Making Sense

“Good fish has proven to be hard to come by these days,” the penguin says, eyeing the cigarette pressed between Mark’s lips. 

Mark reached into his back pocket and pulled out a half-empty pack of Marlboros. “It’s always been hard, it’s just hard in a different way now.” Mark gently puts the cigarette between the penguin’s beak and lights it. 

The penguin takes a puff. “In what sense?” 

“In the sense that the times change, people change, trends rise and die faster than the sun sets, so it would make sense that the acquisition of fish would change as well.” Mark puts away his carton of cigarettes and pats his front pockets to see if he has his keys. “Have you seen my keys?” 

“You left them on the key rack. Where they belong.” There was a friendly digg directed at Mark with the penguin's answer. This hasn’t been the first time Mark has forgotten his keys, and this hasn’t been the first time the penguin has reminded him where it is. It had become a little redundant by now. “We better hurry, or you’re going to be late for your appointment.” 

“Yes, yes, you’re quite right.” Mark grabs his keys and opens the front door to his apartment, holding so the penguin can waddle his way into the hallway. Mark lives on the third floor of his five-story apartment in downtown Buffalo. The hallway looks clean, with no dust cobwebs, cracks in the walls, or flicker lights. Everything was fine except for the carpet. The carpet was stained, but not just ordinarily stained it was completely stained with spots and blotches, each of different shapes and sizes. It covered the entire third floor. When Mark had originally moved here, he had thought it was the design on the carpet, it was only when he visited the fourth floor, whose carpet was in pristine condition, that he realized the truth. 

It had bothered Mark initially, but the penguin said: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Mark didn’t really know what that meant but took it as a sign to stop complaining, which he did. Now, the carpet had grown on him, its imperfections were more unique and comforting to him than the other floor’s carpet. So Mark named the carpet Nathen to give its uniqueness a name. The penguin wanted to name the carpet Margret, but Mark had won the coin toss. 

Together, the two rode the elevator down and strolled out of the front lobby. Both he and the penguin stop and take a puff of their cigarettes to admire the scenery. It was Wednesday afternoon, and it was cloudy, with dark clouds, not pale gray clouds. A precursor to a coming storm, Mark had guessed. Mark preferred the dark clouds over the pale gray ones anyway. The penguin, from how Mark understood it, preferred a nice sunny day with only the sun in the sky. 

“I would like to continue our talk from earlier,” The penguin said. 

“Be my guest,” Mark said. 

“I find the idea of something that was initially hard to change to something equally as difficult as the original task to be harder than the initial task.” 

“This is about the fish?” 

“Of course, it is about the fish.”

“Well, my dear friend, as you’ve said in your statement, both tasks are “equally hard,” so I fail to see where you get the idea one is harder than the other.” The two take a turn into a coffee shop, and once again, Mark holds open the door. Together, they both get into a line that stretches five people, seven if you count Mark and the penguin. 

The penguin takes a long drag of his cigarette before putting it out.“No, no, no, my friend, you're missing the entire point. Yes, at first glance, both tasks are equally hard to accomplish, but imagine this: you've spent the first part of your life training, practicing to master the art of catching fish. Right?” 

“Right.” Mark follows suit and also puts out his cigarette. 

“The next part of your life, you put what you’ve learned into action and catch fish. Yes, it’s hard, but with time, it becomes second nature to you, like blinking or breathing.” 

“Go on. I’m listening.” 

“But suddenly, someone comes along with a new way, a better way to catch fish. It’s still hard, but not in the ways you’re used to. Then suddenly, your way of fishing is considered old and outdated, maybe even looked down upon. So now what do you do? You and, like every other living creature, adapt. But now that second nature you’ve developed is in the way making it…” 

“Making it harder,” Mark interrupts. It was their turn to order. The barista behind the counter was one Mark was familiar with, not because he was a regular but because the barista lived across the hall from him. The barista smiled at Mark and puffed out her rosing cheeks. 

“Hi, Mark. Penguin. What’ll be today?” The barista said with a smile. 

The Barista always called the penguin Penguin, as if it was his name. Mark found it to be a good substitute for his real name as well. It was better than referring to the penguin with words such as “you” and “he.” The penguin once said, in fact, that he does have a name but prefers the allure of mystery caused by his restraint in introducing himself. 

“Hi, Steff.” The barista’s name was Stephine, but Mark preferred to call her Steph because he found it easier to say. “Could I get one small coffee?” Mark looks down at the penguin, signaling to him it is his turn. 

“Hello, my dear. I would like a grande caramel macchiato in a Venti cup with whole milk, please.”

“Coming right up,” Steph said. 

Bot Mark and the penguin take a seat next to the large glass pane window that invertedly reads: THE BEANS OF BUFFALO. The penguin and Mark had referred to their Wednesday coffee outing as Mark’s appointment. Why was beyond Mark, but the penguin seemed to enjoy calling it that, so he let it be. 

“So, from my understanding, when you learn how to do something hard, it becomes easy?” Mark asks. 

“Yes.” The penguin confirms. 

“But once that thing, task, whatever you want to call it, changes in how it is done, it becomes harder because you only know how to do it the old way.” 

“Exactly!” 

“That’s an interesting thought, but I must ask what brought it on?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was me just feeling old and out of place in this new age we live in.” 

“Really?”

“No, of course not,” the penguin said with a sneer. “I was banned from fishing at my local pier. They didn’t like that I was using my beek insisted of those horrid contraptions.” 

“You mean fishing poles?” 

“Yes, those.” 

Steph called Mark's name, letting him know that their coffee was done. Mark stood up, grabbed both drinks, and sat back down. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help but laugh. 

Mark had spent the better part of his day listening to the philosophical ramblings of his penguin roommate, all because the penguin had been banned from fishing at his favorite spot. But the thing that made it really funny was that it made sense. His nameless, cigarette-smoking penguin roommate, who was banned from fishing at his favorite spot, drinking a grande caramel macchiato in a Venti cup, had made perfect sense! Mark had no choice but to laugh.