ordered a gyro with extra tzatziki sauce. I opted for a falafel pita. P.S. tried to eat its food right there at the counter, but I grabbed the tray with one hand, told it to find a table, and paid with the other hand. It chose a circular six-seater near the center of the food court, and was snapping at a white family of five who had approached the table at the same time, making this strangly barking noise and calling the blonde twin girls a couple of cunts.
“Sorry,” I said, approaching, “when it gets like this, there’s not much you can do. Sorry. There’s another large table over there by the fake palm tree.”
“Cunts!” barked the wombat. “Fuck you, you’re all stupid.”
“Would you knock it off? Here, eat your damn Greek food.”
The wombat ripped off great chunks from its gyro and chewed with its mouth open, uttering soft ummph ummph sounds as the detritus of toppings piled up on the floor around it. P.S. had stopped talking as it ate, and I took the opportunity to tuck into my falafel. Crunch and the soft green of chickpeas.
As it finished the last of the gyro, its mouth smeared with gobs of tzatziki, it said, softly, “Him.”
“What?”
“Him, not it. You called me an it. I’m a him.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to find a phone card. Let’s go, stupid.”
“But I just started my dinner.”
P.S. rolled his eyes. “I’ll be right back. Give me money.”
I handed the wombat a ten-dollar bill, and he looked at the paper as if it was a turd.
“This isn’t enough,” he said. “Give me more.”
Another ten, and the wombat ambled off in the direction of the shops without even a thank-you. Once he was out of sight, I inhaled the rest of the falafel and snuck out to the car park. I started up the Mini and drove home before I could think about it too much.
Back at the apartment, couch reclaimed, and I watched a Discovery Channel rerun about giant man-made structures. Apart from the TV, the room was quiet. The wombat had left the pillow on the couch, and it was smeared with a brown that I could only hope was mud. I’d take care of it later. I exhaled in relief, reveling in my restored solitude.
But before the show was even over, there was a knock at the door: the wombat.
“Idiot,” he said. “You think I couldn’t find my way back here? Don’t fucking do that again.” He pointed back behind him. “And take care of this.”
A taxi idled at the curb. The wombat stepped into the apartment, said “This is stupid,” and turned off the TV. I paid the cabbie, then went back inside.
~
When I woke the next morning, an ocelot was curled up at the foot of my bed. The shock of the big cat in such close proximity startled me into a huddle, blanket up around my face. At the sudden movement, the ocelot awoke as well, looked at me sleepily, and performed a full-body yawn. Were ocelots carnivores? I couldn’t remember, but its canines were certainly sharp enough.
“Damn,” it said in a throaty female tenor, “I’d just gotten to sleep. Why’d you do that?”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Where do any of us come from? I started as atoms, accreted into molecules, cells, nerves, muscles, limbic system, all that. There’s not much difference between you and me when you think of it that way.”
“No, I mean, how did you get into my apartment? Into my bed? ”
The ocelot yawned again. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been up all night. Ocelots are nocturnal. Can we maybe talk about this later?”
“Um, but—”
“Later,” she said, her tone short with finality, performing a maneuver with her paws that looked as if she was kneading dough for biscuits, then she turned away and promptly fell back to sleep.
I crept out of the bedroom and closed the door as quietly as I could. Into the living room, hoping that the wombat had disappeared in the night, but no; all over the walls P.S. had scratched out rambling and incoherent phrases, carving them into the drywall. It must
“Sorry,” I said, approaching, “when it gets like this, there’s not much you can do. Sorry. There’s another large table over there by the fake palm tree.”
“Cunts!” barked the wombat. “Fuck you, you’re all stupid.”
“Would you knock it off? Here, eat your damn Greek food.”
The wombat ripped off great chunks from its gyro and chewed with its mouth open, uttering soft ummph ummph sounds as the detritus of toppings piled up on the floor around it. P.S. had stopped talking as it ate, and I took the opportunity to tuck into my falafel. Crunch and the soft green of chickpeas.
As it finished the last of the gyro, its mouth smeared with gobs of tzatziki, it said, softly, “Him.”
“What?”
“Him, not it. You called me an it. I’m a him.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to find a phone card. Let’s go, stupid.”
“But I just started my dinner.”
P.S. rolled his eyes. “I’ll be right back. Give me money.”
I handed the wombat a ten-dollar bill, and he looked at the paper as if it was a turd.
“This isn’t enough,” he said. “Give me more.”
Another ten, and the wombat ambled off in the direction of the shops without even a thank-you. Once he was out of sight, I inhaled the rest of the falafel and snuck out to the car park. I started up the Mini and drove home before I could think about it too much.
Back at the apartment, couch reclaimed, and I watched a Discovery Channel rerun about giant man-made structures. Apart from the TV, the room was quiet. The wombat had left the pillow on the couch, and it was smeared with a brown that I could only hope was mud. I’d take care of it later. I exhaled in relief, reveling in my restored solitude.
But before the show was even over, there was a knock at the door: the wombat.
“Idiot,” he said. “You think I couldn’t find my way back here? Don’t fucking do that again.” He pointed back behind him. “And take care of this.”
A taxi idled at the curb. The wombat stepped into the apartment, said “This is stupid,” and turned off the TV. I paid the cabbie, then went back inside.
~
When I woke the next morning, an ocelot was curled up at the foot of my bed. The shock of the big cat in such close proximity startled me into a huddle, blanket up around my face. At the sudden movement, the ocelot awoke as well, looked at me sleepily, and performed a full-body yawn. Were ocelots carnivores? I couldn’t remember, but its canines were certainly sharp enough.
“Damn,” it said in a throaty female tenor, “I’d just gotten to sleep. Why’d you do that?”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Where do any of us come from? I started as atoms, accreted into molecules, cells, nerves, muscles, limbic system, all that. There’s not much difference between you and me when you think of it that way.”
“No, I mean, how did you get into my apartment? Into my bed? ”
The ocelot yawned again. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been up all night. Ocelots are nocturnal. Can we maybe talk about this later?”
“Um, but—”
“Later,” she said, her tone short with finality, performing a maneuver with her paws that looked as if she was kneading dough for biscuits, then she turned away and promptly fell back to sleep.
I crept out of the bedroom and closed the door as quietly as I could. Into the living room, hoping that the wombat had disappeared in the night, but no; all over the walls P.S. had scratched out rambling and incoherent phrases, carving them into the drywall. It must
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