The Sack

     I was shaking with anticipation when I arrived at the Voice the next day. I had a breakthrough scoop and proudly presented City’s story to Bud.
       Bud Smiley was truly old school. There was always a cigar butt in his mouth and a banker’s visor on his head. He sat at a desk with endless stacks of paper organized to his own method of cataloguing.
     As he read my story the cigar shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. Finished, Bud dropped City’s story on his desk and the butt came to rest on a purple spot on the right corner of his mouth. He looked at me from under the visor’s brim. With a nervous smile he said, “Kid, you’re fired.” Just like that. No emotion.
     Bud picked up my typewritten pages and neatly stacked them. He handed them to me, careful not to make eye contact.  He turned and picked up another story and proceeded to slash through it paragraph after paragraph with a red pencil, flipping from page to page, repeating the carnage in precise motions. At that moment I saw him as the Grim Reaper.
      I was paralyzed. My feet were lead. My feet, my stomach, and my brain seemed as if they were no longer part of the same body. I tried to talk but mainly I was drooling.
      “Hu..bu..uh..I” was the best I could get out.
      “I’m doing you a favor, Kid.” Bud said in a deadpan voice. “You know what kind of crap we’d get if I ran a story like that?”
      “But you told me…” Bud cut me off.
      “Yeah well I did say I had heard something about a cat,” he explained dryly. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t hear that…”
      “You wanted me to follow up on that rumor,” I exploded, and the entire newsroom stiffened. “You wanted the dirt on that damned artist and his weird gal pal. You wanted me…”
      “I wanted you to get off your ass,” he interrupted. “I didn’t want you
to make up a story that could get us fired. I’m saving both our asses.” He spun around in his oak swivel chair. “Don’t be so desperate for a story that you’ve got to make things up,” he said with finality. “Anyway, everybody knows cats can’t talk.” He was angry. “At least not yet and probably never in English.”
       I turned away from him, trying to stay upright. I meandered towards the door of the newsroom, trying not to trip over dustbins, typewriter carts or other editors. Over the hum of the newsroom I sensed that nobody dared to look up. Nobody did.
      I didn’t eat for three days. I doubt that I slept much. In my dark apartment I only remember feeling sorry for myself. Then one morning I woke up angry. I was angry at myself, at Bud, and especially at that damned cat.
      Before I knew what was happening, I found myself back at Greenwich and Perry Streets, stomping back and forth along the curb, daring the old mongrel to come out and face me. I yelled his name over and over. I must’ve seemed demented. I probably was. People tried not to stare as they passed, shaking their heads in disbelief.
       I sat on the curb and wept. A cab pulled up and an oddly dressed couple opened the door to get in. Their eyes were bloodshot. They looked down at me in a combination of disgust and sympathy.  
       The man, a Latino-looking character, was nattily dressed in a black cape. The woman’s clothes were an amalgam, seemingly from all over the world. Her face appeared simultaneously exotic and plain. He tried to say something to me. She just shook her head and climbed in the cab.
       The man looked back as if taking one last look. He pointed his chin at a gate that led to a garden behind the building. I looked over my shoulder, and when I turned back the cab was gone.
       In the garden was a large tree, wind gently swaying its upper branches.  At the base of the tree was a remarkably well-tended garden. A woman was on her knees, carefully arranging something. She stood up, and I could see she had placed a tiny red and yellow skateboard at the base of a small but well-designed wooden headstone.
         In bold letters painted to resemble carving in relief it said,

                                                                         CITY
                                                                  1961 – 1981
                                                  Lived as an artist. Died a City Cat.
                                                          Damn those yellow taxis.
                                                                     All our love,
                                                        Rafael, I Am the Best Artist
                                                                             &
                                                                          Lupe


       The gardener absently wiped her hands and under her breath I could just barely hear her say, “Godspeed.” She had a bit of a start when she sensed me standing behind her.
       “When?” I asked.
       “Last night, I mean this morning, early. He would cross the street to chase rats along the piers. I guess he was just too old to dodge the cabs.” She stopped and placed the knuckle of her right forefinger in her mouth, biting it.
        “Uh, those people who just left, were they Rafael and Lupe the crazy…” I stopped myself not, wanting to say the wrong thing. Allowing only a faint smile she nodded. I don’t know how long I stood there.
       I’ll never know if that old muggie could really talk but I think his story is one for the ages. A story we can all take stock of and keep in our hearts. To know that ceramic Dutch boys, Cracker Jack ducks, Russian dolls and city cats can find love and a place for themselves in our crazy world….
       Damn, whom am I kidding?  Cats can’t talk.

       J.C. Kid, 1982