Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Only She Knew

Emil requested that I post this a long time ago. While it is sorely lacking in, well, good writing, it still never fails to entertain me.


She climbed the ladder slowly, heart beating violently on the walls of her chest. At the top of the rusty metal ladder she paused, quietly catching her breath, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She had been right; he was there, standing at the roof's edge, looking out at the quiet lake. As her eyes adjusted she could make out his form; tall and skinny, with spider-like limbs and a long, bushy mop of hair. Although his back was to her she could see his face clear in her mind; his soft hazel eyes filled today with sadness, soft skin stretched taut over elegant cheekbones, full lips parted exposing his chipped front tooth. Her heart melted as she looked at him, for she loved him. And that was why she was here, why she had come to find him when she heard that he was upset. 'I have to help him,' she thought hazily, stepping off the ladder onto the roof, 'because I love him. I have to be the one to ease his pain.'

He had not yet seen her, and the silence seemed so thick, so sacred, that she was afraid to break it, so she crept quietly across the roof's span. She was close enough to touch him--to hold him, stroke his hair, to tell him everything would be all right. Oh, how she loved him! That was how she had known where he would be, when no one else did. His friends were worried, knowing how upset he was, but only she knew he was here. She loved him so deeply that her instincts were tied to him; she felt his every move. His friends were afraid he would kill himself. Only she knew he would never do it, he would decide it wasn't the answer. That was why she was here; she loved him, and couldn't stand being away knowing he was suffering. And only she knew what to do.

He never saw her as she crept behind him and in one smooth motion pushed him over the edge of the roof. She heard his scream echoing and wondered briefly what was going through his mind as he plummeted toward the approaching pavement: did he think of her? Did he call her name? She would never know. The screams had stopped; he was surely dead.

She descended the ladder quickly, shakily. She had to hurry home to receive the terrible call, informing her that he was dead, that he had jumped off the roof of the Pratt Lane in a moment of despair. But he was so young! so full of life! so beautiful! And she loved him. She left the building, not turning to see the crowd that had already gathered, and tears blinded her as she walked to the bus stop. Only she knew the truth because only she had the answers. The bus came and she boarded it, whizzing off into the night.

11-5-90

Monday, October 4, 2010

Cat

By the time he reached it the kitten was running frantically around the gas station, frightened by the kids who chased after it, jeering and yelling. He snatched it up by the scruff of its neck and glared at the kids as they slid to a halt before him. They sized him up through mean, narrowed eyes, kids older than their years and meaner than anyone their age should be, trying to decide if he was worth fighting with. "Put down that cat," the biggest of the three said boldly.

He stared evenly at them. "No."

"It ain't yours," one of the others pointed out petulantly.

"It is now," he replied, his gaze unbroken, ignoring the yowling, squirming cat dangling from his hand. He wasn't scared of the kids; even the three of them weren't strong enough to harm him as long as they weren't carrying weapons. If someone older decided to intervene on their behalf that could be a different story. But he stood fearlessly, and the kids decided it wasn't worth it and stomped off.

"Who wants a stupid ugly cat anyway," one of them muttered as they disappeared into the dark, dirty alleyway.

He looked at the cat, which was still thrashing wildly, trying desperately to claw and bite. Some of the patrons of the gas station watched him, but most paid him no mind. They'd seen him before, or others just like him. Just another white boy on the west side. They knew why he was here, why any white kid from the suburbs would leave his sheltered cocoon to venture down here. And they were right.

But he had already scored and already fixed, and now he had a cat. After he stepped out of the gas station bathroom he had watched a woman scoop it up and put it on the hood of a car. A man had casually knocked it off the car as if he were brushing off dead leaves. He kicked at it as it scampered off, and they both laughed. Then the kids caught sight of it skittering away and cornered it by the trashcans, until he intervened. Now he had a cat. A hissing, yowling, mangy, feral cat.

He strode back to his car, keeping the wild, hissing thing at arm's length. He opened the door and tossed it gently onto the passenger seat. It backed against the door and eyed him as he sat down in the driver's seat and started the car. He turned out of the station, heading toward the highway that would take him back to his quiet, middle-class suburb where nothing ever seemed quite real; to his dissatisfied parents and disgruntled friends who never seemed truly present. The familiar numbness was spreading through his body, easing his mind. The burned out buildings and dark faces slid by in the dusk. He didn't even realize the kitten was in his lap until he glanced down and saw it curled into a ball, licking its paws with a tiny pink tongue. He scratched its tiny head and it closed its eyes and purred softly, just a minute vibration of warmth and fur. Its body seemed to melt into his own and he was so absorbed with its softness that he missed the entrance to the highway and had to turn around to get on.

Back at home he entered through the side door and went down into the basement where his room was, the kitten cradled in his arms. He didn't know if his parents would let him keep the cat and he didn't plan on asking them anyway. Chances are they wouldn't notice; his mother only came downstairs to do laundry and his father never did. He rarely spoke to his parents these days, and rarely heard them speak to one another. The telephone rang and he gently placed the cat on his bed before he answered it. "Hello?"

"You get it?" His friend Tony. He felt annoyed. Tony never seemed to be around when it was time to score, but always appeared when it was time to fix.

"Yeah. I got it."

"Arnie?" his mother's voice broke into the line. "Is it for you?"

"Yeah, mom. It's for me."

"Oh. Were you out? I thought I heard someone come in."

"Naw. I've been here."

"Oh. OK." The line clicked as she hung up.

"I'm coming over," Tony said.

Of course you are, thought Arnie. "OK."

He hung up and examined the cat, contemplative. It was definitely mangy, grey and matted. But it had nice coloring and would probably clean up well. It looked sweet now, curled up and comfortable, but he could envision clearly the wildness in its eyes as it dangled from his hand clawing the air; as it prepared to make a stand in front of the garbage cans. A secret weapon, he thought randomly.

He was nodding when Tony came in. "Shit, you got a cat!" Tony said, in his patented way of stating the obvious.

He lifted his head. "Yeah." The cat was awake and was watching Tony closely. Tony poked a finger at it, and the cat sprang at it, clawing and biting.

"Damn!" Tony laughed. "He's a crazy motherfucker, huh?" The kitten continued clawing at his hand ferociously. Arnie felt an odd sense of pride. "Where's the shit, man?"

He tossed the bag to Tony and scooped up the cat. Its claws sank into his hand momentarily but then subsided. It settled down into his lap, relaxing slightly, still eyeing Tony. "What's his name?" Tony asked as he readied his fix.

Arnie shrugged. "Good question. I just found him at the gas station."

"How about Psycho?"

Arnie ignored him, looking at the cat. The perfect name eluded him. If only he could think for a second…but it took too much effort and he gave up and instead watched Tony shoot up. Tony maneuvered the needle expertly. He remembered when they had started, how they had to help each other. Now he could shoot up while driving.

"I know," Tony said. "Call it Haron." He laughed to himself.

Arnie thought of names, of people he had known before, of places he had gone, of things he had done. Once he had wanted to play sports, to be on the football team. Now he rarely left the house except to get drugs. Nothing seemed important to him. His teachers droned on, and he dutifully completed their tasks and earned C's and B's. He never got in trouble in school like Tony. He never rocked the boat. Trouble? Was that a good name for the cat? He looked at it closely and didn't think so.

"Man," Tony said, sinking back into his cair. "I can't stay long. I gotta go meet Laura." Tony was an asshole, but he had no problem meeting girls. Girls loved him. Arnie didn't understand it. Tony was his friend, but sometimes he couldn't stand him. He lazily stroked the cat, watching Tony look at the ceiling through heavy lidded eyes. "Man." Tony said again thickly.

Arnie picked up a pad of paper and placed it next to the kitten on his lap. He started sketching the kitten, its mottled fur and sharp ears. The only class in which he earned A's was Art. His teacher thought he should go to art school after graduation, but he didn't really see the point. He didn't know what he was going to do after graduation. He knew he'd go to college, but which one, and for what, still eluded him. Despite what they all said, it was hard for him to believe that it even mattered.

He was almost done with the drawing when Tony stood up. "Man, it's late," he said. "I gotta go. Laura's gonna kill me." He came over and looked at the sketch pad. "That's pretty good, man."

"Thanks," Arnie said.

"What'd you say that cat's name was again?"

Arnie looked at the kitten, at the picture, and at the cat in his lap again, and as he did the perfect name suddenly formed in his head. He looked up at Tony. "Cat," he said.

"What? Cat?"

"Yep," Arnie said.

"That's a pretty stupid name, man," Tony said. Arnie shrugged. "All right, dude. I'll catch you later, huh?"

"Yeah, see ya," Arnie said. The basement door slammed. Arnie looked again at the kitten in his lap, and again at the drawing on the pad. After a minute he took his pencil and carefully wrote "CAT" above the drawing. Perfect. It fit him perfectly. He stared at the drawing, his eyes blank and lazy, then slowly leaned his head back and closed his eyes. As the drawing pad fell to the floor, the cat settled deeper into his lap, purring softly.

I like to write...

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