He sits up on the edge of his bed, reaches under it, grabs his wool slippers; slips them on.
He stands and walks to the bathroom in his bedroom. On the way, he feels his fat round face. It's whiskerless as it's always been.
Nevertheless, in the bathroom he applies a layer of shaving cream to it; wipes the cream off with a razor. He's done this since he was sixteen.
He's eighty-nine.
From a cup on the vanity, he removes his dentures, spends a minute adjusting the water to an appropriate temperature, rinses the dentures; snaps them into his mouth.
From the mirror cabinet, he takes a mouthwash bottle, opens it, pours mouthwash into the cup that held his dentures, brings the cup to his lips, tilts his head backward; sloshes the bitter liquid around and over his gums.
He reaches under the vanity for a wash cloth, wets it; wipes his armpits, then feet, then genitals.
must stay clean
His bald liver-spotted head jerks to attention.
Something's rubbing against his leg.
what the? cats damn cats
"Shoo! Go on. Out a here!" he says pounding the sink. "Leave me alone."
Cats scatter from the bathroom, into the bedroom, down to the basement.
how'd they get in here. forgot window wells again. damn cats.
A rough purr vibrates from the floor.
what's that? nuther one? where?
He walks to the side of his bed and kneels shakily.
His knees pop.
His flabby wrinkled arm jiggles as it reaches under the bed.
A hiss burns through the air.
James Alfred flinches. His arm snaps to his side.
damnit! damn cat
Cautiously, he tries again.
"Got you!" he says to a fat gray alley cat. "What are you doin' here? Did I invite you here? I could squash your head like a grape. Don't squirm. Where's your friends? Left you, huh. Don't worry about it, they all leave."
all them, they leave
"They left because they were afraid," he says. "Because they cared more about their own skin than anything. They shoulda read Job. Ah, well. Want milk? I say you want milk?"
James Alfred stands.
"Milk. I'll get you milk."
The cat's silver eyes shine; narrow to slits.
"Piss on milk. Got any wine?"
James Alfred freezes.
jesus whatthe wha
"Relax," the cat says. "Just fucking relax. Milk's fine . . . I guess."
James Alfred feels faint.
not enough sleep, need rest
He steps closer to the bed; sits on the edge.
The cat leaps onto his lap.
"Name's Lenny. What's your's?"
"I . . . I go . . . to bed . . . I . . ."
"Igo Tubed? What the hell kind a name is that?"
James Alfred lies on his back, grips the bed's edge, looks toward the ceiling; closes his eyes.
Lenny snakes his way up the old man's flabby stomach, stops at his chest; sits.
"What's wrong? What about that milk?"
James Alfred starts to wheeze.
Asthma's been a problem since his youth. His last attack occurred when he discovered an error on his utility bill.
Lenny stretches his neck closer to James Alfred's face until his whiskers poke the old man's chin.
"Say, there anything I can do to help?" he says.
James Alfred lifts his head, looks into the cat's eyes, gasps for air; falls through the sky.
An airplane roars.
His wife straddles it.
Her feet rest on the wings.
Wind plasters her short gray hair against her skull.
"Florida!" she screams, thrusting her fists above her head. "Florida!"
Wind howls.
Plane flies out of sight.
James Alfred still feels as if he can't breathe.
A weight seems to crush his chest.
He opens his eyes.
"Were you nappin' or did you die?" Lenny says, his nose an inch from the old man's. "What about that milk?"
James Alfred jerks up and thrashes from the bed.
Lenny falls to the floor.
James Alfred eyes him.
Lenny glares back.
"Why the hell'd you do that?" he says. "You coulda asked and I'd a got off a you. Man, I probably saved your life."
James Alfred remains silent; nudges Lenny with his toe.
Lenny backs away.
"What is this?" he says. "What's the problem?"
James Alfred bristles.
"How can you talk?" he says.
"Look. What do you mean? I talk with my mouth. Open and close, open and close, like this, and the sound comes out. It's that simple. Easy as -- as milk!"
James Alfred, motionless and slack-jawed, stares at Lenny.
"Look, if you ain't gettin' me any milk, then I gotta go. Okay?"
James Alfred remains still.
Lenny backs away, turns; leaps toward the bedroom door.
Half a minute passes.
James Alfred hears a basement window slam.
He hears children outside disturbing silence as they walk to school.
time to die maybe, time to die
He hurries to the living room, peeks out the curtain; watches the children laugh their way to school.
He closes the curtain; begins walking toward his bedroom to salvage what he can of his daily routine.
A sound at the door turns him around.
A scratch.
maybe
He tip-toes to the door, opens it, sees no one.
damn wind . . . damn wind!
He stares at the park across the street; scans it thoroughly.
At his vision's limit he sees a small blue-gray figure lying by a tree.
maybe . . . maybe
He leaves the open door; walks quickly to the kitchen.
cats can't talk
He opens the refrigerator, reaches around a milk carton, grabs a bottle of wine,
never could talk
Slips and nearly falls on his way to the front door,
never will talk
Sights the blue-gray figure still lounging by the tree,
how could they?
Steps onto the porch,
they can't
Descends to the sidewalk,
never have
Steps over the gutter,
impossible!
Crosses the street.
To see more about my work (and me) click the link below:
It unites spiritual wisdom from the East and West to help readers experience Christ consciousness in the here and now. Combining the Oneness teachings of India with a fresh look at the New Testament.
