Before we start, it should be noted that Carlo Acevedo isn’t the kind of guy who goes around blaming yellowfin tuna for his problems. He’s pretty much like the rest of us, in that tuna rarely has anything to do with the happenings in his life, good or bad. Tonight, however, tuna will make him want to rend his shirt and maybe a pant leg or two. He’ll want to scream. But he must not scream. It’s not his place to scream.

Gertrude Price, on the other hand, is the kind of screamer you can’t train. It’s just raw, natural talent. That’s what her NeuroShrink 3200 therapeutic cerebral implant tells her.

“You just have to let it out, girl,” the implant says in a soothing voice that adjusts to match whatever pop star, influencer, or self-help guru is most popular at any given moment. “Good screams, good dreams.” 

Right now, it’s more accurate to say Gertrude is sobbing with great force and volume but rest assured the true screaming will come later. Tears pour off the angles of her perfect, sculpted face, and her cheeks flush red beneath streaks of running mascara. 

“I can’t even with this fucking fish right now,” she says between gulps of air, slamming her open palms onto the table, rattling the silverware. “I don’t even want to look at it.” 

Beneath Gertrude’s loathsome stare lies the culprit, a thick cut of Fijian yellowfin tuna steak, wrapped in a black sesame crust next to a neat pile of whipped purple potatoes. It’s the pride of Salted Sea, the restaurant where Carlo works as a server, and it’s not nearly pink enough in the center. This is Carlo’s fault. He meant to place the order with a “medium rare” label but accidentally selected “medium” in the restaurant’s finicky order ticketing system. To the untrained eye, the tuna steak would seem perfectly edible—delectable even. Back in the 2020s people ate overcooked tuna like this all the time, such was the abundance of seafood, but these days you’re lucky if your tuna is made from a substance that’s even seen a body of water, much less the real thing. You’d think this scarcity would lower standards but then you haven’t met the Price family. Carlo certainly wishes he hadn’t. 

“Why do these things always happen to me?” Gertrude Price whimpers, followed by wordless wailing, her head thrown back in total, despondent abandon. She’s twenty-seven, by the way, in case that wasn’t obvious.

“How in the actual fucking fuck could you serve this to my fiancé?” says a sallow young man of similar age seated next to Gertrude. Vincent Irvine Jr.’s butter knife trembles in his clenched fist, pointed downward at the table like a pirate’s dagger. This is in accordance with advice from his NeuroShrink 2900, a slightly older and less expensive model than Gertrude’s but still in compliance with the DSM-11. “Assertiveness. Aggression. Dominance,” it says. “Embrace the ancient impulses.” 

“Allow me to explain—” Carlo begins to say. 

“No!” Vincent cuts him off. 

“It’s just that—" 

“Noooooooo!” Vincent stabs the table with his knife again and again, shouting, “No! No! No!” each time while his implant whispers, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Carlo clasps his hands behind his back and stands silent while Vincent abuses the place settings. This is bullshit, he thinks to himself with his own bare-bones, standard-issue internal monologue, unaided by therapeutic implant. This is a thought he must keep to himself, though. His eyes dart nervously to the tables nearby to see how much attention has been called toward his guests. So far, the other diners remain focused on their own meals, and the murmur of the restaurant’s ambient conversation remains as it was before the tuna incident, but this state of affairs can’t go on for long. The whole establishment teeters on the edge of disaster. 

What Carlo should do is invite Gertrude to shove her plate off the table, spit on his shoes, and have a glass of chardonnay while the busboy cleans up the shattered mess, followed by a profound apology and an offer to comp the entire meal. This, however, would come out of Carlo’s paycheck, and he doesn’t make “real fish” money. He barely makes enough to cover non-fish expenses. It’s the whole reason he’s gambled with the desecrated tuna in the first place.

Why did I think I’d get away with it? he wonders to himself, but to his surprise, the usual feelings of abject subservience fail to arrive. Instead, his mind schemes and plots ways to overcome his predicament. Perhaps it’s the fatigue of one-too-many overtime shifts catching up with him. Perhaps it’s his rumbling stomach, distracted by the aroma of the rare fish. Whatever it is, it’s consistent with a concerning new pattern of recklessness in his life, one he can’t help but follow tonight. Maybe I can talk my way out of this, he thinks to himself. Yeah…go for it!

“Let me be the first to offer my sincerest apology for madame’s unhappiness,” Carlo begins in a calm, measured tone, “but if I may, I’d like to provide some additional context for the…erm…enhanced temperature application you’ve so expertly noticed.” Carlo clenches his core muscles to stymie his trembling. This is total rogue behavior. Completely irresponsible. Madness, writ large. “You see, we’ve found that a slightly more well-done preparation allows for increased interplay between the yellowfin’s natural enzymes and the acidity of the sauce’s citrus base. I think you’ll find the flavor profile as unique as it is mouthwatering, if you’ll just give it a chance.”

Where the hell did that come from? he wonders. Sweat coalesces just behind his hairline. He feels utterly foolish, and yet never so alive. You’re playing with fire, Carlo.

Gertrude considers Carlo’s suggestion for a moment, taking a closer look at the tuna steak and trying to remember if she even likes her meat medium-rare or whether that’s just the way she thinks it’s supposed to be ordered. Before she can make up her mind, her NeuroShrink proffers an opinion. “Sounds like he’s invalidating your feelings,” it says, and suddenly everything is clear again. 

“Daddy, he’s invalidating my feelings,” she says, and looks across the table to her father, Jonah Price, a formidable man in his late sixties dressed in a ratty white t-shirt and an oversized black hoodie. A multimillionaire, obviously. The man strokes his beard and eyes his daughter with concern, pondering his own thoughts about the situation. He’s too old to have qualified for therapeutic implants when they came on the market, but his many business ventures in the healthcare technology sector give him a decent understanding of psychological best practices. And anyway, he gets regular summaries from his daughter’s implant sent to his mini tablet, along with recommendations for affirming responses to her distress. He wads up his cloth napkin and throws it on the table. 

“She’s right,” Jonah says to Carlo. “What does the actual taste of the food have to do with the way my daughter feels about the way it tastes?”

“Well put, Mr. Price,” Vincent says in agreement and then turns to Carlo. “You hear that, you fucking fuck face? Your face is made of fuck!”

“Excellent point, sir,” Carlo says, and tugs on the collar of his starched button up. He turns to Gertrude, “I was only trying to make you feel better. I meant no offense.” 

That’s the strange thing, though. He does want to offend. Malicious retorts leap to the tip of his tongue and violent images flit past his eyes. Carlo frowns at this deviation from his expected subservience. A strange well boils inside of him, an aggressive energy that begs to lash out at these people who have so kindly provided for his employment this evening, and whose trust he’s broken so egregiously with that disgraceful tuna. Careful, Carlo, he thinks to himself. This isn’t you.

“I’m just glad your mother isn’t here to see this…this…abomination,” Jonah says.

“And on my birthday,” Gertrude adds.

“It’s your birthday?” Vincent asks, worried he’s forgotten. 

“No, but thank God it isn’t.” She sheds another tear at the idea. 

Vincent resumes his angry seething and points at Carlo. “Well, Fuckface here doesn’t know it’s not your birthday, so it might as well be.”

“You’d think an establishment like this would take extra care on someone’s birthday,” Jonah says.

That proves too much for Carlo. He scoffs. It’s really just a quick burst of breath from the nose but now that it’s expelled, it can’t be taken back. His heart pounds with terror. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” Gertrude asks.

“Technically, I didn’t say anything,” Carlo says, flummoxed by his insolence.

“Your trauma is funny to him,” her implant says.

“My trauma is funny to you?” she repeats aloud.

“Of course not—”

“Do you want me to scream?” 

“No, ma’am—”

“I want to hear you scream,” Vincent says, suggestively.

“Do it!” her implant commands. 

Gertrude emits a feeble whimper.

“You call that a scream?”

“Ahhhh!” she screams—the real thing this time.

“Live your truth, queen!”

Gertrude ascends a full octave. Beside her, Vincent gulps down the rest of his cocktail and flings the glass onto the floor in solidarity with his betrothed. He then tips his water glass off the table as well, but that one’s just for himself. “Break some more stuff,” his implant says. “It’ll be fun.”

Jonah just sits there, glaring at Carlo and breathing through his bared teeth.

“Excuse me,” a voice says from behind Carlo. He turns to look at the middle-aged man seated at the table behind him, dressed in a jewel-encrusted, silken onesie. “Why is that woman screaming?” The man’s eyes begin to water. “It’s making me feel bad.” 

“Please don’t cry, sir,” Carlo says, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “Ms. Price is just having her feelings.”

“Why shouldn’t I cry?” The man sniffles and pauses a second to consult his own therapeutic implant, which agrees. “The problem is her crying, not mine. I don’t…I don’t like it! W-w-what are you going to d-do about it?”

“Yeah, it’s not fair,” the thirty-something woman at the next table says as she turns around in her chair. “Not fair! Not fair!” She pumps her fist in the air, golden bangles rattling with each thrust. 

Before Carlo can answer, another voice rises in protest followed by another and another. The whole room vibrates with anguish. Carlo keeps his mouth pressed into a straight line and tries to communicate apologies to his fellow servers via eye contact. Some of them are busy fetching high thread count cloth napkins for the tears of their guests. Others stand at quiet attention, eyes cast toward the floor, deploying occasional affirmations to their guests, just as they’ve been trained. It’s only Carlo’s friend, Angela, who hazards a glance at him. She stands silent beside her table, hands gently folded in front of her as her guests writhe with despair, but for half-a-second, her eyes flicker wide. Carlo presses a grimace out of the corner of his mouth to let her know how grateful he is for this risky display of solidarity.

“My friends,” a woman’s voice resounds over the crowd, somehow managing to sound both warm and commanding at the same time. “My friends, may I have your attention?” In the middle of the room, a holographic projection brings a tall, silver-haired woman into existence, dressed in the same unassuming black attire as Carlo. A small golden brooch above her left breast pocket in the shape of a yellowfin tuna denotes her status as manager.

She is, of course, not really the manager. She’s just the customer-facing avatar of the semi-intelligent managerial software Salted Sea uses to oversee its day-to-day functions. I’m fucked now, Carlo thinks as he recalls the much less cordial back-of-house avatar used to communicate with staff. 

“First, let me express my sincerest thanks for sharing your very important and valid feelings with me and my staff,” she says as the room quiets down. “As always, we strive to embody the highest health and safety standards here at Salted Sea—not just on your plate, but in your souls too.” She pauses to smile over the room. “I’m deeply sorry for the less-than-satisfactory experience you’ve received tonight, and let me assure you the root cause will be swiftly dealt with.”

“I want him dead!” Vincent shouts and points at Carlo. “No one should get away with shitty behavior like that.” Carlo shifts his weight from foot to foot and knits his brow. “See what I mean?” Vincent yells. “Unacceptable!”

The managerial hologram turns in the direction of Vincent and says, “Thank you for your robust suggestion, sir. The employee you’re referring to is no longer employed by Salted Sea, so I am unable to affect his state of corporeal existence. However, his weekly wages have already been credited toward the cost of your meal and I would also like to offer everyone at your table a complementary chocolate mousse.”

“Could it be ice cream instead?” Gertrude asks. 

“Ice cream it is,” the managerial hologram says.

“Yay!” both Gertrude and Vincent cheer while the other guests break into applause. 

While this happens, a smaller but sterner version of the managerial avatar’s voice speaks in Carlo’s earpiece, informing him of his official termination and the five-minute window he has to exit the building. “Do not engage with any guests, including your former table, unless explicitly authorized to do so,” the avatar says. “This includes any apologies, groveling, or flattery you may wish to communicate. Such actions are in violation of Salted Sea’s zero tolerance emotional abuse policy.” 

As the restaurant returns to its normal tenor of ambient conversation, Carlo turns toward the kitchen and begins walking away from the table. Behind him, Gertrude, Vincent, and Jonah make a game of finding the most lavish insults to heap upon the tuna steak. Carlo’s friend Angela passes him on her way to take over his serving duties, but this time she doesn’t dare risk any visible emotion or acknowledgement of Carlo’s existence. He understands, of course. 

Upon entering the kitchen, he passes chefs, dishwashers, and bussers who all take a moment to stop what they’re doing and offer him respectful, empathetic nods. Such flagrant displays of emotion are their special privilege since they work out of sight of Salted Sea’s guests. Carlo is appreciative of the gesture and returns a gracious nod of his own. He even allows himself a sad smile as he collects his things from his locker, and then he’s out the backdoor without a word. 

Out back, he finds himself facing the rear end of a delivery truck backing up toward the restaurant’s loading dock. The words “Fresh Catch Seafood Co.” are painted on the truck’s tailgate door, which flies open as soon as the truck stops. A deliveryman steps out and approaches Carlo, who’s still in his server’s uniform. 

“Got your shipment here,” the deliveryman says and gestures to four large coolers stacked in the back of the refrigerated truck. “Salmon, halibut, tuna… It’s all there. Where do you want ’em?”

A devious thought crosses Carlo’s mind. These coolers represent an entire week’s worth of Salted Sea’s revenue and he’s the only one who knows they’re here. The thought of them sitting out all night on the loading bay rotting in the mid-autumn heat fills him with much-needed joy. I could go for some sweet, sweet vengeance right about now, he thinks as the dopamine hits his bloodstream. He imagines Salted Sea’s owners looking at the red numbers on their next bank statement. He imagines the Price family ordering their beloved tuna steak only for it to be denied to them. But then he also imagines Angela quietly taking their abuse and sous chefs getting their layoff notices and busboys learning their base pay has just been slashed. These are consequences he can’t afford.

Carlo forces a polite smile onto his face and goes to open the backdoor for the deliveryman, who wheels the coolers out of the truck on a dolly. “The refrigerator is up and to your right,” Carlo says. “One of the staff will assist you from there.” 

“Thanks.” The deliveryman offers a curt nod.

“Indeed,” Carlo says.

Carlo takes one last look into Salted Sea’s kitchen, listening to the clattering of dishes and the quiet murmur of the staff. Once the deliveryman is inside, he lets the door shut behind him and turns away. He straightens his collar, re-tucks his shirt, and walks calmly through the alley in the direction of his apartment, miles away. Eyes forward. Saying nothing. Feeling nothing.