One Silver Cat, Two Bullets, And A Face

[fiction]

“I dont think he thinks much about that. Being lonely that is.”

—Rochelle González

She called me Daddy, but I didnt raise her. Another thing I have in common with her father. Out of sight.

Her ex-husband, senator Franklyn R. Colt, had law inside his pocket and the trite control kink that comes with the trope enlarged his ego to lengths that made Alejandra request my services. Nothing major had happened, other than having to shake one or two off our tail. I knew that would change.

Below a grandiose double set of twin stairs laid a turned off fountain, a smaller replica of the Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial. In my hand is a remote controller for a vibrating plug I Doordashed and Im buzzing her into Agartha as she speaks to a group of five engineers. Im out of her line of sight. The room’s filled with chitter-chatter and clanking cups and glasses, clear ice melting inside rock glasses, thick glasses on thin faces, fat faces. With a glassy glaze her gaze goes from the group and back onto me. I smiled and said, Anything I can help you with? then pressed the button two times to alternate the vibration. To change the pattern.

We were out of town at a convention. Inside an enormous sala with marbled arches and painted domes adorned with neoclassic images. Her: networking, hunting. Me: her security. Private. We played our roles all while playing a game between ourselves. But who preyed on who? She asked if I could get a hold of Perez. Of course, I said and clicked the toy off on command. On my periphery a shade dashed past and hid behind a set of columns. I dont know why I thought of a cat. I walked towards the columns, between the old men, and the jocks in suits soon to be old men, when from amidst the moving crowd—I saw her, the cat was not a cat it was a woman with silver hair in a black dress and she moved quick and out of sight. The fountain activated and sprung on.

I turned around: Alejandra wasnt there: I looked to the bar—my phone vibrated, a message: Outside, called a ride. Come.

We would spend nights together tethered. For her to physically shrink between my arms was the ultimate cosmic joke for it was me who transformed into the size of a pea when in her embrace. We spent that night at the West Virginia Motel, the owner was from Tennessee. Inside room 107 we watched an obscure short film Alejandra casted from her phone. Obscure because I dont recall her mentioning the director, and there’s no credits in the film.¹

Maybe he forgot about us. About me. Maybe he now has someone new. Someone he can fixate on, Alejandra said.

Maybe is being half a step into the precipice. Maybe is not enough. Maybe you finally let me take care of it. My way. No maybes.

Her silence—all I wanted.

I dont tend to smoke weed, but that night, I took some hits from Alejandra’s joint. Followed the smoke and thought of what a friend of mine once said about Finding your place is imperative. He said he read it in a book, someone called Castaneda.

I dont know, Ale, but this movie is pointless. I rather watch a tree grow in real time. At least I know itll give me shade, or fruit, or both.

Or none. Have you thought about that? Alejandra said.

The movie continued to play and she continued to watch. You know you dont have to understand it to enjoy it, right? You dont have to get it.You dont have to get everything. How does it make you feel?

Uncomfortable, I said.

Right, and why is that? You dont have to tell me.

Later that night I played Maruja’s Resisting Resistance. It rained outside. Inside I poured myself in her. Or we poured our selves into each other. Like overflown cups on a server tray.

I could hear the wet road outside and ongoing vehicles added a layer of texture that signaled wrongness the moment it went silent. I heard gunshots but they came from the television.

Can you turn that fucking movie off.

I turned the lights off and walked to the front window. Approached it from the side. We were on the second floor.

What’s wrong? Alejandra asked. You dont think—

The sound of multiple feet rushing upstairs cued me and by the time I saw a shadow under our door block the light from the hallway my finger was on the trigger ready to let my puppy bark on them all. From the pace and the tapping they had to be at least four—no five, one was a woman. Her heels stood out from what I bet were boots. Those steps were cement heavy.

Voices—a language I couldnt pick. They went inside the room next door. I peeked from the side of the window: a white van with an orange tag hanging from the rearview: it’s parked next to the office. That could be good or it could mean that theyre here for us. Deep pockets exist in deeper networks.

What do you want to do? You want to stay?

Im not going to be able to sleep. I want to leave.

There was a frame of the protagonist holding a crooked cigarette on the tv. Loud banging came from next door. Loud arguing and I thought they were Albanian. If true it’s nothing I should worry about. But Alejandra wanted to leave. She called another ride and we went to a hotel next to the airport.

Next morning I woke up and she was gone. Out of sight. I knew it would happen, not when, but I knew. One would say I expected that to be the outcome. I could go back to Ginsberg, Illinois. Had enough to open an office or not. That’s when I heard the three knocks.

Room service—said a voice with a Balkan accent, the door opened and the shiny black muzzle of a pistol poked in.

My pup was out of reach but Peppa’s always on me. Two, three, fourfive loud pops ripped through the wall inside the room and I crouched and pulled her from my ankle holster and tapped once and saw the head pop and color the side of the wall and the body fell opening the door entirely: revealing one, pop, two, pop, three, pop, four, pop, pop, pop.

One of the bullets ricocheted off somewhere and I got hit on the waist. Covered it with my hand and—

Standing—the woman with silver hair shot me in the clavicle once and twice in the face. Last thing I saw was an orange flash to white—Alej—all I taste is sour. But I could hear everything. I refused to die.

Dito, poor boy. Yes, I didnt mean to. I dont know, make it look like a suicide. Framing him wont make sense now. Gotta go. I hear sirens, said the voice of the woman.

I heard the paramedics. One of them said DOA but another found a pulse. They put me on the gurney. I knew what I was involved in and I wasnt scared then and even less now. What mattered was Ale. I failed her.

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There’s a crooked cigarette pinched between a broken nook of the glass ashtray on top of the night-table next to Ruy Ramos. He received a message that read: I need your help finding a woman and her child. Her name is Rochelle González. Covered in bandages, Ruy’s eyes were the only visible feature.

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1. 43rd and California runs gray. The road’s surface hums in strange intervals, sometimes it’s silent for years. Today it hums. Broken yellow painted stripes on the pavement and houses rotting with shades of red and blue—projecting from the sour sirens that spin on top of the patrol car; I advert my eyes from the Law and feel how one of the officers’ stare, scans me carmine-red. My ears warm and the shape of the gun in his holster deafens me. So I clear my throat and from the other side of the sidewalk shoot a glance—An old woman, a mother, cries with no sound, from inside the house—A glint of stairs tastes death-sweet between my teeth—”Thanks fer yer service, office’,” I say, nodding a dry smile. Slushed blackened snow covers what until last night looked green, grass now drowned in solid water. Wind bends like aluminum foil; the violent swooshes shining silver set my teeth on edge, legs shaking with my hands inside my pockets as I wait for the bus under the California sign.

I’m now across from the officers, with the one, still staring at my frozen mug. Fragile fences, most of them bent near or in the middle, line the block with their rusted body. Down the steps of the two story row-house two houses to the left from the crying mother, a chihuahua defecates on the bottom steps of the entrance, inches from the snowed lawn. I swipe my tongue over my teeth and I can still taste death, the rotten sweetness clinging from my canines. Do I have my headphones with me? That will make me look less suspicious, I think pulling my backpack upfront, searching inside—Nice. Down 43rd, facing east, a woman walks her dog—a great dane—she wears only one glove, her face flushed and so are her eyes.

Raffraff, raff, raffraffraff,raff, the chihuahua barks. Carried by the breeze a wave of wet soft feces smacks my face and a silver gulp lodges in my throat, so I turn to the woman walking her dog—but as I did my eyes caught the officer’s, and I retched. Dammit, does he think I’m retching because of him? I avoid raising my view, cold creeps around the back of my neck, like someone blowing softly, a whisper. Francisco Tárrega’s Sueño plays, and my surroundings pop into a second life. From my right—a shadow—the dog’s pushing forward as its owner pulls back—stretching the leash tense. She’s mouthing something, maybe talking to the dog, her eyes are as open as the barking dog’s snout. Like none of that’s happening, I ignore it and give a quick glance north to see if the bus is coming—but nothing. Woman with the dog waves, frantic; so I pull my headphones down—RarRarRar RarRar RarRarRar Rar—Hey, are you deaf?—The police officer’s calling you; Rocco, stop!—RarRarRar—Rocco kept barking, at first I thought to the cop, but no, it’s at the chihuahua that—Raffraff, Raffraff—barked back. My legs are feather light and the back of my head flashes orange before my eyes and I can’t stop myself from not moving and not a thought but a smell—of butterscotch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Officer, I didn’t kno—,” and then I open my eyes—Was it all a dream? I look at my phone No notifications, 1:45pm. Time looks colorless but I can taste lamb shoulder from that forty-five. Should I get some delivery? What, though? Aha, a text: Your bank account ending with the numbers: 0483, has a balance of… No delivery. Not today. Skin’s covered in sweat, I can hear it peel from the bed sheets—ffffllpph. Faint orange beats on the back of my head—Sirens—I look out the window—Hoods outside chuckle and playfully push each other crossing the street—Faces covered they run down 43rd. One of the kid’s carrying; my left ear goes silent. Gloom crashes through the window glass and falls on Ottis’ purring bluish-gray furball of a body. His body always purrs to me, I’ve asked friends before, nobody hears it, unless he’s “really purring,” whatever that means. There’s a stale funk bombing outwards from the dirty pile of clothes on the east corner of my room. Fast fashion has led me on a buy-new-clothes-and-forget-about-the-dirty one-kick. Fashion, Ha, the thought of it tastes like orange juice, when it’s good it’s like it has pulp. When it’s cheap it’s almost chemical. Comical.

It’s 1:54pm and it feels like I’ve been awake since 5am and the joke turns cosmic-blue, heavy on the cosmic; light on the blue. Rotating, I sit on the edge of the bed, “Helen, play Roads by Portishead.” The bass rolls up my spine and my eyes well, and my mouth goes sharp sweet, slicing through my gums, and I wince, tears dripping down my crow’s feet. Some people say tears taste like the sea see that’s the thing, some say we all carry a sea inside us and if that’s true then most people’s sea dries with time and others have lakes that drain . That’s why watching it crash and recede to crash again, is so calming. It isn’t sweet, like nothingness by death, but it is a kind of nothingness that comforts, and I guess some would find that to be sweet on its own. Using the palm of my hands I brush them off. Maybe if I go down to Harry’s and get some fried food I’ll trick my brain into some type of gold nostalgic episode. The stream continues to cascade, and my chest trembles and my teeth chatter with the orange growing larger in the back of my head, behind my eyes but as long as I can’t taste it, dealing with the pain is something I can manage. From outside I can hear the road hum gray. Several shots break like a thunderstorm less than a block west from here. Each shot flashes orange; the pounding in my head intensifies: “Hey, are you deaf?” My mouth sours and I stretch it to no relief, not being able to hear anything after registering the sound of the shots fired. Portishead’s keys break in a royal-blue through the mist that clouds my mind’s vision, deafening me as well in the process.

Yes, I think it’s best if I go and take the bus in California and head to Harry’s. I could do a three piece with a large soda. But all I have is this stale crooked cigarette.

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Thanks for looking out.