and the shaking chills returning with a vengeance, demolishing my temporary good spirits, turning my world upside-down once again. I was, in general, certainly not myself. As Piers Akerman, I believe, observed: “The fact that the Kinkster is not himself is a silver lining for everybody else.” There may have been a small kernel of truth to this statement, but I’ve always believed friendship is overrated, just as taking a Nixon is often underrated. I also believe that no one can truly win friends and influence people; people who like you in spite of yourself will be called friends, and those are the ones upon whom you may someday have some trivial effect. People rarely, if ever, truly “influence” others. We are all too culture-bound, too much creatures of narrow habit, too influenced by “us” to ever be much influenced by “them.”
At least I wasn’t feeling like Kafka anymore. The world was not out to get me. It was out to get everybody and sooner or later, no doubt, it would. If I could’ve kept up in the drinking department with McGovern, Piers, and Brennan, I probably would’ve drunk myself to death, thereby at least curing the malaria. But I couldn’t keep up with them. Nobody currently living in the world could. Maybe Spencer Tracy or John Wayne or Ira Hayes or Edgar Allan Poe could but they had all been bugled to Jesus, no doubt, all with a bottle in their hands. The cat, of course, hated drunken behavior in humans and, quite irrationally, she maintained her hatred of Ratso, the only care-giver who drank in moderation. Ratso was Jewish, of course, and Jews are not often alcoholics. It’s simply not the way of their people. Jews may have many other obnoxious behaviors, but one of them is not drinking. The Jew is somewhat culturally deprived in this country, however, because, growing up as a child he almost never hears the three words that most Americans live by and have grown to love: “Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers!”
Late one night, while experiencing one of my more severe attacks of fever, I found myself mulling over the possibility that the cat was a Nazi. This would explain her hatred of Ratso. It would not, of course, explain why she continued to contentedly live in my loft. It was conceivable, I thought, that the cat could be a Nazi spy, fighting down her inherent anti-Semitic tendencies until her mission in America was completed. This might go a ways toward explaining her rather unsavory dumping behavior. Working against this theory, I reflected, was the indisputable fact that the cat had Jewish eyes that were, like all true Jewish eyes, sad, beautiful, and indefatigably distrustful of people. The cat as a Nazi, I had to admit, was somewhat far-fetched, but life, malaria, and—well—sometimes cats, will do that to you. In the end, as you might suspect, I didn’t buy the theory. For the cat was sleeping peacefully next to me on the pillow, her head resting lovingly on my shoulder. Clearly, she loved me as much as a cat can love a man and I, for my part, loved her as much as a man can love a cat. Between the two of us, I thought, we very probably were imbued with more love than all the Nazis in the world.
But loving someone, whether or not that someone happens to be a cat, does not necessarily mean that you can sleep. Malaria can be so debilitating, can so ravage the system, that you can’t sleep when you need to sleep, you can’t shit when you need to shit, you can’t laugh when you need to laugh, and you can’t say what you need to say. It’s a little bit, in fact, the way most of us live every day of our lives.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I got up and began rummaging restlessly through the drawers and cabinets and closets of the loft. I didn’t know what I was looking for but most people fall into that department most of their lives: the lost and never found. It helps to know what you’re looking for, but it’s no guarantee you’ll still want it once you find it. When I began
At least I wasn’t feeling like Kafka anymore. The world was not out to get me. It was out to get everybody and sooner or later, no doubt, it would. If I could’ve kept up in the drinking department with McGovern, Piers, and Brennan, I probably would’ve drunk myself to death, thereby at least curing the malaria. But I couldn’t keep up with them. Nobody currently living in the world could. Maybe Spencer Tracy or John Wayne or Ira Hayes or Edgar Allan Poe could but they had all been bugled to Jesus, no doubt, all with a bottle in their hands. The cat, of course, hated drunken behavior in humans and, quite irrationally, she maintained her hatred of Ratso, the only care-giver who drank in moderation. Ratso was Jewish, of course, and Jews are not often alcoholics. It’s simply not the way of their people. Jews may have many other obnoxious behaviors, but one of them is not drinking. The Jew is somewhat culturally deprived in this country, however, because, growing up as a child he almost never hears the three words that most Americans live by and have grown to love: “Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers!”
Late one night, while experiencing one of my more severe attacks of fever, I found myself mulling over the possibility that the cat was a Nazi. This would explain her hatred of Ratso. It would not, of course, explain why she continued to contentedly live in my loft. It was conceivable, I thought, that the cat could be a Nazi spy, fighting down her inherent anti-Semitic tendencies until her mission in America was completed. This might go a ways toward explaining her rather unsavory dumping behavior. Working against this theory, I reflected, was the indisputable fact that the cat had Jewish eyes that were, like all true Jewish eyes, sad, beautiful, and indefatigably distrustful of people. The cat as a Nazi, I had to admit, was somewhat far-fetched, but life, malaria, and—well—sometimes cats, will do that to you. In the end, as you might suspect, I didn’t buy the theory. For the cat was sleeping peacefully next to me on the pillow, her head resting lovingly on my shoulder. Clearly, she loved me as much as a cat can love a man and I, for my part, loved her as much as a man can love a cat. Between the two of us, I thought, we very probably were imbued with more love than all the Nazis in the world.
But loving someone, whether or not that someone happens to be a cat, does not necessarily mean that you can sleep. Malaria can be so debilitating, can so ravage the system, that you can’t sleep when you need to sleep, you can’t shit when you need to shit, you can’t laugh when you need to laugh, and you can’t say what you need to say. It’s a little bit, in fact, the way most of us live every day of our lives.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I got up and began rummaging restlessly through the drawers and cabinets and closets of the loft. I didn’t know what I was looking for but most people fall into that department most of their lives: the lost and never found. It helps to know what you’re looking for, but it’s no guarantee you’ll still want it once you find it. When I began
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