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One Eyed Earl7.22.97
When the chips are down and you're making a perfectly fine mess of your
life--roll with it baby.
Mandy and I adopted a dead kitten the other day.
I see Chris X (6) walking this way and gripping a little
black and white stuffed animal about the midsection. Chris is twirling
this thing nonchalantly like a baton. The white parts are smudged gray
with street grime and the head is tilted at a funny angle. "Oh look," I
say as he gets closer, "Chris has a kitten he's going to kill today."
Mandy looks over and shakes her head. Frankly, we are all scared of
Yolanda X, this being a woman who told Mandy to stay the fuck out of it if
her kids got run over in the street; a woman who has men running out of
her house leaving trails of blood, so the idea of intervening to save
this kitten's life is not all that attractive. Three-year-old Justin who can spout "muhfuggin' niggah" with the best of his full grown contemporaries, appears out of
nowhere (probably from under a car) and says, "Gimme cat, gimme cat."
Chris gives it to him and Justin grabs it with all the care of a future
serial killer. "Wanna see cat Jim?" My answer, of course, is no, but
why even voice this to a three-year-old. He goes against his mother's
wishes and enters--The Property of the White People. He puts the kitten
in my lap but I won't touch it. It's greasy and it's hair is unevenly
matted down in places, perhaps indicating wounds. The kitten's eyes
appear to be sewn shut, with puss swelling the lids to unnatural
proportions, and scabs dotting the rest of its tiny face. He seems to
weigh a few ounces shy of nothing. I'm thinking a ball peen hammer might
be the most humane solution here. But instead I just say, "Go on
Justin," and he does, taking the kitten with him.
I'm not proud of anything I do here so going inside to keep myself from
having to watch this kitten be tortured to death is just one more thing
not to be proud of. When metaphors start stepping from the shadows and
emerging as full blown realities; when the Grim Reaper becomes a three
year old child with the mouth of a sailor, this is when I run and
hide--pulling the covers over my head and praying for the morning light.
Actually I run off to Taco Bell with Shelton.
Mandy, however, is no punk ass bitch, and so after Shelton and I returned
from the Bayou (St. John), where Shelton talked about being a movie actor
and, I, ate my tacos, Mandy informs me that upon entering the house I
will find a kitten in a box which she will be taking care of until it
dies, which should be anytime. "That's fine," somehow doesn't sound
quite appropriate but that's what I say anyway.
So now this piece of a metaphor is living in our house and I have started
calling it Earl. It seems that after I ran off with Shelton, Justin
began throwing the kitten down onto the sidewalk, repeatedly. Mandy
screamed at him to stop and eleven-year-old Eric came to her aid, taking
the kitten from Justin and giving it to Mandy. Eric explained to the
bawling boy that he had given up his right to own an animal and that it
now belonged to Miss Amanda.
The next day Mandy saw Justin on the street and he ask her if he could
have his kitten back. Mandy explained to him that the kitten was very
sick and would probably die. Justin responded, "can I have him back
after he dead?"
Mandy has been draining puss and swabbing the kitten with peroxide and
betadine. I'm trying to be useful, getting some water down its throat
with an eyedropper. On the third day, Earl arose from the dead, ate
ravenously, drank some water, and played with a ball. I laid on the
floor and let him sleep on my stomach. He purrs and raps his tiny paw
around my index finger for minutes at a time.
Today I come home from work and am careful not to look real close at
Earl, who is reading a book with Mandy on the bed. I am a little
nauseous from the heat and the garbage truck I had to follow up Dorgenois
for a couple of blocks. Mandy says Earl's eye is getting worse. I can't
look. I have to take a bath first. After my bath, Mandy asks me if I
will look after Earl while she makes a late lunch. So I lay on the floor
and place Earl between my legs to give this sightless kitty a sense of
boundary. It takes him awhile but he finds his way to my crotch, up
over my stomach, and then to my neck where he starts digging his claws
into my neck, looking for that nipple that ain't never going to be there.
I take a quick look at his left eye and will not describe what I saw.
I propose to Mandy that maybe we should give Dr. Mike a call and get his
opinion about all this. Mandy calls and talks to an assistant who says
to bring Earl right over. If they have to put him to sleep, they won't
charge. We drive over to Rampart and the assistant says it might be
possible to save the one eye, but the left one would obviously have to
come out. He quotes an estimate which is an exact match to the one I
have in my head and I tell him to go ahead and see if he can save Earl.
Earl died over at Dr. Mike's last night. He didn't want to be no one
eyed kitty--see ya on the next one Earl, and don't be late. He got to
purr a bit. Not everyone is so lucky.
The stories are backing up too fast. They're breeding.
The Big C7.19.97
I wonder what C is thinking out there standing hunkered over my
little car parked in front the house? He is postured in such a way--with
his elephant sized forearms resting on the roof, his head tilted and
drooping like a buddah on the nod--that I find myself imagining him to be
knocking at epiphany's window. Of course, he could also be urinating in
my gas tank.
To that extent you resist the local way, you give up a good bit of what
is in the offering.
At 370 pounds of raw black fat, a nose wider than it is long, and 26-year-
old eyes wanting to pop out his skull, C does not at first glance
inspire the nurturing instinct. Nonetheless, I have resisted efforts
(mostly P and M 's) to have his presence on this block banned.
Good Lord, can you really do that? Ban someone or something because they
are displeasing to you? I guess the answer is yes because they a lot of
punk ass motherfuckers don't hang here no more. C pushes crack on
the street and no question that is a bad thing, but he does what he does
well and I have to respect that in place with so many shiftless
pretenders roaming 'round. I believe the real reason C stays around
here is the same reason there are so many children around here: because
Mama D ain't dead or in jail. A person has to belong somewhere and this
as close as C gonna get. He pays his dues with respect and a few
dollars to Mama D's pocket. And that buys him a few hours inside Mama
D's during the heat of the day and the cold of the night. Aside from the
manner in which he makes his living, Corey behaves better than most
people on this street.
One night there was a knock at the door and when I went to see who it
was, nobody was there. And then I saw movement down below and to my right.
"Hey C ," I said, and he answered, "Sign fell down," and handed up to me the big metal Neighborhood Watch sign that was poorly nailed to the telephone pole in front of our house.
"Thank you C."
"All right Mr. Jim," he nods, bashful as a little boy.
When Phillis says she finds C "disgusting," she is implying that to
refer to his lifestyle but I suspect it is his physical appearance that
most bothers her because she seems none too disgusted by any of the good
looking dealers I have seen her flirting with.
And one night on the front porch, Shelton, in the midst of an anxiety
attack, confided to M that he had not the highest hopes for his
future. He said--"I'll probably end up just like C." And whereas
M thinks that is a bad thing, I do not.