Michael Somes

Chromatophores

          At the age of six, I transformed into an octopus. This was the sort of behavior that  led to me being classified as a “difficult child.” 

          Being of a shy disposition, I would squeeze into jars or tiny gaps between rocks.  When my brother tried to prod me out of hiding, I would explode outward and wrap my tentacles around his arm. He would cry out, “Mom, he's doing it again!” and I would be given a long lecture on how the suction of an octopus has been known to tear skin. 

          At night I would sneak down the stairs and raid the fridge for smoked oysters. More often than not, I would fall as I attempted to scale the door, making a loud wet slap. My parents carried me back to the aquarium as I cursed my inability to mimic the checkered pattern of the floor. 

          At school, I was considered a constant source of disruption by teachers who failed to see the educational value of watching me trap snacks in my arms and tear them apart with my beak. Gym class was especially difficult. I would slop around the floor, leaving a slick trail in my wake that others slipped in. I decided to play goalkeeper, but whenever I caught the ball it would become stuck to my arms and I wouldn't be able to let go. The other kids yelled at me for ruining the game. 

          I watched a special on NOVA: “The Octopus is a Master of Disguise,” and I knew what had to be done. I altered the patterns of my skin to mimic the latest fashions. As I  grew, I learned to balance on two legs, use two more as arms, and wrap the other four around one another to create a torso. Even my parents do not suspect. They threw out the aquarium and the tins of smoked oysters. They comment, “look how you've grown”, and I  can see them light up when other parents say, “what a nice young man.” It's amazing how quickly one can adjust. Only rarely now am I overcome by a wild desire to cast everything off and leap into the sea.