The Erotic Shorthair
Mickey Hess
Rob Bastard is the new librarian at the university
where I work. He replaced Library John, so called as not to
be confused with Math John (or Johnny Mathematics), neither
of whom I know well, but whom I speak to on occasion at the
university. Library John often asks me the same questions, like
"are you married?" or "do you live in a house
or apartment?" as if it is our first time speaking, as
if he is conducting a census. Rob writes Bastard, a zine so
offensive that even porn shops and tattoo parlors won't let
him leave copies for their customers. He likes to talk about
zines, or about how people are assholes. He started his '98
Christmas issue with the greeting "Howdy, shitlicks!"
This morning he pushed the library's paper snowflake mobile
out of his face and told me that Christmas doesn't mean much
if you're not a kid, or you don't have kids. Just another fuckin
day.
I had an idea once to not celebrate any holidays
for one year. This idea came after three years of celebrating
dual Halloweens, and I had begun to realize that a June Halloween
eventually can detract from the October festivities, that too
much celebration can begin to dull feeling for all holidays.
I decided that for one year there would be no holidays, that
this would make them mean more the next time around. I did not
go through with this. I continue to celebrate holidays halfway,
as most people do, not really paying attention.
Today I got poked in the eye with a Christmas
tree. I was on my way to eat two cucumber rolls at a Japanese
restaurant near my house, and on my front step I was caught
by my neighbor, who I suspect was keeping a close eye on my
house, waiting for one of us to emerge. "HEY!" he
yelled. My neighbor does not know my name.
My neighbor's name is Jeff. His dog's name is
Fuzz. We hear them outside on cold nights, under our windows.
"Shit, Fuzz. Take a poop. Take a poop, Fuzz." Jeff
asked me to help drag an eight-foot Christmas tree off the roof
of his Chevy Blazer. I agreed, and was poked in the eye by the
sharp green needles of the Christmas tree, reminding me of the
season and of how it cannot be ignored.
The tree is a replacement tree, bought this morning
after Jeff's wife said their first tree wasn't tall enough.
Jeff wants me to take his first tree. But I do not want to.
"Come on, call your wife and see if she wants it."
I call my wife. She doesn't want it. We picture ourselves dragging
the tree upstairs only to drag it back down, dead, in two weeks.
Jeff says he'll take it to the nursing home if we won't accept
it. He words this as a threat.
With one eye closed, I listen to Jeff tell me
that he spent six thousand dollars on Christmas last year, that
he's goddamned for fuckin sure promised his kids he won't spend
that much this year, but he's already spent six hundred on electricity
for the blue and green lights on their roof, and for the giant
inflatable snowman that Fuzz is now pissing on. Jeff tells me
he received fifty thousand dollars in disability. Jeff tells
me he's recovering from cancer.
My cat goes to the same vet as Fuzz. Sitting this
afternoon in the vet's office, my eye now half-open and watery,
I'm looking at a poster on the wall -- the cats of the world.
I am trying to read this sign from across the room, enjoying
through the discomfort the novelty of my blurred vision. The
vet's assistant, a nervous red-haired high school girl, weighs
my cat and takes his temperature. I am comparing my cat's features
to the features of cats from the American Northeast and Scandinavia.
Could he be a Maine Coon Cat crossed with a Norwegian Forest
Cat? How would this pairing have happened?
One cat picture is captioned "The Exotic
Shorthair," but until I close my bad eye I am certain it
says "The Erotic Shorthair." I am amused by this,
and I explain it to the vet's assistant, who looks at me like
she is uncertain a nervous high school girl should be alone
in a small room with a person like me. She opens the door.
My friend's cat died of feline leukemia. He didn't
last long after the diagnosis, but every day that he did live,
he was attacked by my friend's second cat. Pix was back and
forth for new tests, new treatments, none of them working and
him coming home with new patches shaved into his fur for the
IVs, and his lifelong friend turned on him because he smelled
like the vet's office. I wonder if this vet's assistant is hated
by cats. I wonder if she still cries when cats die, and if it
is sadder at Christmas, with the two red bells pinned to her
uniform.
In two days I will see who I think is the vet's
assistant getting a snack from a vending machine at the university.
"Hello," I will say, one eye red and swollen. "Don't
you work at the vet?"
"No," she will say. "I do not."
For the moment, though, I pay for my cat's annual
check-up, then walk with his carrier back down the streets of
my neighborhood. The Clifton area of Louisville is so named
because it’s a little section of city built into the side
of a cliff. There are steep inclines here, and the Kentucky
School for the Blind. The walkways are treacherous in winter,
and this seems like an ill-considered combination.
....
Bio: Mickey Hess wrote a book called Big Wheel at the Cracker
Factory. Prior to that, he wrote one called El Cumpleanos de
Paco. An Icelandic newspaper lauds his work as such: "Perhaps
it is unfair to expect a writer to have something to say."
Enjoy. www.mickeyhess.net
