I live in the Midwest. I work for an HVAC wholesaler. My boss cheats people. He thinks Obama will take us over the “physical” cliff. He also thinks the president is a monkey who has had too many parades. He had a hernia operation this Christmas, whereby he lost his belly button (and can’t stop telling everyone), and so he is eating McDonald’s oatmeal every morning to lose weight and manage his cholesterol. He watches television all day on a plasma screen hooked to the corner of his office across from a calendar that proudly displays half-naked women. He watches Cops. He watches Jerry Springer. And in the afternoon, he mutes these shows and turns on Rush Limbaugh. This is not a joke. I am not making jokes.
My cat is worried about me. I know this because of the way
she stalks me in the morning. And when I get home from work. And when I shower.
And as I get ready for bed. She screams at me when I make eye contact with her
while she crouches around corners and behind furniture--one eye on me at all
times. She knows I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I named her
Stella because a playwright made me cry. I should have called her 007; she possesses
stealth and intuition that her namesake tragically lacked. Hence the
aforementioned crying.
The man who cleans my office must know about the intimate
connection I share with Stella the cat. He asked me recently, as Valentine’s
Day approached, if I was looking forward to celebrating the day of sainted love.
“No,” I said casually, “not really.” “Ah no?” he asks and then without pause
wonders aloud, “ain’t got a husband?” “I don’t,” I respond with an
ill-intentioned lilt. “Ah nah? No boyfriend?” “No, nope,” I say with still a
modicum of patience. “No kids to spoil?” grinning in a totally bizarrely
flirtatious way. “No kids to spoil, nope." And with a chuckle from his fat, wet lips as he sprays down the computer
tower, “well, I bet you got a cat,” he winks.
This is only Wednesday. I’m 60% through the week. I think I
can, I think I can, I think I can…
