have stayed up all night to do this. Also, most of the living room furniture – sofa, end tables, lamps, coffee table – had been pushed against the front door, a makeshift barricade. Standing now to the right of the television, patiently embedding its thoughts, its fur covered with dried dirt and mud, and it looked up at my approach.
“Hey, the ignorant monkey is finally up. Get me some food.”
“What . . . what the fuck—”
“ Food , monkey.”
I needed to go to the grocery store. All that was left in my pantry was a packet of bacon-flavored crackers. A tentative sniff: they still seemed to be okay. I brought the crackers out to the wombat; it started to eat, noisily, cramming handfuls of crackers into its mouth, four or five at a time, crumbs everywhere.
“ Him ,” the wombat said. “You’re still thinking of me as an it. Idiot.”
I looked closer at his most recent scrawlings.
1:34: Stupid apt claustrophobic. Take walk thru neighborhood.
1:50: Followed by cop car for three blocks. Working with DHS?
2:03: Cop says something in squawk box. Run. They chase.
2:15: Dig a tunnel from one random lawn to another. Lawns are stupid.
2:30: Cops gone. Lost them. Two drunkfucks walking home. They know. Run again before they can report position. Don’t wanna go back to GB.
3:15: Back at apt. Front door not secure. They know where I am.
The wombat finished the crackers and ate the foil wrapper as well. I was worried that all the noise would wake the ocelot, but there was no indication we had disturbed her. He belched, then wiped down his whiskers; I hoped he would extend the cleaning to the rest of his body, but he seemed comfortable with the layers of filth.
“Not enough,” he said. “Pancakes. I want pancakes.”
“I’m going to lose my security deposit, you know.”
“Fuck you. Pancakes.”
The IHoP down the street was crowded with the morning rush, and we had to wait twenty minutes for a table, the wombat all the time picking at a large grey scab on its left leg, rimmed with yellowish pus. Escorted to a booth in the back corner, and the wombat ordered a Western omelette; just coffee for me. Sat in silence as families and construction workers and corporate types broke their morning fast, the din of conversation making it difficult to think. The omelette arrived and the wombat ate with its bare hands; I didn’t even bothering reminding him about the fork and knife right there in front of him.
Back at the apartment, and the wombat locked itself in the bathroom, muttering loud enough to himself that I could hear through the door. After ten minutes or so, he called out, “Don’t you have a stupid job to get to?”
“No,” I said. “I was fired yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Do you really care?”
“You really are an incompetent fuck,” he said. “Don’t forget to put all that shit back against the door. We’re not safe.”
I had moved the furniture out of the way so that we could leave before, and I now pushed it back into place. It wouldn’t keep anyone out if they really wanted to get in, but I did have to admit that it made me feel a little more secure.
Suddenly exhausted, the coffee apparently not having done its job, I stepped into the bedroom. The ocelot still slept on the bed, but had moved up more toward the middle, aligned along its length like a person would sleep. There was just enough space for me to lie down. I sat gently and rolled over onto my back. The ocelot went mmmmm , but gave no other indication of waking up; her body was warm and comfortable next to mine, and her soft purring put me quickly to sleep.
I dreamt of the ocelot. We were in bed together, as in real life, but she had removed my clothes and was licking me all over with her rough cat tongue, my face, my neck, my chest, my arms, my legs, and all my secret places. Purring loudly all the time, and me intensely aware of her carnivorous teeth, close enough to rip into me if she wanted, and I shivered, the
“Hey, the ignorant monkey is finally up. Get me some food.”
“What . . . what the fuck—”
“ Food , monkey.”
I needed to go to the grocery store. All that was left in my pantry was a packet of bacon-flavored crackers. A tentative sniff: they still seemed to be okay. I brought the crackers out to the wombat; it started to eat, noisily, cramming handfuls of crackers into its mouth, four or five at a time, crumbs everywhere.
“ Him ,” the wombat said. “You’re still thinking of me as an it. Idiot.”
I looked closer at his most recent scrawlings.
1:34: Stupid apt claustrophobic. Take walk thru neighborhood.
1:50: Followed by cop car for three blocks. Working with DHS?
2:03: Cop says something in squawk box. Run. They chase.
2:15: Dig a tunnel from one random lawn to another. Lawns are stupid.
2:30: Cops gone. Lost them. Two drunkfucks walking home. They know. Run again before they can report position. Don’t wanna go back to GB.
3:15: Back at apt. Front door not secure. They know where I am.
The wombat finished the crackers and ate the foil wrapper as well. I was worried that all the noise would wake the ocelot, but there was no indication we had disturbed her. He belched, then wiped down his whiskers; I hoped he would extend the cleaning to the rest of his body, but he seemed comfortable with the layers of filth.
“Not enough,” he said. “Pancakes. I want pancakes.”
“I’m going to lose my security deposit, you know.”
“Fuck you. Pancakes.”
The IHoP down the street was crowded with the morning rush, and we had to wait twenty minutes for a table, the wombat all the time picking at a large grey scab on its left leg, rimmed with yellowish pus. Escorted to a booth in the back corner, and the wombat ordered a Western omelette; just coffee for me. Sat in silence as families and construction workers and corporate types broke their morning fast, the din of conversation making it difficult to think. The omelette arrived and the wombat ate with its bare hands; I didn’t even bothering reminding him about the fork and knife right there in front of him.
Back at the apartment, and the wombat locked itself in the bathroom, muttering loud enough to himself that I could hear through the door. After ten minutes or so, he called out, “Don’t you have a stupid job to get to?”
“No,” I said. “I was fired yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Do you really care?”
“You really are an incompetent fuck,” he said. “Don’t forget to put all that shit back against the door. We’re not safe.”
I had moved the furniture out of the way so that we could leave before, and I now pushed it back into place. It wouldn’t keep anyone out if they really wanted to get in, but I did have to admit that it made me feel a little more secure.
Suddenly exhausted, the coffee apparently not having done its job, I stepped into the bedroom. The ocelot still slept on the bed, but had moved up more toward the middle, aligned along its length like a person would sleep. There was just enough space for me to lie down. I sat gently and rolled over onto my back. The ocelot went mmmmm , but gave no other indication of waking up; her body was warm and comfortable next to mine, and her soft purring put me quickly to sleep.
I dreamt of the ocelot. We were in bed together, as in real life, but she had removed my clothes and was licking me all over with her rough cat tongue, my face, my neck, my chest, my arms, my legs, and all my secret places. Purring loudly all the time, and me intensely aware of her carnivorous teeth, close enough to rip into me if she wanted, and I shivered, the
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