Octopus Fishing in Tokyo Bay

It began with me fantasizing about my life with Oscar.

That's what I was going to name my octopus when I brought him home.

I realized the absurdity of such a thought, but nevertheless allowed myself to imagine pulling a chair up next to the bathtub. It would be a Friday night, and I'd set my drink down on the small shelf below the mirror, next to the "Volume Up" shampoo - which I still purchase despite no longer having enough hair for the product to live up its namesake. My girlfriend, even though I was the only one who called her that, would have made other plans - as she often did. My other friends would surely be in their usual seats, at the usual bar. They would be happy to see me if I joined, but they wouldn't be sad if I didn't.

I would tell Oscar how I felt. About how I didn't want to go out anyway. About how I didn't care that I wasn't the only guy in her life. But he would know that such explanations weren't really for his benefit. He would simply extend one of his eight arms and place it on mine. Because he would understand.

I would be able to count on Oscar. I would buy him a tiny drum set, and one of those backpacks for cats with the little window in it. Except I would fill it with water and take him to Starbucks - the good Starbucks. All the baristas would know him, and their faces would light up as soon as they saw me with the backpack. They would draw a little cartoon octopus on the paper cup addressed to "Joe and Oscar." Life would be good.

But of course octopus fishing is done with the intention of eating them shortly after they're caught. Not becoming their best friend.

And I've eaten them before. I even quite like takoyaki - "tako" being the Japanese word for octopus. But like most people, I've lived my life relatively far from the actual act of my food being sourced. Thusly, I agreed to go octopus fishing in hopes of building a kind of Joe Roganesque, pseudo-spiritual connection to the animal that must time and time again give its life for my takoyaki parties.

I've never been hunting, but I've always held a kind of weird admiration for my friends who did. They're just, I don't know - manlier? More grown up?

I mean that was literally what my friend said to me once, when I asked if he had checked himself thoroughly for ticks after leaving the woods. "Grow up, Joe."

I remember walking him through my mental process. Describing the memories I had of hand feeding a deer as a child. Memories of appreciating, though not quite fully understanding what it meant to have this beautiful, innocent creature put its trust in me - enough trust to take food from my hand. How could I ever shoot one?