Devotchka: How It Ends from Bridger Nielson on Vimeo.

Lunch Will Be Served

by Eleanor Lerman

Just when you think that you are
on the road to success and the
medications have calmed down
your wife, plus a big sale at
the foodstore means that you
can finally buy your cat a
decent meal—that's when
you get the news that it's time
to stare calamity in the face

And what a face: it comes
at you like a speeding pie
It has three eyes. It was created
by an overdose of nuclear
radiation. It's cunning knows
no bounds. Meaning, now
you are going to pay for something
you did in a past life, or didn't
do or should have thought
about doing. If you even rated
a past life. If not, then these are
just the normal ups and downs
Which do you think is worse?

Anyway. A procession of ghosts
will carry your pencil box
down to the office from which
you will never be allowed
to retire. Lunch will be served,
but all you can expect is
a bag of blood and transfat:
In other words, to rub it in,
even the cat will get a better deal

Meanwhile, the universe remains
an incomprehensible wheel of
grave attraction. Fish, swans,
and archers lie in each other's
starry embrace while dark particles
have been driving by your house
all day in their neutrino cars,
in a hurry to do a job that will
never be revealed to us. And in
some versions of this story,
the cat has magical powers
Oh my God, you say. I had no idea

Well, now you do. In fact,
in some versions of this story,
beings of faith and light
are in the kitchen, dancing
with your wife. Then your
friends arrive, still lugging
around their own dilemmas,
hoping you will feed them
from the common pot, like
in the old days. And as tired
as you are, you think you can

On a hot July night as those games were in full swing I laid in bed perhaps sleeping, perhaps just trying. I was back at my parents house. After graduating from college, there I was again back at the folks house on Long Island. My older brother was in the same boat. Having separated from the military he too was back to finish up college. We lived in a large 5 bedroom house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. It had been a wonderful place to be a kid. We could play in the street, had a neighborhood full of other kids and always a few watchful parental eyes on our safety. It was, unfortunately, less than ideal for two well-traveled men in their 20’s. My parents slept on the second floor, while my brother and I were both on the ground floor. He in the front bedroom and me in an adjacent room with door to the backyard.

Around midnight, maybe even later, I heard the faint cries of a kitten. Not a constant mewling, but an intermittent meow. Not a terribly unusual sound to hear in the suburbs, so I didn’t have much of a reaction. The sporadic cry continued and I just threw a pillow over my head and went to sleep. I awoke a short time later to the sounds of a commotion in the front yard.
My brother was shouting “Shut the hell up you stupid cat” .
I heard running, more shouting then the sound of rocks hitting the neighbor’s picket fence. I sprang out of bed, out the back door, around the house and into the front yard to find my brother firing rocks into a dense shrub along the fence.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked in a hushed voice fully aware of the late hour.
“I’m gonna kill that god damn cat, It’s annoying the hell out of me” he replied.
“No you’re not. Get back inside, I’ll handle this.” I demanded.
“Allright, but I better not hear that stupid thing anymore” he retorted.

He could tell from both the look in my eyes and my stance between he and the shrub that if one more rock were thrown I would start firing back. He went back inside. I slowly approached the shrub and got down on all fours.
“Thut Thut Thut… come on out” I whispered while rubbing my thumb across my fingers.
Again and again I repeated the call. Finally after a few minutes I heard the little yelp again. By now my eyes had fully adjusted to the semi-darkness. It doesn’t ever really get dark on Long Island anymore. Even at 2am you can still practically read a book outside due to the ambient light reflected down from the sky. Add in a few street lights and its almost stadium lighting. A few more whispers and finger rubbing were responded to with a plaintive meow. Then I finally caught a glimpse of the light reflected in two yellow eyes. The front paws and face on the ground began to inch towards me. I whispered and coaxed some more, then extended my hand as far in as I could. He continued to inch forward until finally his soft wet nose met the tip of my finger then withdrew. We each held our positions for a few moments after that. Me prone with my arm extended and he also belly on the ground eyes locked to mine.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not gonna hurt you” I whispered and finally he came out into the light. He was a scrawny orange tabby, shivering with dread. As I began to stroke his cheek I could feel the fear in him, his little heart racing. I continued to pet him and speak to him in my most soothing voice. When I finally gathered him up in my arms he offered only the slightest resistance more out of unfamiliarity with being held than fear of me. I remember in that moment feeling a sense of pride that once again the cat master had shown his dominion over felines. In minor moments of megalomania I truly believe that I have the ability to command the feline species. Maybe its because I’m a Leo, but I’ve always had an affinity with and affection for cats. And so I took this new minion for my four-legged army into my room.

My bedroom also doubled as the laundry room. One of the many petty humiliations suffered by those of us unfortunate enough to have to move back in with the parents is to find out what’s been done with our rooms in the years of absence. At this moment though it came in handy. I put him in a large laundry basket wrapped in a blanket and went upstairs for some food and water. We already had a cat. A beautiful black female cat that we simply called Girl had been slinking around our house for years so we had plenty of food and treats on hand. After returning with the fare I commenced a thorough examination of my newfound friend. What struck me most were these amazing front paws of his. He was a six-toed cat with two all white front paws that looked like little hands. He walked with his paws facing outward and the extra toes like thumbs facing inward. It reminded one of a little bulldog. Over the years he would exhibit several canine traits. He had a strange little bark when he was happy. He panted under his thick fur when hot. He would follow my mom around as she did chores and we just knew he would help if he could. He was very aware of how special his paws were. Most cats won’t let you touch their paws, but he let me hold them and examine them for quite a long time. A cat with paws that special needed a name that reflected greatness and dexterity. I immediately thought of Vitali Sherbo.

The name didn’t quite stick. Everyone just wound up calling him Boy. I kept him in my room for a few days before introducing him to the rest of the family. We already had a cat and I wasn’t sure how another would be received. My brother was pissed. He’s not exactly an animal lover and had in fact tried to kill this one just a few days ago. My father was not particularly pleased either. Another mouth to feed and I didn’t have a job so was not exactly in a position to be adding burdens. My mother knew as soon as I told the story of how he came to us crying in the night that I had no choice. She immediately fell in love with him. She was concerned, however, at how Girl would react.

Eventually we all grew to love the little fella. They weedle their way onto our hearts these little creatures and we are defenseless to their charms. After a year or so it was time to get him fixed. He had been getting into fights and was coming home bloody and bruised. I protested against it. I liked his as kicking nature and thought that those magnificent hands should be extended in the feline gene pool. I still think I was right. Years later he was shot with a BB gun in the gut. He barely made it home alive and my mom rushed him to the hospital. By this time I had moved away and only saw him on the occasional visit home. The Vet said he would only live for a short time after that. Then he had another intestinal surgery with a a worse prognosis.

Ten years later he was still thriving. I last saw on a visit home two summers ago. He was fat and happy. He had slept at the foot of my mother’s bed each night for the last 15 years. My father called me on 5/12/11.
I answered “Hey Dad… What’s up?”
“Hey Boy” from the other end.
“Hey what’s up?” I said again. Silence
“Are you there?’ I asked. Long pause.
“Yes I’m here.” Long pause again. “Boy died today” he said choking on tears.
He hadn’t suffered much at the end. He had kidney failure and thyroid condition. He had lost two-thirds of his body weight over the last couple of weeks. The last day he took a tumble down the stairs and died shortly thereafter at home. He was loved and will be missed.