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Alley Cat
Copyright 2015 - 2019 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Yes.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Music gives me a lot of ideas.
The 1960s instrumental "Alley Cat" inspired this story.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
DRAFT ONE:
At the moment, I like this the way it is.
I think it speaks to almost everyone in a relationship,
whether married or not,
and to the insecurities we have about ourselves,
and about the objects of our affection.
DRAFT TWO:
The latest: I don't like it anymore.
The problem with writing about marriages,
when you've never married, is lack of direct experience.
This little scene now sounds contrived and stereotypical.
The next draft will hopefully be more believable.
DRAFT THREE:
Nothing except writer's block.
DRAFT FOUR:
Nothing, yet.
He’s thinking that thought again. That something is missing in the marriage.
He’s trying not to let on.
He’s just sitting there naked with his head and shoulders and back propped against the pillow, which is propped against the headboard of the bed.
Just sitting there, hoping she can’t read his mind. And tapping his fingers on his thighs in time to the beat of the instrumental song on the radio. They’ve been playing a whole slew of them. First the slinky “Night Train” from the 1950s. Then that funny little thing: Al Hirt’s “Java” which makes him think of Herb Alpert And The Tijuana Brass on amphetamines.
And now, just starting, is “Alley Cat,” from earlier this year of our Lord 1964. The one that kinda sorta sounds like a cat slinking around an alley.
He’s waiting. Just waiting for her comments. When it first came out, she was fond of calling him an alley cat, and bringing up his affairs. So far in fifteen years of marriage he’d had only two of them.
“That’s two, too many,” she’s been saying since the second one-night stand. She’s been through thick and thin with him, and loyal, and rather matter of fact. “Do you want to stay with me or not?” she asked after the second affair. “I do,” he said. She sighed, shook her head and said, “Then stop sleeping with other women. One of these days some terrible disease is going to to be transmitted through sex, and I don’t want to die because you were sleeping with someone who had it.”
He’s been faithful since that conversation.
But still, he has that thought: something is missing.
He abruptly says in an irritated way, “There are already sexual diseases that kill people.” He is irritated because he hates feeling like something is missing, considering her loyalty and tolerance. No other woman has put up with him beyond a few hours or days. All of them, every single one, whether flirting or the two with whom he slept, complained about some stupid thing or other: his random silences (so what? did he have to talk all the time?), his obsession with music (he was a musician, why wouldn’t he be?), his commitment to being a gentleman (how that could possibly offend anyone, he would never understand), and any of a number of imagined or truthful things that could be resolved peaceably.
“What?” She says. She’s also naked, and also sitting against the headboard with a pillow behind her back. She’s squeezing his hand in time to “Alley Cat.”
He wonders once again what could be missing. She’s cute. Not heart-stoppingly beautiful. But cute. She’s a great cook. She’s smart. She’s a good wife. The sex isn’t too bad.
Maybe it’s what his friend Baker told him about a year ago: “Listen, man. Men want to mate. With every woman they see. Don’t feel guilty. Doing it, isn’t always right. Specially if y’all are married. Thinking it ... man ... ain’t no one got the right to tell you what to think. Think all you want.”
He wanted to disagree with Baker, but held back. He liked Baker a lot, and didn’t want any disagreements over petty stuff. He sure did NOT want to mate with every woman he saw. Nothing against anyone he did not find attractive; sometimes the “no-ways” as he termed them, turned out to be the best friends a man could wish for. He had never wanted to sleep with any of them.
At the moment, he feels a bit queasy thinking about sleeping with the short, gray-haired, heavyset landlord. No way. But she is a good kind woman. And he thinks she likes other women. So scratch that.
“What?” his wife says again.
“I said ... there are already sexual diseases that kill people. What could possibly be worse?”
She squeezes his hand in time to the music. “I don’t know. Don’t tempt fate. Or God.” She starts poking his arm from his shoulder down to his wrist, humming in time to “Alley Cat.” The song is about to end.
“No comments today?” he asks.
“About what.” She pokes his arm with each beat of “Alley Cat.” Sometimes she’s cute as a button doing this. In fact, she suddenly turns into an off-white button with little twig arms that poke at him.
He watches, trying not to respond, still wondering what could be missing. And also wondering what was missing so badly that he went off and got naked with the first lady (yes, she was a lady, he tells himself; she was possibly the politest human being he had ever met, and SHE dumped HIM the next morning, with the most elegant break-up line he had ever heard: “Sorry, sir, but I have to get back to my family. Thank you for a memorable early morning.”), and then with the second lady (and she was a lady, too; she simply needed a shoulder to cry on, and he was there, and then they decided it was a big mistake and he went back to his life).
He does not want to think about it anymore. At times a very mature version of himself appears to send him a message from another realm: “Don’t lose her.” Once in a while, he disagrees. More often, he believes the voice is right.
He sighs as silently as possible. To his right, the human-shaped off-tan button continues to poke little twig arms from his shoulder to his elbow, over and over.
“Alley Cat, huh?” he says. “I’ll give you Alley Cat.”
He lunges, she giggles and shrieks, and then only the bed is making irritated, rhythmic sounds of protest, as a screen over the bed projects the words, “The divorce left her with half of your assets” and a bunch of tiny buttons lines up around the room, calling him Daddy--
* * * *
Kirby sat straight up from sleep, looked around, gasped and then frowned.
The bed was empty; the big apartment was silent; Los Angeles was dark outside as very early morning crept toward dawn.
He checked again: there was no one else there. No wife. No former wife.
There had been a bad situation that had gotten worse until he put an end to it.
But no wife and no divorce and no dividing of the assets.
He switched on a lamp and checked the time and the date, and went to his tiny “office” -- just a card table with a small computer -- and looked over his share of the band’s paperwork.
It had been more than ten years since Baker’s death, and the nightmares were still happening.
“Miss you,” Kirby said to the darkness.
Out of habit, he went to one of the main room’s windows and looked between the blinds for a sign from Baker. Immediately, Kirby saw a blinking purple light not too far from his mid-Los Angeles apartment building: “Caleb’s Club.” He stared, realizing he received a sign every time he spoke to Baker while alone.
Back at the computer, Kirby thought about Caleb and Heather: good friends. Kirby had felt slightly uncomfortable around her at first, not wanting anything weird going on with 1. women in general, 2. another man’s wife, and 3. the wife of a rival band’s member. However, as time moved on from their initial introduction, he began to consider them both friends; they were busy with their lives and their jobs and their children, and never weird.
Still feeling unsettled, Kirby padded through the whole apartment, reassuring himself that no one else lived there.
As he moved, the flashbacks accompanied him. He sighed, groaned, swore, sighed some more, as he remembered the violence at the foster home: being shoved down the stairs; being severely injured; the trial; being awarded the settlement.
Outside, a police car whooped; Kirby flinched and went still for several seconds, then resumed moving. He went to the window and looked down; on the street, an officer swaggered over to a car and there was a long conversation; the officer returned to his car, messed with a few things, returned to the driver of the other vehicle with a clipboard, conversed and signed, and the other vehicle drove away.
That set off a whole new slew of flashbacks concerning the law and the judicial system, with a couple of mental sidebars regarding the documentary made about Kirby and his experiences: “Justice For Kirby.”
He mused over the legal history, then went to his “living room” -- just an empty room except for the small TV and attached electronics -- and accessed the documentary.
His five-year-old self, then his teen-aged self was on the screen, in footage of the trial as he gave testimony of his experiences. Someone had found film of him moving about at school, happily and joyfully and easily, and compared it to the footage after he had sustained the serious injuries. His face was solemn and serious in the later years, and his speech slowed down, due to the brain damage directly related to the abuse and violence.
“You got a settlement,” Kirby said. “It does not make up for the injuries. But you got it, and you have used it as a tool to help you recover.”
* * * *
She was on the bed again, and she was a human-shaped cat, meowing the “Alley Cat” song.
Kirby vomited onto the bed. As he resumed sitting, the vomit vanished, to be replaced by a thin tiny set of stairs that led to the interior of the mattress.
“Are you sure you want to sleep with her?” the nightmare girlfriend/wife asked. “After all, she IS married. Do you really want problems with Caleb? He would eat you alive.”
Kirby looked down at his own hands and body. He was taller and heavier than Caleb. It would be a dirty fight, but Kirby would place bets on himself.
On and on she went: “She’s not too great a prospect, you know. She’s an odd one. You’d get tired of her, as some have, and then want to come back to me.”
Not that he cared, but he asked anyway: “What do you know of her?”
“She’s just weird. My contacts tell me she’s an idiot. She’s a Monet.”
“A what.”
“You know. Like the artist. Not too bad from afar, but a lot to complain about up close. It’s a phrase. Look it up.” She laughed long and hard. “She’s an idiot.”
Kirby frowned. “That’s mean. But you’re allowed to have an opinion. And so are these so-called ‘others.’”
“It’s not an oPINion, it’s a FACT, you idiot.”
Kirby glared sideways.
The cat had turned into a human-shaped Monet painting, and continued to complain: “Don’t you know the DIFFerence? You wait and see. You’ll sleep with her and then come back to me.”
* * * *
He woke up on the hard wood floor of the living room.
Baker had once asked, “You mind me asking why no furniture in here?”
“Someone once overturned a couch onto me, and then trapped me under that and an armchair for seven hours. In time, I’ll feel comfortable, but it’s going to take a while.”
Baker was silent. He looked around, hummed, shook his head. “I watched that documentary. I’m sorry for what you went through.”
“Thank you.”
* * * *
On the bed again; the nightmare was vague, but the voice kept going and going.
“You’re gonna leave her, and then go with someone else, and then come back to me.”
Kirby said, “Do you ever shut up?” He found a match on the bed. With great happiness he set fire to the blanket.
She got up and left the building. Soon the bed was a pile of cinders. Kirby gathered them together, formed a makeshift garden, grew a few plants, built a quick bench, and attached a little plaque which read, “Kirby Gardens: In memory of those affected by abuse, neglect, and violence.”
* * * *
Back on the hardwood floor, Kirby stared at the ceiling. He considered Heather: a devoted wife, a good friend to Caleb, so far a good mother to her children. Caleb appeared to be happy.
“Not ready for that, and certainly not with another man’s wife,” he muttered. “Thought I was ready for dating back then, before the violence that took Baker. But no. I don’t mind the occasional date.”
He stretched, relaxing and tensing muscles.
* * * *
He woke up and could tell by the light that it was slightly overcast in downtown Los Angeles.
The hardwood floor beneath him was devoid of anything except his person and his electronics.
He stood and walked around, once again reassuring himself the place had no other living creature except the occasional insect.
“Mild to moderate OCD,” Kirby muttered as he made three trips through the place. “Brought on by the violence and abuse and PTSD. It has lessened through the years.”
In the main room, he opened the blinds a bit, and looked out. Los Angeles moved on, creating and inventing and trail-blazing.
It was not time to go out, but he decided to, anyway, after taking a shower and putting on jeans, an aqua hoodie which was a gift from Caleb and Heather, and sturdy walking shoes.
Outside, Kirby moved slowly, enjoying the sights and sounds.
The city rose around him, and spread out ahead, with the promise that all futures hold.
TO BE CONTINUED
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