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by Dan Schneider
Sunday, November 6th, 1987
A rather dull Sunday. Did some work around the home. Greenpoint is lovely in the
twilight- it really is, despite what others say. All my life I’ve lived either here or in
Williamsburg, but I cannot imagine living any place else. I’m the quintessential New
Yorker. I’ve never even been farther north than Yankee Stadium. Todd and Alice
went for a walk, down where the Newtown empties into the East River. It was too
warm for me, and I had already taken a shower. Don’t know what that boy sees in
that water. It’s so filthy. It really is.
Only a month to go before our twelfth wedding anniversary and I still don’t know
what I’m going to get Alice. I don’t think this year has any official designated type of
gift, like gold or silver. But, I saw this John Wayne beer stein that I knew she would
like. She’s always been a big fan of the Duke. Then I told her his real name was
Marion Morrison, but she didn’t believe me. I saw it in a movie trivia book. I had to
explain to her that Marion used to be a man’s name, as well as a woman’s. There
was even a football player named Marion, years back, with the Cleveland Browns, I
believe. He was a running back- Marion Motley, and I think he’s in the Hall Of Fame.
Natchez was a little under the weather, and just moping around. That’s what
seventeen years will do to a cat. Little Tigra, though, seemed to avoid him. That’s not
a good signed. I remember when my boyhood cat, Leo, had to be put to sleep, our
other cat, Sparkles, avoided him. I hope that’s not the case now. Todd adores that
cat- he’s older than Todd is. When he was a baby Natch would spend the nights in
Todd’s bedroom, just gazing out the window, and off into Manhattan. Todd would
always ask me why Natch stayed up at nights and what he was looking for. I didn’t
know. Just like I don’t know what’s wrong with him now. Hope it’s just a bug. Will
keep an eye out for things.
Mr. Maloney, who lives down the block, was all smiles this evening. Cheryl, his
daughter, had a baby. She moved up to Rye last year, to marry that fireman. I
always had a thing for her growing up, but she was one of those double threats-
beautiful and smart. She was a cheerleader and also on the Honors Roll. What
would she ever have seen in a second string linebacker like me?
Think I’m going to diversify my stock portfolio. Took a severe hit a few weeks ago
during the Crash. Luckily, I’ve never put too many of my eggs in a single basket.
Stan says that I should go into real estate investing with him. He’s always beaming
about this real estate investing club he joined out on the Island. Said he’s nearly
tripled his initial twenty grand in a little over a year, just making a little bit here and a
little bit there on foreclosures and the like. Say’s he’s ready to go into the big time,
now. But, I’m not looking to get rich, the job at the warehouse pays enough. I’m up
to shift supervisor, and made thirty-five grand last year. Alice makes almost as much
at the office. She’s also up for a promotion. Little by little, via CDs and smart
investments, we’ll ride this low ebb out. We had almost fifty grand in the market, and
still have over forty, despite the worst crash since 1929. You cannot get too jittery
when things tan, and make things worse. It’s at the bad times that the best in
people comes out.
Speaking of which, I finally received a letter from Elsie. It seems Tim has dropped
out of the space program. He was on track for being in line for a shuttle slot in the
next few years, but after the Challenger debacle, last year, she was utterly relentless
in her pressure on him. He’s now mulling over offers from UPS and Federal Express,
to fly for them, and take an early retirement. She says the work is much steadier and
pays even more than commercial passenger airliners. And both companies are really
expanding. After all, until we invent teleportation devices, everyone will need people
and companies to ship things from place to place, and planes can get stuff where it
needs to go alot faster than trains or ships. She says that ‘high-value, time-
perishable consumer items’ are the watchwords in that industry, and that maybe I
should look for a job as a delivery driver, what with all my experience. The only
downside is that he’ll be away from home about half the year.
Tuesday’s my twenty-eighth birthday. It’s hard to believe. It seems just like yesterday
that I met Alice, when we were only sixteen. Jesus, has it been almost half my life? I
sometimes wonder what things would have been like had we met later? How many
other women would I have had to date before I met Miss Right- be it Alice or
someone like her? Beau says that he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet anyone. And he
was the popular guy all through high school. He must have slept with over a hundred
girls. Before I met Alice there was only Sissy Bockwinkle and Amanda Paysen. Not
that I regret things as they turned out. Alice is truly a wonderful woman, a good
mother, and the best wife a man could ever have, and she gave me a great son.
When my dad died in ’84 she was there day and night. I’ve wondered if her almost
manic desire to help others is rooted in the losses she suffered as a girl? Losing
your mother and your father in a car crash is devastating, but especially when you’re
only four years old. I can’t remember a damned thing before I was six or seven, but
Alice swears she remembers her dad’s aftershave’s smell, and the way her mother
would spend many hours up in their attic, just looking out the window and waiting for
inspiration to strike her hand, and flow to her canvas. She said her mother said that
the wand of the mind is not retained in the brain alone, but the whole body is mind,
and it pulses with the currents of the ever-living, the creative, the soul. But, in
retrospect, I think that Alice sort of makes her parents out to be more than they
were. After all, can she really remember such conversations to the degrees she
claims? I read in a magazine that one of the most creative things that all human
beings do is constantly create and recreate their memories. But the article said that
the word create was the key, not recreate, because the act of remembering is
always a primal creative act, and only sometimes a recreative one. These things
stick with me, even as I write them, and I wonder if I really read what I just said, or
am I just paraphrasing? Filling in the blanks?
I see Alice and Todd coming up the block. That kid is too damn energetic. But I’m
glad he reads a lot. I never read so much as a boy- only occasional comic books and
sci fi books. At least he likes reading the good stuff- like John Steinbeck or
Washington Irving. I wonder if he’ll remember these moments that I see, from afar,
and for how long? And what will be at the center of those memories? Will it be a
happy time, or will he have to make it so? Damn, the marinara’s almost done. More
tomorrow.
Monday, November 7th, 1987
Lousy day at work, today. Moorstead called in sick and I was left to unload three
docks all day with Burns alone. Worked nearly three hours of OT. My back aches. I’m
not even thirty, yet I feel fifty. What will forty be like? At least the paycheck will be a
little bigger next week. But, my back is absolutely killing me today. Took some aspirin
and laid down when I got in. Fell asleep for two hours before I awoke. Alice let me
snooze to my heart’s content. She was watching some documentary on PBS. It was
about Vietnam and the Tet Offensive. Thank God I was too young to get dragged
into that insane mess. I remember the old man had devised this elaborate scheme
to sneak me into Canada already, if the draft was still going on when I hit eighteen.
His youngest brother, my Uncle Matt, served there, near the end of the war. All he
got for it was a case of the clap. Thankfully, AIDS wasn’t around then. Harry
Bronfmann’s brother, who’s gay, was diagnosed last year and they don’t think he’ll
make it through next year. A shame.
I think part of the reason I was so tired was because I had a pastrami sandwich that
didn’t sit well with me, at lunch. Dugan, Fleener, and I went to the Molfetta Deli, over
on Grand Street, and I think the pastrami turned because the refrigerated case it
was in was not working properly. The glass felt warm, about room temperature,
when I touched it, and I asked Parm if it was ok and he muttered some nonsense in
Italian. Here in the U.S. for twenty years and still he hasn’t learned the language. It
tasted a bit off, but I put plenty of mayo and mustard on it, and decided to take my
chances. Bad decision! Almost twenty minutes later, I just about doubled over, and
felt like I got the runs. I swear, I made it back to the john with just a minute to spare
or I would’ve shat in my pants. At least once a year I get some bum eats at that
place, but I still go back because it’s the best deli in Brooklyn. I’m an addict, I guess.
I told Alice I may call in sick to work tomorrow. I hate doing that. My dad always said
the best ways to judge a man are by the way he works and by how he treats his
mother, and I’ve always tried to bear that in mind. But, if I still have the shits in the
morning, and my back still aches, there’s no way I’m going to risk an ‘incident’ on the
docks.
Alice said Natchez still is under the weather. Tomorrow I’ll call the veterinarian to see
if I can bring him in. It’s been a couple of years since his last checkup anyway. I think
old Natch may be dying. In the last few years he’s had some pills for arthritis
prescribed- ‘blue pills’, Todd calls them, and a heated cat bed, which Tigra
sometimes steals from him. I hope all goes well. Todd grew up with him, and I don’t
know how he’ll deal with death, yet. Nor do I know how I’d deal with Natch’s death.
Tuesday, November 8th, 1987
Got a call at the job today from my mother. She says that she and dad are planning
on moving down to Arizona next year, when dad retires. I asked why Arizona, when
all their friends and neighbors are moving to Florida, and she said that dad had seen
a National Geographic special on alligators and decided he’d rather brave the desert
and scorpions. Them you can, at least, step on, if you’re wearing shoes! Besides,
she said, he’s always been a cowboy at heart, and wanted to go visit the vaunted O.
K. Corral before he passed away. I remember all the cowboy stories and legends the
old man would tell me, as a kid. He relished them so much that one might have
thought that he actually lived out the adventures himself, not just read them in some
dime book somewhere. As for mom, she’s doing better now. That new medicine she
got last year has helped her tremendously. When she had that stroke I was worried
she was going to die in a few months, but her doctor says she could live to be ninety
as long as she stays healthy and active. Long life tends to run in our family- it’s in the
genes.
Felt much better, too. The bad sandwich and aching back just needed a good night’
s sleep. Funny how some of the best cures for things are the oldest. If everything
could be cured with a good night’s sleep most of the people would be hitting the
sheets by seven in the evening. Manhattan would dry and wither up.
I called the MetVets, over on Metropolitan Avenue, and scheduled an appointment
on Thursday, to bring Natchez in. He was very lethargic for the third straight day, and
there was some blood in the cat litter when I cleaned it. Perhaps he’s got a tumor?
He feels a little lighter, I think. I hope this isn’t the end for old Natch. I’ve had him
longer than I’ve known my wife and longer than my son’s been alive. He was the first
pet I was ever allowed to have. My parents thought that a person needs to perfect
themselves first before they are charged with caring for another. However, were that
true, the human species would die out in a few generations. I remember when we
got him, after my mom and I drove out to the North Shore Animal League. His
orange coat was brilliant, as a kitten, and his white paws spic and span clean. He
was just about three months old, and the rowdiest kitten in his litter. I loved him from
the moment I saw him, as did Sparkles, who was getting old then, and I made sure
that he never got out of our house. I’d seen too many signs for lost pets, and too
many of them turn up dead, later, when the signs were left to bleach and fade in the
passage of days. There are so many memories I have of him. I remember when,
somehow, a baby squirrel got into my parent’s old apartment, over Havermeyer
Street, and Natch took care of it, like it was his baby, letting it drink his water and eat
his food, till it got big enough. Then we set it free outside. Natch was almost the
same age as Todd is now, about eight, when Todd was born. People told me never
to leave the cat alone with the baby, because he’ll be jealous and attack Todd, as if
he was a new cat that threatened to displace Natch. Never happened. In fact, Natch
almost acted as a sentry to protect Todd. He actually slept in the crib with Todd,
which goes totally against the old wives tale about cats smothering babies. This
would be the first time Todd will ever have to face death if we need to put Natch to
sleep. Yes, there was Alice’s cousin Tori, who died of lung cancer last November,
but he met her perhaps twice, maybe three times, in his whole life. She was a
stranger to him. Natch was like a sibling. Ever since I called the vet these thoughts
have run through my brain. I wonder what Todd will think of Natch in twenty years?
Will he remember him as more than just a cat, his first cat? Will he remember all the
nights they shared in his crib? How Natch would lick Todd’s new hair and groom him
as if he were just another cat? Memory is a thing I am never certain of. I feel that the
things I’ve read recently have disillusioned me, and also made me angry over that
disillusionment.
Then there’s Eagleton, the asshole supervisor at work. He wants me to make up a
list of all twenty of the guys on the dock, in order of my idea of who is the best
worker and who is the worst worker. One through twenty, with number twenty being
the first guy who would be laid off, if it came to that, and number one being the
safest. Jesus, I said, why don’t you just ask me to give it to them up the ass? I can
do it, but I wonder if any bias will get in my way. For example, Murphy and Dimitriev
are the two best workers, by far. They’d be one-two, or two-one on any list, but after
that it gets tough. Dugan and Fleener are solid workers, but are they really better
workers than Mills or Metts? And Metts is the first woman to ever work on the dock. I’
d put her about in the middle, but the truth is she’s not as strong nor durable as the
guys, even if I have her drive forklift all day. But, if she gets axed she might sue for
discrimination. And I haven’t even touched upon the minority guys. How do I
reconcile skill level with time with the company with ability with bullshit like their sex or
the color of their skin? Marquez is a PR, and always late, and always goofing off, Mr.
Joke-A-Minute, but he tries too hard with it, rather than trying hard to work. But, if he’
s the first gone, would he sue? And he’s so goddamned sensitive. I always feel like I’
m going to hurt his feelings even if I need him to get a move on. At least if we had a
union it would go by strict seniority and I’d not have to decide the fates of people. I
don’t get paid enough to decide such shit. Make schedules, decide where the shit
goes, that’s my forte, but not making management decisions. That Eagleton is just
too much of a puss, so he gets off on pawning his own work off on me.
Wednesday, November 9th, 1987
Orders came down. I have to recommend three guys for layoff, by Monday. This is so
unfair. I have more important things on my mind. The company’s just overreacting to
the Crash. As if they’re in bad shape. The company still grossed a bundle last year,
and the first two quarters this year were almost as good. It’s like when they raise the
prices on coffee if there’s a disaster in Colombia, even though it’s months before the
actual loss. The company is just trying to project a loss, and save a little on salary.
Then, when the third and fourth quarter figures come back, and they’re not so bad,
and they realize that they’ve paid out way too much in overtime, and that productivity’
s down because of all the guys being overworked, then they’ll hire new people, six
months from now, because the laid off guys’ll have moved on, and then I’ll get stuck
trying to train newbies, when perfectly acceptable workers were available. But, the
company will save a little on pensions, but no more than they lose in extra training
costs- it’s pennywise and pound-foolish, but this is what America was built on. Of the
average of twenty guys on the docks, that we’ve had in the nine years I’ve been with
the company, at least five or six turn over every year. And of the twenty, only Mack
and Moorstead have been with the company longer than I have- at fifteen and
eleven years respectively. But, neither of them wanted the responsibility of lower
management. I could use the extra cash, so I took it. The money ain’t worth it,
though, in retrospect. All the guys are asking me what I’ve heard, and not so subtly
begging for their jobs to be spared and for me to stab someone else in the back. It’s
like some piranha feeding frenzy. It sucks.
Then there’s poor Natch. I have a bad feeling about him. I’ve just never seen him so
out of it for so many days. There was more blood in the cat litter, and dried blood on
his anus. Tigra hasn’t gone near him in days. This is too telling. I’m taking off a
couple hours early tomorrow to take him to the vet. Todd is still thinking things will be
alright, and I’ve not tried to dissuade him from that belief. I just see no point in being
overly gloomy, yet. If the news is bad we’ll deal with it as it comes. Todd loves Natch,
and Natch loves other cats. Tigra was merely one of a few dozen or so kittens that
passed through our home over the years. Our home is one of those stray mama cat
magnets, and our family, I guess, has ‘sucker’ tattooed, in cat lingo, all over our
foreheads. Of course, under our back porch is where the stray mamas usually go.
We’ll take them in, make them feel welcome, and then after six or seven weeks,
adopt the kittens out. Several females come back every year or two. Of course,
there was always the fear Natch might react negatively. We’d heard all the stories of
male cats killing kittens, especially those not their own, and those that are male, in a
territorial powerplay, but Natch never once hurt a kitten, and often the babies were
as likely to snuggle up next to him as their mama. There’s one photo of a kitten, from
three or four years ago, where you can see she’s trying to suckle on Natch’s
exposed nipple, because he always let them, but the tank was empty- so darling!
Maybe he was just returning the favor I did him, for when he was a baby he once
tried to suck on my nipple on a hot day, when I had my shirt off, and was snoozing
on the couch. I awoke to this oddest sensation. There was one incident, I think
during that litter, where we heard Natch scream, and we ran into the room, and saw
another of the no more than two month old kittens, had gotten ahold of Natch’s left
ear, and still he refused to fight back against the little bugger, although he was at
least ten or twenty times the size. He could have swatted the kitten like a fly, and
really hurt him, but I think he knew his yelp would get us there to resolve the
situation amicably. He still has a scar from that on that ear to this day, and it’s
slightly mangled in appearance compared to the right ear. He simply was as gentle a
soul (and yes, I mean soul, for I believe animals have that too) as I’ve ever known.
Damn! I just don’t need all this right now. Not that there would be a good time for the
death of your favorite pet and certainly not for having to be the person responsible
for ending a person’s livelihood. ‘This too shall pass,’ my dad says. Well, pass
already, and let me get going.
Thursday, November 10th, 1987
I’m just devastated. Got back from the MetVets and was told that Natchez definitely
has a big lump on his liver, hence the blood in his stool. They’d have to operate to
remove it, but at his age that is risky, and very expensive. Is it worth the pain and
money? Of course, when Alice and I tried to explain it to Todd, he was all for doing
whatever is needed. But, there was also the blood test. The doctor thinks he might
have FIV- feline immunodeficiency virus- or AIDS for cats. If not that, then it might
be feline leukemia. Even were he to survive surgery and the loss of a major portion
of his liver, the AIDS or leukemia would probably kill him. Usually those two diseases
are only passed on via excrement or bodily liquids. We have to keep Natchez in
another room, away from Tigra, and have him use a separate litter box. I’ll also have
to bring Tigra in for a checkup, because if he’s infected both cats would have to be
put down and we couldn’t adopt another cat for six months, even a year, because
the leukemia virus and FIV can stay active for months, even after a cat dies. This
couldn’t be worse. Natchez’s chances of survival are next to nothing, and now Tigra
could be next. I’ve never seen Todd so upset. It shocked me to see him contort his
body in sadness. I tried to remember all the good times, with both cats, how Natch
took Tigra under his wing a few years ago, when he was just a kitten, and has
guided the younger cat, like a father. I just knew something was wrong when Tigra
started shunning Natch. These two cats would try to hump each other, even though
both were males and both were neutered. They slept with Todd, too. Luckily, the FIV
and leukemia are harmless to humans. This has not been a good day.
After a few hours of calming down I try to dwell on the positives. Natch is a big
tomcat, and even though he never has hurt another living being, he’s very aware of
his size and strength, and intimidation factor. There have been many times
strangers, like Jehovah’s Witnesses, have come to our door, only to be scared away
by Natch in a full Halloween, arched and hair-standing, mean cat pose. His meow
was deep, and manly- if such a term can be used on a cat. When he hissed at a
stranger you could feel the steam, and whatever food he had most recently eaten.
He’s almost like a guard dog, or was, when he was younger. Now he’s old, slow, sick.
What to do? Now, he’s shunned by his buddy, Tigra, and all alone in a room. I
wonder if he knows his end is near? Should we put him through more pain, just to
squeeze a little more life out of him for a few months, a year tops? Do I want Todd
to remember him like that, or in his full glory? I rail against those who deny dying
people the right to end their lives, but when the choice is obvious, with just my own
cat, I am not so smugly convicted. Should I end it? Would it be for the cat? For
Todd? Or for me? No. That is the only answer. Just no!
I also had more bullshit at work. I recommended Marquez, Gabrielson, and Huff as
the first three layoff candidates. Fuck them. At least they’ll live
Friday, November 11th, 1987
Waiting for the results of the blood test all day. At a little after four the vet called me
at work and told me that Natch’s tumor was indeed carcinogenic, but even with
surgery he might only live a few months more. He recommended just letting nature
take its own course. Natch could die tomorrow, or in a month. There was no way to
know this was coming, because he was in fine health last year. Besides, the vet
said, Natch was seventeen, a ripe old age for a cat, and a little longer than your
average housecat lives. Alleycats, he said, are lucky to live half as long. He did have
good news, though. Both the FIV and leukemia tests were negative. Natch was a
little anemic, though, and perhaps that and the tumor alone were the cause for the
blood in the stool. I was relieved that Tigra would live. He could, at least, comfort
Todd over the loss of their friend. And even had the vet said that Natch could live a
few more years with the surgery, at fourteen hundred bucks there was just no way
we could afford such an outlay. One or two hundred was reasonable, but it was all
moot now, anyway. I told the doctor we’ll just take it day by day, but to be ready for
us to bring Natch in if things took a turn for the ill.
I spent nearly an hour in the warehouse manager’s office. I usually only speak to
Minelli once a month, at the monthly meetings. I told him why I thought that
Marquez, Gabrielson, and Huff were the least productive and reliable workers, in
that order, and he agreed. Marquez had come in a few times with booze on his
breath, along with his mediocre work and spotty attendance. I liked him, though- he
was polite and quiet, but a bit of an asskisser. He was always trying to convince me
this or that from Latin America was the best thing on the planet in that category. He
even tried to convince me that some relative of his had won the Nobel Prize a few
years back. But, he was easy to ignore. Gabrielson wasn’t. He had a few
harassment complaints against him, and while he never missed a day in the year
and a half he was with the company, he had an ‘attitude’, as the company called it.
Granted, I liked people with attitudes, and had management not known about his
attitude I may not have put him on the list, but there was that ‘shouting incident’ at
the Christmas party last year, where he was suspended for six days without pay.
That couldn’t be ignored. And Huff, well, he’s just the dumbest bastard on the
docks, and clumsy. I like the guy alot, but he’s simply not that good a worker, and he’
s absolutely dangerous behind the wheel of a forklift, and has had several verbal
and written warnings about his sloppy work and driving. So, I was satisfied with
naming the three, but management said no final decisions had been made, so
maybe it would mean nothing, after all. I didn’t really care, as I had other things to
worry about.
Saturday, November 12th, 1987
Poor Natch slept most of the day. Todd wanted to stay with him every minute of
every hour until he dies. I told him that Natch would be ok today, and that a walk
down by the docks would do us all good. But, he insisted, if we go for a walk, that we
go down by the Newtown. I hated that filthy cesspool, but I loved my son more. Todd
chased a few stray seagulls and a pigeon shat on his coat. I wiped it off with a
Kleenex, and Alice tossed it into the washing machine when we got home. We all
laughed about it, even Todd, but it was an uneasy laughter. Still, I could not even
recall the last time I laughed, much less all three of us, together, at the same time.
There was a small boat, I think a barge, heading out of the creek, for the East River.
It was hauling a shitload of junk. We watched it pass slowly for nearly twenty
minutes, until it got out to the river and out of our sight. I swear, we were walking
faster than it was moving. Saw the Callisons, also out for a family stroll. I talked with
Bill about the Stock Market, and told him a little of my troubles at work, and with the
cat. That’s when he told me about Ellen’s surgery. I didn’t have any clue that she
had had a lump on her breast. Apparently, neither did Alice, for she was determined
to call her when we got home, and be very supportive. That explained why Ellen was
wearing a scarf about her head, when I thought I saw her at C-Town last week. She
had lost all her hair through chemo. We said we’d get together in a week or two, to
catch up more. I’m looking forward to it. Bill and Ellen live only a quarter of a mile
away, but it’s over on 47th Road, in Hunter’s Point, across the creek, near the
Pulaski Bridge. Todd and Amy, Bill’s daughter, who was out with him, went off
running by themselves. I was glad that Natch was not on his mind every second, but,
of course, Alice was smiling to me, as we walked home, hinting about how wonderful
it would be if Todd and Amy got married. I said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Hon, he’s only
eight and she’s what- seven?’ Turned out she’s only six, but my wife is already
planning the lives of our grandchildren.
Natch was still sleeping, and Todd played with Tigra tonight. The day was relatively
peaceful, thankfully. All we can do, at this point, is wait.
Sunday, November 13th, 1987
Natch was ok most of the day, but at about five o’clock he started puking, and he
cannot even walk now. At first, throughout the day, he just got slower and slower
with his steps. We all watched him, and then in a matter of less than five minutes he
seemed to just age and age- years in a few minutes. Now, he’s almost totally
helpless. Yet, he does not cry nor seem sad. Just tired, so tired. There are no more
good days left for him. I know this now. I cannot fool myself any longer. I am not that
good a liar. Alice and Todd know it, too. Now, I think there’s blood in his urine, as well
his stool. Of course, he did it on the floor of the room we quarantined him in. He was
too weak to even make it to the litter box. Without FIV or leukemia we could have let
him out of the room, but I did not want Tigra to have to be subjected to Natch’s last
days. I don’t know why, though. Perhaps it was more for me, somehow. Natch was
barely able to drink some water we fed him through an eyedropper. We had some
antibiotics from the vet, but why force them down his throat when we know what
needs to be done tomorrow? They could not help him any more than we could. The
ritual is done- we all know it, including Natch. I knew what tomorrow must force upon
me. I told Alice and Todd that I’d take tomorrow off and call the vet in the morning,
and bring Natch in as early as I could. It’s not fair to do this to a living creature. He
needs to no longer suffer. Todd wants to take off from school and go with me. At
first I said no, that it would be too traumatic, and that school was his future, but Alice
convinced me that Natch was his family, and we took off for funerals of people, who
were relatives, we barely knew, and Natch meant more to Todd than anyone but me
and her, so it was ok. This is why I love that woman. It’s hard to believe that just a
week ago everything was alright, and now this. The rest of the day we just waited.
Got a call from the manager, and he needed some paperwork I had brought home
to look at over the weekend. Told him I’d drop it off tonight, before six, because I
wasn’t going to be in tomorrow, because of the cat. He was cool with that, so I
stopped by and dropped it off, and outside I saw Marquez. Apparently he had heard
‘some things’, and when he saw me he tried to pump me for information. I was
aggravated, and in no mood to speak to him, so I brushed him off, told him I had
urgent business, and left him standing on the dock, where the evening sun had
already left. It kind of annoyed me that my work problems, and other people’s work
problems, dared to intrude on my personal grief. As I got in my car, and headed
home, I saw a little cloud, dark and ominous, roll by, and I wondered what doom it
heralded.
Monday, November 14th, 1987
I called in sick, again, just to make sure, because the asses at work are unreliable at
noting things told to them, if not at the exact moment they’re told, and at seven am
we drove down to the MetVets. They were ready for us.
All this trauma with Natch reminds me of Leo. I was too upset to go with my dad to
the vet when they put him to sleep, as a kid, and I’ve always felt a certain amount of
guilt over that, and shame over my cowardice. But, I was just a kid, I tell myself. But,
I think the thing that sticks with me the most about that is a different sort of guilt. In
all the years since I don’t think I’ve ever loved another person nor thing the way I
loved that damned little cat. Not my wife, not my son, not anything- until Natch and
this bullshit. It’s weird, but I have to be honest, and that’s also the truth. Yet, even
Leo has faded from my memory. His features are a bit more generic, and his own
meow I can barely recall. Time is a terrible thing.
On the way to the vet, with Natch wrapped in a blanket, as he was too weak to run
away, we saw, at a light, that weird old woman, Mitzi, the cat lady, crossing, and an
odd thing happened. Usually she grins and/or cackles at anyone she sees, and that’
s what she started to do at us, in the car. Then, she stopped. I don’t know if she saw
Alice holding Natch in the blanket. But an instant sorrow gripped her face, and she
hung her head and walked on. Bothering us no more. That was it. Yet, her eyes are
still with me, as they went from fire to- I guess syrup would be the best term.
These thoughts the last week or so are just so jumbled that they don’t make any
sense. But, I hope I will look back on them someday, with Todd, when he’s a grown
man, and we’ll both still be able to remember, because I think why Leo has faded
from my memory is because I never wrote of him, and had few photos of him. I was
too young. So, now, he fades. I can still force a recall, but his meow is less him, and
more generic, as is his face. I don’t want that ghostliness to own my, nor Todd’s,
memories of Natch! That’s part of the reason, I think, that I allowed Todd to come
along. I was not there at the last moments of Leo’s life, and have always regretted it.
But, my dad’s word was law! He said no, and I’m sure his reasoning was honorable,
if misguided. When we got into the car, today, I think my mind was shot. I even
asked the cat, who was out of it, if he wanted to go for a ride. As if I expected a
‘Yes, please, I feel like being euthanized out of my misery today’, from him. Yet, he
seemed more alert. I’d like to believe he knew this was it, and wanted to take in all
he could of his family, before the end. Or maybe, he was just happy to be taken for a
ride- a rare treat? Then, we saw the old lady with the eyes. Then the whispers of my
father telling me that if you love someone, you must be able to let them go, and even
help them, if need be. My old man was too damned smart, sometimes. But, in this
case, technically speaking, I had to let dad down, as the vet did the actual deed.
They asked if we wanted to stay. ‘Of course!’, all three of us chimed in unison. They
shaved Natch’s front right paw, attached a catheter into a vein, and at 8:12 am, after
we’d all said our goodbyes, they pumped poor old Natch full of anaesthetic. He
seemed to get stronger, momentarily, even as he had not resisted the initial shaving
and insertion of the needle. Todd smiled as he stroked the back of Natch’s neck,
and I held and hugged Alice, who wept silently, and we both patted our son’s head.
The look from the vet and the young female assistant were kind, and full of empathy,
as they explained that now that he was asleep he’d feel nothing, and they replaced
the tube of anaesthetic with the mixture that would kill him. I forget its polysyllabic
name. Todd backed away, as the professionals did their thing, but zoomed right
back to stroking Natch as the poison filled him, and his breathing slowed, and, even
though an atheist, I prayed that there be at least a cat or animal heaven, as they are
far more deserving of peace than we humans are, and Natch most of all. His last
breath was a low moan, punctuated by a final snaggle-toothed grin I’d seen before,
where the lips relax, and the cat’s tongue unfurls out, in peace. He was dead. I
wanted to tell Todd he was ‘gone’, but my mouth said ‘dead’. I could not lie at a
moment like that, nor even euphemize. Natch’s eyes were without life, whereas
mere moments before, even in his final agonies, they were living. Live, dead- are
there any two words more opposite? This is, to me, still the greatest mystery of all.
What makes life? And what, when removed, ends it? His head lay on the blanket we
brought, which covered the stainless steel table. The vet and his assistant told us to
take all the time we needed. But, we were well prepared. Todd, Alice, and I all kissed
our cat, stroked his head a final time, and left the room quickly, shutting the door
behind us. I thanked them for their kindness, and paid the bill with my credit card.
Todd asked what would happen to his body? He wanted to bury it in our backyard,
but I told him that violated Health Department rules for the city. He’d be cremated,
burned by whatever service the vet used. This ascent from life to fire seemed to
fascinate Todd a great deal. His tears dried up as he pondered that, and other
things, newer things, as the thought of flames seemed to somehow make him whole
again, or, at least, more than he was a few minutes earlier. It was odd, but really not.
Tuesday, November 15th, 1987
I was tempted to call in sick again. I missed Natch almost as badly as my son did. He
cried himself to sleep last night. But, he said, this morning, that he needed to go to
school, that Natch would have wanted it that way. I thought he was being a little bit
too John Wayne, at first, like his mother, but I agreed. There was nothing wrong with
being masculine, despite what the news says. Sometimes you just gotta take it.
Natch was my cat before Todd was even a gleam in his mother’s eye. He was mine
before I ever met his mother.
I was actually looking forward to work for the first time in weeks, what with all the
stress since the crash, and the company looking to screw someone, or a few
people. When I got there I saw the yellow police tape and thought there was some
sort of accident, or explosion on the dock. Ted Stocker was the first guy I saw, and
Metts was weeping. She ran into my arms and I reflexively hugged and comforted
her. I asked what the hell was going on, and Stocker told me that Marquez had
killed himself early this morning- or late last night, no one was sure- in the bathroom.
Metts had been the first to find the body, and her body’s convulsions gave way to my
curiosity. I saw some of the other guys, and they looked at me askance, with almost
accusatory glares. I wanted to tell them to fuck off, or something- just beat it out of
them. But it wasn’t the right time nor place. I did come up with a few dozen things to
tell them, later, that would have really nailed their asses but good, but that always
seems to be the case at those kinds of times. I knew they must have felt that the
reason I called in sick yesterday was because I didn’t want to be the one to have to
fire the guys, and had pussied out, and known what was coming all along. I couldn’t
blame them for thinking that, because it looked bad, on my part, but I also didn’t
want to tell them that I called in sick because was so upset about a cat. They would
have ridden me far longer for that than for pussying out over a firing. I found out that
the three fellows I recommended for layoff had all been fired yesterday, at the ends
of their shifts. Gabrielson and Huff had taken it in stride. Huff, especially, was one of
those guys who was small and crushed by life, but just too damned stupid to
realized his state, so kept on going, no matter what happened to him. He always
had that strange sort of smile that guys like that, like my dad, always had. I imagined
Huff smiling dumbly all the way down to the unemployment line. He almost had to be
expecting it, I guess, after his last performance review, but Marquez had made a
scene last night, begging and crying not to be let go. He said he had a baby on the
way and that he needed the health insurance, that his first two kids had been
breach births, and this was likely to be so, as well, and there was less than a month
to go before the due date. But, Eagleton was a cold son of a bitch, and called
security to escort Marquez off the property, like he was a piece of trash to be
disposed of. It seems that he came back, drunk, and angry, sometime during the
night shift, and when Eagleton arrived back at the dock, he begged for his job back
again, and Eagleton went to call for security again. That’s when Marquez must have
slipped into the bathroom, because when security came they assumed he had just
left the property. But he blew his brains out- turned out his gun had a silencer on it.
Odd that he would kill himself in a way to not make so big a scene, and then lay
there for hours, with no one the wiser. I had read about such things in the paper, but
never thought I’d actually see it, or its aftermath, in my life. For someone to be so
fucked up over a layoff to kill themselves, with a baby on the way? I could see the
river of blood leak out from under the door, as the cops kept us at a distance.
Forensic teams were there to take pictures, and gather evidence, and all. It was a
mess, and little work was done this morning until the mess was cleaned and the
body removed. Eagleton told me that it was my fault, that I should have taken into
account Marquez’s state when I recommended him as one of the three to be on the
layoff list. Now, his widow might sue the company, or something. I should have
recommended Metts or Thomson. I was an ‘idiot’, according to him. I was too
drained from my own trauma over Natch to argue with the asshole.
At the end of my shift I was eager to get the hell out of work, but my mind was shot,
and my head was throbbing. I even forgot where I usually parked my car in the lot.
When I got home I wanted to cry, just cry, over everything. Alice told me that things
could only get better, and that she was making a meatloaf, especially for her two
favorite guys. When Todd came in, after studying over at a friend’s house, he sat on
the couch next to me, and asked me what was wrong. I started to speak- whether it
was over the loss of Natch or my guilt over the way I treated Marquez when last I
saw him, and if that had contributed to his final state, I don’t know. I thought of how
I never stood up for him when other guys on the dock called him a spic or a greaser,
as if I agreed with, or at least, condoned their bigotry. And maybe I did, because I
never spoke up, and even laughed at a few of their jokes. I wasn’t a bigot, but I was
a coward. I look back, even, to a few days ago, when I wrote, of Marquez: ‘I was
aggravated, and in no mood to speak to him, so I brushed him off, told him I had
urgent business, and left him standing on the dock, where the evening sun had
already left. It kind of annoyed me that my work problems, and other people’s work
problems, dared to intrude on my personal grief.’ Was I a self-centered prick, or
what? Yes, Natch’s death hamstrung me, but Marquez’s problems were just as bad,
or worse. But, at the hour of my son’s greatest need, nothing came out. He hugged
me and said it was ok, to say nothing, and also to cry, if I needed. What a kid! I told
him I knew that, and Alice heard us, and said sometimes a man has to learn it’s the
right thing to cry, but other times it’s not. It was up to the time and the man. We ate
supper, and when we were done Alice got a phone call from Ellen Callison. They
talked for quite a long while, as Todd and I sat in silence, across from each other at
the kitchen table as we eavesdropped on a rather banal conversation- something
beyond me in that moment. Then, a few times, he tried prodding me on what was
wrong, as if he knew there was more than Natch that was bugging me, and when he
asked a third time, after my twice telling him to leave me alone, I just exploded, and
screamt at him, things I do not want to record for posterity, but which made Alice
cover her hand over the phone, and chide me deeply, loudly, and correctly, for I had
even raised my fist toward him, as I sat, then recoiled at my cowardice, and,
suffused with shame and ignominy, let my hand drop, impotently shaking, to the
kitchen table. I saw my son teary-eyed and also shaking, almost paroxysmically, not
so much with fear of me, I knew, as with the idea that his actions had somehow
driven me to a point past mere despair, and into ignorant rage at the world in
general, and he apologized for whatever it was that he had done to upset me. I
whimpered that I was the one who owed him an apology. He then tried to divert me
away from whatever he sensed was troubling me, by talking of the cat, as if he knew
that getting me back to thinking about Natch, alone, would help me, for he hoped I
knew how to deal with that stress more effectively than whatever else was troubling
me. It seemed to work, I guess, for my multi-hued remorse and shame soon gave
way to pure grief alone, although that grief’s purity was not singular. Watching me, in
many ways my superior, was my son, Todd, who tried very hard to hold back his
tears. So did I.
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Author's Note:
It is not a true tale. It is a fiction piece from a manuscript called
Newtown- 15 tales that follow the arc of people from neighborhoods
around the Newtown Creek in NYC over a half century, much in the
same ways that Joyce's Dubliners does for Dublin. That said, the cat
tales are culled from real life cats I've owned. I wanted to contrast
different griefs.
Dan Schneider, www.Cosmoetica.com
The Best in Poetica seeks great poems & essays!