Hey Sailor

I like to joke. I liked calling her Minerva

Colored pencil on an index card

A BSP Story Prompt - “There’s a Mermaid in My Bathtub”

For as long as I can remember, Monday night was wing night at Mojo’s. The PBR tallboys were a buck, and the wings were twenty-five cents apiece. On any given Monday, a person could have about fifty wings and five tall boys for under $20.

What a bargain! Right?

That being said, I have seen some wing munching in my day. There are some real professionals out there. Some people can stick the whole wing in their mouth and pull out clean bones, or clean bones and a bit of sticky gristle. This was how Minerva would feed. Those victims we lured would get gobbled up like this. I only watched her consume a few times, and it was more to marvel at the skill than anything else. She would snap off a section of femur and unhinge that jaw of hers. Pop the whole thing in her mouth and slurp out a white bone.

I shit you not.

I like to joke by calling her Minerva, though there’s a hint of truth in it.

What’s in a name, really?

I started calling her that, and she never corrected me. I thought it was a funny name for a mermaid. She called me “Sailor.”

In fact, that is how she first addressed me.

I walked into the bathroom, she splashed playfully—greeting me with a, “Hey, sailor.”

I am not an idiot, and I know any practical person would have run away and screamed bloody murder at the sight of her. Especially since she was unexpected and not exactly welcomed.

The shock of a real-life mermaid in my bathtub should have been severe enough to break me, but she had enchanted me right from the get-go.

It was her siren song.

I used to confuse mermaids, harpies, and sirens, but a lot of that talk is for the pedants, and the difference between praxis and theory was on full display. All the research in the world doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when confronted with the reality of a situation.

I asked her one time why she didn’t just eat me.

Why was I spared?

She told me it was because of my weak bone structure.

She said the instant she saw me, she knew she could manipulate me. The first time a person hears something like that, it breaks their heart, but I have heard it all before, maybe not as plain as all that, but some variation of cherubic, or chubby cheeks, or round face. It is odd how those optics make one a victim, but in this instance, it saved my life.

Come to think of it—it’s probably saved my life a bunch, but there is no way to tell. I’ve always survived any situation.

This fact is not due to any real skills on my part; I survive because I am too much for half the people and not enough for the rest. This combination leaves me as an outlier. Isolation allows me to disappear. Minerva the mermaid, despite only being partially human, viewed me in much the same way.

I hate that all this is true, but I am alive to hate it, and that counts for something.

As auspicious as our lavatory meetcute was, it didn’t take long for me to fall under her spell. The yellow razorclam teeth and blue skin enticed rather than repulsed, but in hindsight, this was all due to mesmerization.

The webcams and the motel rooms were all her ideas. Ironically enough, considering my poor bone structure, she needed me as the face of this operation.

I would rent the room, hook up the camera, and transport her from place to place. When killing and eating strangers, it is best to spread out the area you are working in. Luckily, these seaside towns always have plenty of motels. I would transport her in a galvanized dolly tub; a box of Morton’s added to the mix. It was a considerable effort, but the feedings were weekly, and after a month or so, it became mundane. Taping the plastic down in the bathrooms and the post-feeding cleanings were the most labor-intensive parts.

I would burn what remained in my backyard.

She never pitched in to clean and would vanish just as quickly as she appeared. There were times when I questioned whether she existed at all, but the physical evidence was proof.

I might have been capable of eating bits or chunks of a human being, but I could not have consumed all those bones.

I mean, maybe the marrow, but even that was probably a bridge too far.

So, this wasn’t a series of severe psychotic breakdowns; she was real, and she was a mermaid.

We would go live on any of the various websites that offered confidential meetups. We would always use some variation of the same handle: heysailor. She would start the stream by splashing around, teasing, and luring. Minerva couldn’t hypnotize via live stream, but once the men would take the bait and show up at the motel, she had them. The few times I saw her kill, it was at least quick. She would go for the throat, and these men were dead in a few seconds.

One of the gentlemen I remember as a standout. He was pretty tough. I think he had the misfortune of being partially consumed while still alive, but it is difficult to say—twitch of the death nerve and all.

I don’t usually feel comfortable commenting on someone’s appearance, but I was surprised by how many people found her attractive. I believe people get lonely, and everyone has their own idea of beauty. Most of the time, we would have a victim’s cash in hand within an hour of going live. The feeding complete, she would be gone as quickly as she arrived, and I would be left with the cleanup. I kept some of the scales. I know there was a risk to this, but I liked them as memories.

One week, Minerva didn’t show up.

I kept checking the tub.

I would look in the bathroom every fifteen minutes or so for a couple of nights, but she never arrived.

I am relieved in a sense to be freed from this servitude.

All in all, it was twenty weeks.

Twenty men were killed and eaten.

I know they will eventually track me down, although no evidence remains besides a few scales and some coded internet addresses. They will check the credit card statements, and there will be lots of circumstantial evidence, but no bodies and nothing linking me to the victims.

I miss her, but not in a romantic way. It’s more like the way you miss a toothache.

I still check some of the old hookup sites. I am looking for a variation of Hey Sailor.

I haven’t found anything.

I wish she had said goodbye.

I would love to know if she valued me at all.

The worst part of all of this is that now every time I go into my bathroom, I expect to see her. I expect her presence to such a degree that I can almost smell her mackerel aroma. I can almost smell the ocean.

I am sure this sensory hallucination will fade over time.

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