuckling to himself over the picture with forks studding the castle grounds, Morton disposed of his banana peels, rinsed his bowl and spoon, and popped them into the dishwasher, making a mental note that it should be run at 2:30, during his nap. Morton found the hum of the dishwasher quite soothing. He adjusted the knot of his Thursday robe, and padded in his Thursday slippers over to the fishbowl to give Stray his breakfast. He double-checked the calendar, just to be sure, and yes, the last time he’d been fed was Tuesday. Morton made an x in red ink on the Thursday box, and uncapped the bottle of Total Goldfish Flake. He poised his arm above the bowl and looked at Stray, who was just coming around the corner of his little fish castle. Morton squinted and bent closer, then straightened up again. He put the fish food down again, placed a hand on either side of the bowl, and pressed his face against the glass. He could feel beads of sweat forming at the pudgy small of his back, his armpits, other damp unmentionable places with folds and crevasses.
It wasn’t Stray.
Morton, still crouched in front of the bowl, screwed his eyes up tight until he could see little red and green starbursts blossom against the black of his eyelids. He opened them again. He watched the goldfish, who was now weaving little figure eights around the two little men in their diving helmets, just like Stray always did. Morton turned the bowl this way and that, and could see that this goldfish even had the same scar on his right side. Two years ago, Morton had the terrible idea to purchase a companion for Stray, a female goldfish named Piggy. It was a disaster, and after weeks of patient suffering on Stray’s part, Piggy had nipped a small chunk from his side. Stray retaliated by eating Piggy.
Morton ran to the book table beside his recliner and came back clutching a large magnifying glass. It was hard to get the angle right to see properly through a magnifying glass, fishbowl, and water, but the fish eventually was still enough for Morton to maneuver the glass into position. He couldn’t even put his finger on what was wrong. He looked like Stray, he acted like Stray, but Stray he most definitely was not. He just was not.
To say Morton was shaken would be a vast understatement. His world was on the verge of collapse. So he did something he only did in the most stressful of times: He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey. Yes, it was early in the morning, but, desperate times and all that. He sat at the kitchen table, clutching the tumbler with both hands and jiggling his left knee up and down at warp speed. He tried to take a few calming breaths, but to no avail. He hated to foul up his schedule, but he decided to call his mother. Doing so would necessitate going back in the front room though, so he had a large gulp of whiskey to fortify himself. He shuddered and rose.
He took his slippers off and placed them by the chair, because Stray always turned around at the gentle thwap thwap they made. Heart pounding, he crept along the wall and into the front room. He could see not-Stray’s tail through the castle window, twitching lackadaisically. Morton moved slowly and quietly until he was nearly in reach of the phone, and stretched out a trembling arm. he knocked a pencil onto the floor. He froze, and so did not-Stray’s tail. For a moment, neither moved, but when the tail began to move again, so did Morton. A few millimeters closer and the phone was in his sweaty hand. He retreated the way he’d come, never taking his eyes from the fishbowl. Whoever not-Stray was, he was a clever bastard, pretending that he didn’t notice that Morton had definitely noticed.
Morton heaved himself into the kitchen chair with a sigh of relief. He waited for his heart to slow and pressed #1 on speed dial. She answered on the 2nd ring.
“Morton what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you sick? Do you need help? Dear God, what’s wrong?” Each question was louder than the last, like Morton’s mother was running closer to him in his time of need.
“Mother,” Morton hissed in a rasping whisper, “I need you to stay calm. If you aren’t calm, neither am I.”
“Alright, Morton,” she came down a few steps, but her voice was still dancing with panic. “But what on earth is going on? Is it your heart?”
“It’s Stray,” Morton hissed, “Or rather, it’s not Stray.”
There was a long pause during which Morton could hear his mother fumble for the remote control and turn off SoapNet. “I don’t think I heard you right, Morton, say it again.”
“My goldfish, Stray, he’s....he’s not him,” Morton eyed the bottle of whiskey.
“Stray’s not...who?”
“He’s someone else!” Morton picked up the cap. If he’d put the cap back on, then he definitely wouldn’t have anymore. But the cap was still off, so maybe just a little more? He reached for the bottle.
“Morton, have you been drinking?” Morton let go of the bottle, but it was only an inch off the table, so it just made a thud and a little rock back and forth, sloshing about the sides.
“Mother, I-- Mother, the problem is not with me, the problem is with Stray! I think he’s,” Morton lowered his hiss another few decibels, “I think he’s been replaced.”
“Who has?”
“Stray!”
“Who’s Stray?”
“My goldfish!”
“So?”
Morton hung up. He knew she would just call back, and the phone was indeed already mid-ring when Morton silenced it. Bitch. He should have known she would be of no help. He poured himself an even larger glass of whiskey than the first one. Still gripping the bottle in one hand, he wiped his brow, which wasn’t so much bathed in sweat as swimming in it. What on earth was he going to do? How had this happened? He stood up and began to pace, unshod feet clinging stickily to the linoleum. He looked at the clock. 10:37. He looked at the calendar. Thursday, July 14th. Bastille Day. All of a sudden, Morton felt like a prisoner himself. Clutching both bottle and tumbler, he backed himself into the corner of the kitchen between the pantry door and the bookshelf full of cookbooks, and sank to the floor, his robe snagging on the molding behind him so he sat on the floor in just his underpants. Normally, he would have found this incredibly distasteful. But this was not normally.
He could feel the presence of not-Stray in the other room. He knew that the fish couldn’t see him, but he could feel him thinking at him. Could feel the presence of not-Stray’s cold, dead eyes swimming around in poor Stray’s bowl. What was this? Was this hell? Was he being punished for some unknown sin? Had Stray been transported to an alternate universe? Who was the impostor in the next room? A changeling? A dybbuk? The ghost of his father? Morton felt the walls and ceiling of his apartment, of his comfortable cage, begin to crash down upon his head, and he began to scream uncontrollably.
***
Morton had been wrong, it wasn’t the walls and ceiling of his apartment falling on him, it was the latest box of catalogues from the dandelion mail order company. Already resting precariously on the top of the cookbook shelf, Morton’s panicked slide to the floor had dislodged them and they landed smack on the top of his head. Ceiling or dandelion catalogues, this proved too much for Morton. That very evening, acting on the insistence of Morton’s mother harassing them all the way from Florida, two firemen broke down the door of the apartment. Morton Capgras’ body lay slumped in the kitchen corner, eyes staring, lap full of dandelion advertisements.
“Must have had a heart attack, poor guy,” said the burly blond man crouched in front of him, as he closed Morton’s staring eyes with surprising tenderness. “Anyone else here?”
“Nah,” said his partner, ambling about the room. “Wacky set-up he’s got here, huh? Shut-in or something. Wait, there’s a goldfish here.”
The blond firefighter joined his partner, looking down at not-Stray. The partner picked up the bowl. “You want it for your kids or something?”
“Nah, they’d never feed it. You wanna flush it?”
“Yeah,” said the partner, heading for the bathroom, where a moment later, a rush of water was heard, followed by a flush. He came out and placed the empty bowl back on the table, and the two firemen went back to their fire engine to call the morgue.
Not-Stray was gone, but gone too late to save Morton Capgras, who died in a fearful existential agony of such dazzling proportions that one can only hope its like is never seen again.
