she’ll come and rescue me, she’ll come bobbling and shuffling in with hot soups and water and ancient Florence Nightingale touches.
He closed his eyes with a shudder. He was awake enough to lack appreciation for thoughts of what he considered the impossible.
When he opened his eyes the cat was on his overcoat
It was spread out over it, half crouching, digging and pumping its long black scimitar claws into the silk lining, pressing its dirty body against it. Erick heard vibrating purrs rise up from its scrawny throat and saw the throat pulsing with them when he squinted his eyes.
He watched the body writhing with life and motion.
It looked as if its were greased and sliding back and forth in the tight sheath of its skin. He watched the claws drawing back and forth, clutching and tearing. The coat was worth something after all, he thought. He looked at the magazine. You look as though somebody stepped on your face, he thought.
He chuckled quietly.
For some strange, suddenly born reason, he felt comfortable. He wasn’t too hungry. His throat was only a little dry.
And he had company.
He guessed that that was the most important thing. He wasn’t alone. The most awful thing is being alone. The phrase occurred to him, dredged up from some hole he had dug in the clouded past.
Pussy cat pussy cat where have you been? The chant rose up singing in his mind. And he watched the cat sniffing at the bills.
It drew back one paw and cuffed one of the bills playfully. No. it wasn’t playfully, he amended. It just struck out at the bill. Cats that lived in squalor seemed to lose their sense of humor in the relentless drive to survive. It just hit at the bill as though it were an enemy. Erick watched idly. It was a twenty dollar bill.
And that’s all the money is good for too, he thought, to give a pussy cat some toys to bat around.
The cat turned then and moved to the door in a low-slung, supple motion.
It reached up one paw and scratched. “Meow.” It said and scratched.
Without a thought, he tried to get up so he could let out the cat.
But it was as if he were tied down fast. Only his right hand twitched. His right leg and ankle and foot were numb. His right leg felt like a huge heavy block of fragile glass that might at any moment break off and shatter on the floor.
He looked back at the cat.
“Sorry, pussy, “he croaked.
It startled him to hear his voice. One moment he could talk and then he couldn’t. When the cat had come in, his voice had been more or less normally pitched. Now it was a gurgled rasp. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
The cat kept scratching.
Scratch, scratch, scratch as if it had decided to claw its way through the door. It irritated Erick now. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. God damn stupid pussy cat! He thought angrily. I’d like to stand over you and pump bullets into your body.
In his mind he saw the bullet torn body lying in a pond of blood on the floor and it made him shudder.
He tried not to listen to its scratching. He thought of something else. He thought of the door to the hall. He thought of the dusty hall itself and the scuffed rug out there with the floorboards showing through in places.
And he thought of the bathrooms.
He thought of himself sitting in the bathroom. Planning. Sitting and planning in the bathroom with the sickly yellow bulb light glowing over his loins.
8
It stank there.
The man in room 28 had just finished using it. He was drunk again and he’d urinated all over the front part of the toilet seat. Erick had to wipe it off and it soaked through the toilet paper and got his fingers wet and almost made him sick.
It was silent and airless in there. Like a tucked away cell, an illuminated closet.
The wall he leaned against was cold. It was a green wall bumpy and plastered over and over and over. Whenever any of the plaster fell off, they slapped more of it on. It was so misshapen that Erick often thought it could have been the wall from
He closed his eyes with a shudder. He was awake enough to lack appreciation for thoughts of what he considered the impossible.
When he opened his eyes the cat was on his overcoat
It was spread out over it, half crouching, digging and pumping its long black scimitar claws into the silk lining, pressing its dirty body against it. Erick heard vibrating purrs rise up from its scrawny throat and saw the throat pulsing with them when he squinted his eyes.
He watched the body writhing with life and motion.
It looked as if its were greased and sliding back and forth in the tight sheath of its skin. He watched the claws drawing back and forth, clutching and tearing. The coat was worth something after all, he thought. He looked at the magazine. You look as though somebody stepped on your face, he thought.
He chuckled quietly.
For some strange, suddenly born reason, he felt comfortable. He wasn’t too hungry. His throat was only a little dry.
And he had company.
He guessed that that was the most important thing. He wasn’t alone. The most awful thing is being alone. The phrase occurred to him, dredged up from some hole he had dug in the clouded past.
Pussy cat pussy cat where have you been? The chant rose up singing in his mind. And he watched the cat sniffing at the bills.
It drew back one paw and cuffed one of the bills playfully. No. it wasn’t playfully, he amended. It just struck out at the bill. Cats that lived in squalor seemed to lose their sense of humor in the relentless drive to survive. It just hit at the bill as though it were an enemy. Erick watched idly. It was a twenty dollar bill.
And that’s all the money is good for too, he thought, to give a pussy cat some toys to bat around.
The cat turned then and moved to the door in a low-slung, supple motion.
It reached up one paw and scratched. “Meow.” It said and scratched.
Without a thought, he tried to get up so he could let out the cat.
But it was as if he were tied down fast. Only his right hand twitched. His right leg and ankle and foot were numb. His right leg felt like a huge heavy block of fragile glass that might at any moment break off and shatter on the floor.
He looked back at the cat.
“Sorry, pussy, “he croaked.
It startled him to hear his voice. One moment he could talk and then he couldn’t. When the cat had come in, his voice had been more or less normally pitched. Now it was a gurgled rasp. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
The cat kept scratching.
Scratch, scratch, scratch as if it had decided to claw its way through the door. It irritated Erick now. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. God damn stupid pussy cat! He thought angrily. I’d like to stand over you and pump bullets into your body.
In his mind he saw the bullet torn body lying in a pond of blood on the floor and it made him shudder.
He tried not to listen to its scratching. He thought of something else. He thought of the door to the hall. He thought of the dusty hall itself and the scuffed rug out there with the floorboards showing through in places.
And he thought of the bathrooms.
He thought of himself sitting in the bathroom. Planning. Sitting and planning in the bathroom with the sickly yellow bulb light glowing over his loins.
8
It stank there.
The man in room 28 had just finished using it. He was drunk again and he’d urinated all over the front part of the toilet seat. Erick had to wipe it off and it soaked through the toilet paper and got his fingers wet and almost made him sick.
It was silent and airless in there. Like a tucked away cell, an illuminated closet.
The wall he leaned against was cold. It was a green wall bumpy and plastered over and over and over. Whenever any of the plaster fell off, they slapped more of it on. It was so misshapen that Erick often thought it could have been the wall from
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