|
Cat Lover
He smelled it before he even opened the door. It was so rich in his memory that he could imagine it perfectly without
even being there; old vinyl, lightly tinged with cigarette smoke, obscured by the lingering aroma of cinnamon-apple air fresheners.
It was a warm scent, even on the coldest days, a lung full of that smell made him warm all over. It made him tingle. It made
him tingle the same way as the smell of a woman. Those moments with girls, when he'd purposely step a little closer, that
smell of body heat and perfume, then the tingle, it's a good feeling. He felt it every time he sat in that old Cougar.
He paused, silent, leaning in the doorway of the garage, pressed with his left shoulder against the interior wall, studying
the cigar burn on the back of his right hand. It was starting to fade. Time heals all wounds, what about the scars? It had
been years, and he could still see this fucking thing on his hand. There has to be a time when it will all go away. There
has to be, right? What had it been, really? It was more than three years, maybe three and a half. He couldnt remember the
exact date, the last time theyd been together on good terms; he guessed it was some time in mid October, because he could
remember seeing his breath while he was talking. That had been the absolute worst time of his life; it was the time he enjoyed
reliving most. He would never actually admit that. He probably didn't even realize there was something unusual about the way
he constantly swirled around hatred. Spend enough time someplace, and after a while it becomes home: his place was misery.
Every now and then, hed go out in the garage, sit in his car and reminisce, then feel cheated and sorry for himself. That
was his locus of familiarity, that was his home and he loved it. Why else would he dwell on it?
"I hate you." He said, to no one, as he tugged the handle on the driver's side door, and it opened with the
sound of sticky air pressure. A waft of air from inside drifted to his face, and as light as a brush of hair on his cheek,
it aroused his senses. His nostrils flared and his pupils grew; safety, security, honesty. The whole car smelled like that,
every crevice and curve. The smooth cleavage between the golden-tan seats, the gentle folds of the interior, the dirty-blonde
upholstery; it took him back. It was a time capsule, imbued so densely in his memory that it reached out and grabbed him.
It pulled him back; it thrust him deep into the past, stirring up the emotional zeitgeist from an entire era of his life.
All he had to do was smell the inside of that car, and the misery started to throb in his chest. He'd been cheated. Out of
what? Time? Maybe opportunity? Maybe both. It didn't matter, the reason, it just mattered that it meant so much to him. Even
when he knew it was so fucking stupid. It was over. The grave wasn't fresh anymore, and here he was, still trying to dig everything
up, having a big exhumation of shitty memories and miserable thoughts. No one knew. No one else was thinking about it anymore.
It was cold outside, very cold, cold enough that he could see his breath. The seats were freezing. The vinyl was brittle
from the cold, he could tell from the way it felt, as he slid into it, ducking his head and closing the door. The goose bumps
were starting to sprout on his skin. Autumn, late autumn: the best time of year, as far as sensations go; oranges and reds,
fiery hot colors in the wake of icy death. No heat, and no warmth, only the hues of vibrancy. That was what he liked most
about the fall: the way that everything seemed to slow to a crawl, but still billow with life at the same time. He loved the
sound of naked trees, swaying stiffly in a petulant gust of autumn wind. Fall, autumn...dying. The urgency of it all, the
end of the season. Squirrels hurry to find the season's last few nuts, much the same way people scurry through parking lots
to escape the cold. There's a sense of last-minuteness that seems to steadily throb in the back of your mind. You go about
the minutia of your life, and for some reason you can't help but feel the sense of impending death that seems to grow out
of the background noise, like the first crystals of ice on the surface of a quiet pond. Life is slowing down. Soon, everything
will be dormant, life will pause, curl up and become dormant. Winter will be here, and then the only reminder of existence
will be the steady trudge of passing time.
He sighed. This was why he had actually been happy to take the Cougar off the road. It was bad enough that he had to
think about all of this when the fall came around. He didn't want to have it shoved in his face every time he had to drive
out to get milk. The hiss of air through his nostrils... deep breath, he let the smell slither through his memory. It didn't
affect him anymore, that time, the past. Years of inaction had corroded the roots of the memory. He didn't know any of those
people anymore; he never visited the places that he associated with them. Thinking back on that time brought him nothing but
disgust and remorse, there was nothing left to gather from it all. He hated it, and he hated how it sucked him in, always,
whenever he pulled the cover off this old green two-door and saw the headlights looking up at him. Those headlights like eyes.
He could never look at them for long. They seemed to study him, silent, burning with intelligence but incapable of sharing
it; like a whale through the aquarium window. They burned him when he watched them for too long. He hated seeing that car,
hated it; when he breathed the air inside it...squeezed the steering wheel in his fists, saw the dents and the paint chips
that he'd committed to memory. He hated it, and that's why he refused to get rid of it.
He wanted to go back. He wanted to go back so bad, and it made so ashamed that it was like knives all over his body.
It smashed him. It killed him to think of that year, as season after season dragged on in indifference and he didn't have
the power to change anything that had happened. There were other girls, there'd been a handful, none of them had felt the
way that it had felt with Jade. He wondered what he'd done wrong that had caused everything to unfold the way that it had.
In the back of his mind he knew, in a dank corner where his last bit of honesty was still holed up. The answer was right there,
right in front of his face, along with his dysfunction and his insecurity. He knew... admitting it to himself was something
different.
He still wanted her. Jade, even now he still wanted her. He wanted her, it was painful. Jade. He loved Jade so much.
The time couldn't kill it; that inexorable scab on his conscience that refused to come off, no matter how many times it he
picked at it until it bled. Once there was Jade, there was never anyone else. He could list the other girls on his fingers;
the things they talked about, the smell of the perfume they wore, the sounds they made when he fucked them. It was nothing,
there was only ever Jade. The sex wasn't enough. It had never been enough for him. Sex was nothing compared to the personal
connection. He couldn't find someone that really clicked; Jade had been perfect. He loved everything she did, every word she
spoke, the burst of pleasure she gave him whenever they touched, the gasps between her moaning as they made love. He remembered
quiet afternoons in the fall, nothing to do, no where to go; they would lie in bed for hours, talking, alternately stubbing
cigarettes into the ashtray on the blanket between them. He cherished every second he spent with her. The coldness in the
end didn't matter, if anything it matched the contradictions...the heat and the cold of the season; life and death, passion
and resent.
Moody silence, the howl of wind against the barn. He'd closed the garage door behind him to keep the cold out, not like
it mattered. He could still see his breath, it was getting bitter out, the dying part of fall was starting to come through.
Most of the leaves were brown, now. The trees were all naked, save for furry evergreens that speckled the sides of the hills.
It was just as frigid in the garage as it was outside. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to start the engine, let it warm up. Months
of sitting is bad for an engine...Why not? The key was right there in the ignition. To let a car like this waste away is a
sin. He knew all the specs: the gear ratio, the wheelbase and the curb weight, the firing order, the valve clearance, the
horsepower that went to the tires. To let a car like this waste away is nothing, but a sin. Alright, sure, how can it hurt?
Let it warm up. 430 cubic inches will throw out a lot of heat; it would be good. It would warm his hands, and take the shudder
out of his breath.
He turned the ignition on and the dashboard flickered to life. He drew his lips into a line as he twisted the key and
started feathering the gas. One, two, three, she turned over and over, heaving like startled gasps. Weak battery, good engine,
though...He knew when it would be no use; right now the odds of getting it started were still good, he could feel it. He knew
the ticks and the oddities of that car like the nuances of a lover's personality. She would start, he knew; he could feel
it. He let go of the key and sat back in the seat. The churning of the engine died, and there was the eerie silence that always
follows an abrupt noise. Fumes trickled into the front seat, the distinct smell of unburned exhaust. One...two...three. He
turned the key one more time and tapped his foot on the accelerator. She heaved, then coughed, then slowly started to growl.
All at once, the Cougar came to life, just as brilliant as the last time he'd pulled it into the garage. He felt the vibration
of the engine through the steering wheel, it felt the same as always and it made him smile.
Those were the moments that he lived for: when something stirs you up so much that it makes your guts clench, like the
first instant rush as the roller coaster climbs past the top; sharp, sudden, strong. It was the only thing that reminded him
that he was real, that there was still blood in his veins, still air in his lungs and sensation in his fingertips. He leaned
back in the seat and closed his eyes. The sound of that engine rumbling... so familiar. He thought of Jade again. Jade. He
still loved her and it made him feel stupid, and guilty. He felt silly and immature. Maybe he didn't know what love was;
that was stupid to think, though. Even if he didn't, what he'd had with her had been the closest thing to it, and it had to
count for something. So what, it didn't matter, it was over and it would never happen again.
"All the insecurities, the wounds that seem so open and obvious... it's so hard to remember that no one can see
them. You have to constantly remind yourself that absolutely everyone feels the same way; nobody is without insecurity, and
it's so difficult, it's so hard to keep that in mind." Jade always put his thoughts into words. They both understood,
silently, they connected on such subtle levels. She was the one who could put it into words. He functioned more off of intuition.
He was happy to give a quiet nod to the mutual understanding that they shared. It was always good when she dictated, though,
it let them touch bases. She was wordy, quick and fluent. He was more contemplative, content to see things as they were and
accept them, without feeling compelled to paraphrase. They both knew, though. She was the color, the vibrancy and the action;
he was the backbone behind it, the calm reservoir of integrity and complexity that carried the two of them. She spoke, and
he felt; they both understood.
The heat kicked in and he wriggled out of his jacket. Big engine, good heat. He smelled some fumes, it was running a
little rich. He'd have to play around with the carburetor when the weather turned. Then again, it could just be the cold.
Cold, very cold outside, but warm in here, inside this car, with himself and his thoughts. The seat bathed him with his own
body heat, molded to his shape and hugged him, close. Safety, security, honesty; the feeling of sitting in that car... It
was the closest he came anymore to being truly content, like the walls just went down as soon as he closed himself inside.
He felt like he could be reached, he could reach others, like he could be a participant more than an observer. He felt like
he loved someone. Something told him they loved him back, but only when he closed the door and took a step away from everything
else; only when he was segregated, quarantined inside his mind. Then, only then, toiling over anything and everything that
could take him away. Anything that could distract him from the ubiquitous sense of unhappiness that choked the pleasure out
of everything he used to love.
He didn't talk to people anymore, not even his friends. They'd stopped calling him after a while. What was Jimmy up to?
And Ben, he hadn't seen Ben's face in weeks. He ignored everybody at work, not that he placed much value on a restaurant full
of sad stories, and the hollow, jaded failures that ended them. Working inside of that place teased the misanthropy out of
him, slowly, stinging little by little like picking a splinter with a needle... What was Jimmy up to? They hadn't talked since
they'd bumped shoulders at the gas station last week. He wondered how things were going between him and Vicky: they were fighting
the last he remembered. At least they had each other to fight with; the only thing he had was the miserable noose of remorse
and hatred inside his mind, where he hung limp, arrested for his inaction and killed for his cowardice. Everyday was a to-do
list of substances and self-prescribed sin. He had coke for breakfast, weed for lunch, and gin for dinner, the cigarettes
in between were snacks. His self-respect had dwindled away, slowly. He felt like a balloon, the kind that settles to the floor
the day after the party. Slowly, he was deflating, the energy was leaking out of him and he could tell that it was most definitely
of a finite source. Now, as he sat in his car, alone, in his garage, miles away from everyone and everything, he knew that
he was right. It was all gone, he was all used up. There was nothing left, just fumes: fumes in an empty tank. He rubbed his
temples and groaned. Funny, his head was starting to hurt. It would go away, just like the smell of the fumes had gone away
after he got used to it. Cinnamon-apple, cigarettes, and vinyl. He always thought it was clichéd to have a pine tree air
freshener dangling from the mirror. Whatever, he liked the smell, and at least it wasn't fuzzy dice. It was getting too hot,
now, so he turned down the heat and laid his head back again. The knobs on the heater were always kind of weird looking to
him, he didn't like them. He didn't like how they were big and clumsy with smooth edges, like a kid's toy. It's a 1971 Cougar,
a muscle car. It's a muscle car and the knobs look like they were made by Fisher-Price. They didn't light up, either. That
aggravated him. The radio still lit up, so did the dashboard and the instrument cluster, even the light under the hood came
on when he opened it. Why not the stupid climate control knobs? Maybe it was a fuse. The fuses, yeah, he hadn't checked them
in a while, there was probably a fuse out. That didn't make sense, though, that there would be a different fuse just for those
lights. Maybe the light bulb had gone out. That would be difficult to change. It was worth it for the Cougar, though, anything
for the cat. He loved that cat, he loved her and the way she purred when he treated her right.
Something was wrong. What was happening? Why was he meandering like that? He'd been brooding in silence for at least
the past half an hour, and now here he was delegating over the knobs on the instrument cluster. Something didn't feel right.
Something was wrong. His legs were starting to twitch, they wouldn't stop. His stomach clenched into a ball. Pain, poignant,
powerful, pain; tearing open his skull and firing through his body in rhythmic spasms. Phantom twitches, uncontrollable convulsions.
His chest hurt when he breathed. What was happening? Something was wrong He opened his eyes. He switched on the headlights,
and saw the cloud that surrounded the car. The entire garage was a clam bake. The exhaust fumes lingered on the floor, obscuring
the concrete like the fog that covers the surface of a pond in the early morning. The sound of the engine rumbling away, oblivious,
indifferent; steady, constant like the ticking of a clock. Jesus Christ, how long had it been running? Was he already dead?
Did he have time? He didn't have time. Good. It didn't matter, the Cougar didn't care, she just kept on running, the same
as always, just like the last time he'd seen her.
Turn it off! Turn the fucking engine off! No. Stay. Stay, and die. What the fuck difference does it make? Really, it
doesnt. It boils down to nothing in the end. You're born, if you're lucky you have a good time before you die. Everything
else is random, it's the lottery of existence. There's nothing else to it. You give yourself a push but the random shoves
you wherever it will. It took him no where, it gave him nothing, it left him empty and pathetic. It took her away, and he
couldn't make it without her. Jade. There was no one there to strike that blissful harmony. He was so strong, stolidly determined,
so passionate and committed in everything he did. He couldn't make it without her. She didn't care; she just kept on running,
oblivious, indifferent, unchanged. She still smelled the same. Every time he saw her she still smelled the same way, the same,
exact way, just like he remembered. He fooled himself into smelling her when she wasn't there. She smelled so good. Her waifish
frame and slender arms, her stomach, the curve of her waist; the smell of her hair when he kissed her forehead. Dirty blond,
her hair was so thin and frizzy it used to turn into dreadlocks when she didn't tie it up. The feeling of being inside her,
the way she'd wrap her legs around his waist. He couldn't forget the look of her face when he was on top of her, fucking her,
as close as any two human beings could ever be. He'd never get that back. If he couldn't have it, he didn't want any of it.
Open the door and get out.
No, stay, and die.
His arms were like lead; his body was a quivering mass of putty. He couldn't believe the way he was shaking. Turn it
off! Stop, no, stop; stay, die. Trembling like Parkinson's, stomach in knots. It was starting to get blurry, he couldn't see.
He started to cry. Heaving sobs in between sharp breaths of poison air. Get out. Get out of the garage. Turn the engine off!
No. He couldn't believe the pain, the twitching all over his body, every inch and crevice of his flesh. And nausea, sickening
nausea. His stomach was in a blender. Open the door, get out. Body like clay, muscles like putty, blood like paste, he was
already half gone. Open it, get out. Stay here with me. Something told him he was already dead.
Powerful convulsions now. Stomach cringing. He curled in half and heaved. Heave, heave, dry guttural retching. Acid in
his throat, splashing on the roof of his mouth. He couldn't hold it in. The clenching of his stomach seemed enough to break
his ribs as a wave of pink and yellow vomit rushed from his mouth and spilled down the steering column. The fucking smell.
He twisted into a knot, his entire abdomen was weak and burning from the convulsions. His face was flushed red, his eyes bloodshot.
More convulsions, more clenching and pain... then heaving. Heaving like a cat with a fur ball. He could feel the vomit as
it came up his throat. Wretch. It splashed down the front of his shirt, he hardly noticed as he was caught in a wave of tears
and memory. Everything was leaving him. Good. No. Get out, please. You're too good for this... you don't deserve it, please...
Jesus Christ, get out. No. No, stay here with me, don't leave me, I'm begging you... don't leave me here with no one else.
Hugging his knees to his face, he leaned against the door and continued to sob as the blackness in his periphery started
to spread across his field of vision. This was it, no more dying, no more hurting, no more misery. Just release, just peace,
and silence, and solitude. This is it! The big finish, the big ending. An entire lifetime leading up to this point: the mighty
culmination of a wasted existence. Life extinguished by volition. He struggled to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw
was the RPM needle on the dashboard, waggling up and down around the 1000 line. His eyes slowly shut, he forced them open
and glared at the tachometer. The Cougar kept running. His head bobbed forward and his muscles relaxed, slowly at first then
all at once. He slumped forward and his head came to rest on the steering wheel. The cougar kept running, the headlights gleamed
like the eyes of a cat. The rumbling of its engine was a snarl.
Written by Michael Terrizzi. 2007.
|
