There Is No Poop In This Story So You Can Read It Aloud To A Grandma If You Want

by David Sticher, Nonfiction Editor

Yesterday, I was, in some ways, a dick.

The morning began early--too early--when I awoke at 8:45 after maybe two good hours of sleep. I've been keeping the worst hours for the worst reasons. Bed by 6, up by 2, just to read Cioran, watch Buffy, and doggedly masturbate to pictures of various celebrities.

Got a vet appointment at 11. Cat's had a cold for months. Kitten's had a cold for months, more like. But a few months old, and his name is Brad Pitt. Tuxedo cat. Jellicle cat. Pubescent. His little hazy balls loom ominous in my dreams--when will he start spraying?--hopefully, never. I've taken too long to find and commit to a new vet, ever since the old one turned out to be lazy and unnerving. So, this appointment is important, especially since the cat's snottier than ever today. All sorts of wheezing and sucking and sticky spiderwebs on the couch of green cat glumph.

Snooze, awake, snooze, awake, snooze, and eventually it's 10:30 and there's no way I'll get there in time. I call a car service, but even an extra few minutes late will throw the doctor off-track, says the vet's secretary as I hedge my bets. Change the appointment to 3, she says, and so I do. The car comes anyway. I apologize and tip him for the ride he never takes me on.

I've also got a new apartment, but not quite. It's still the crisis point. We haven't signed a lease yet. Big Jake the roommate tumbles into the house from the night shift, rummages around, and then leaves to sign the lease for the broker for the new apartment.

I'm alone, exhausted, and shiftless. I read more Cioran. I read some papers. The cat wheezes and slurps in a depressing pile. I semi-nap in a daydream until I'm almost too late again. So I call the car service again. I try to cram Brad into the cat carrier, but he sticks out his legs to prevent his entrapment. Fine, then. I put him in the huge, less fashionable carrier and wait outside. The cat wheezes in confusion, coughing up a stray miau.

The car arrives.

"Do you have water?"
"What?"
"You can put him in the back."


He points to the trunk.

"Uh, no, I'll keep him here."
"Water?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Water?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Water?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You've got a case."

Pause.

"What?"
"You have a cat, no problem."
"Um, yes. I'm going to the vet."
"Where you go."
"Christopher Street and Waverly. It's in the West Village."
"Manhattan, Brooklyn?"
"That's Manhattan."
"Manhattan, you tell me where to go. No problem. Williamsburg Bridge?"
"Yes, go over the Williamsburg Bridge to Manhattan."
"Williamsburg?"
"Well, over the bridge."
"Williamsburg is Brooklyn. No problem."
"Take the bridge to Manhattan. West Village."
"Williamsburg?"
"Bridge. Take the bridge."

Pause.

"Do you speak Spanish?"
"I'm truly sorry. French?"

Pause. This is what I get for learning the pretentious language, I think.

"You tell me to go. No problem."

And so he drove in a random walk to the Williamsburg Bridge and over it, and we had many more misadventures about how to get to the West Village, which he'd never heard of. Nor, apparently, the direction "west" itself. He did offer to take me to Alphabet City, which was nice of him, albeit not useful.

I had other things on my mind. Distressed by the strange people and motions--as well as his own surfeit of mucus, both dried and liquid--the cat had begun to violently sneeze in all directions. The herky-jerky motions of the cab had flung the snot to all corners of the cage, and the angle at which the cage sat--which was not a right angle--encouraged the cat to slide around and cover his body in the discharge.

Shortly afterwards, somewhere on Canal Street, Brad Pitt had also begun to defecate prodigiously in shuddering spasms of fear. Tan pools of shit lined the floor of his cage as I could only look on in horror. The cabbie's driving became more erratic as the smell and my own foul mood caused him to panic, leaving the poor cat to spin in circles on a thin-to-moderate layer of his own fecal matter dotted with light green blobs of snot.

We cracked windows. The cabbie threw me a newspaper, in case the cat should spread the wealth. The cat, meanwhile, became nervous and disgusted at his accomplishments, as at first he foamed in distress, and then he began to vomit his breakfast all over the shit and the snot.

We reached the vet. The cabbie had said "no problem" approximately 50 times during our journey, but his last mention of the phrase was the most poignant, as he indicated that I need not tip him generously for his less-than-stellar livery style. I tipped him normally, taking pity on his having to smell my cat's body fluid soup, and left.

The vet visit goes well. Everyone likes his name--"Brad Pitt, ha ha!" --and everyone respects his stench--his vessel--the cauldron of vomit, feces, urine, and snot that I use to keep my animals fresh. The cat looks perfectly healthy aside from the cold, says the vet, and he's prescribed antibiotics to take care of that, such that after that he can get neutered, and then after that rabied and leukemiaed and whatevered else it takes to keep a cat healthy and wise.

It's raining when I leave. I wander the streets with an outstretched hand, looking desperately for a cab to take me back. After Brad's earlier performance, I fear the subway. They hosed out the cage, but it still smells septic, and Brad's still a little poo-stained from the whole ordeal. It's unpleasant. I wander through the West Village, finding no free cabs. It's the changeover time.

I get back into the regular city grid. Two stereotypical gay guys with matching terriers. Old folks. I walk past a model-looking woman in asymmetrical boots. She looks annoying.

I stick out my arm, looking as pathetic and eager to tip as I possibly can.

"Excuse me, sir?"

I turn around and it's the booted woman. I hope she's going to compliment my cat.

"What you're doing is extremely rude."

I stare at her in confused hate.

"What?"
"I was here first. What you're doing is extremely rude."

Give me a fucking break. She'd wanted a cab. I had started walking with an open arm down the street.

I shake my head with a disbelieving grin. I'm not even trying to be creepy--I just can't think of anything to say.

"Sir! Sir! That was extremely rude!"
"HAHAHAHA."

I walk back up the block. She outstretches her arm for a taxi. Then, I hairpin back around. I walk directly up to a cab letting someone off at the beginning of the block, and we drive off. I pass by the woman and she doesn't even look at me. I hope she enjoys hating me, because I have a great deal of fun knowing she's an idiot.

Karma hit. Stuck in traffic on the way to the bridge, the cabbie exclaimed that we would not hit my place before he had to change over at 4:30. I responded with a confident "UMMMM."

So, naturally, he left the car in the middle of stopped traffic to talk to a cabbie a few cars down, to see if he would take me. No dice.

"I can't go to Brooklyn now."
"You said you would."
"I'm sorry, but I can't."
"I have an appointment at 5 to meet with my broker. You've only made me more late."
"Could you just take the subway? I could take you to a subway station."
"Beuh. I take the L. We'll have to go back up anyway."
"It's still faster for me. I have to change over at 4:30."
"Fine, but I'm not paying."
"Yes, you will."
"No, I won't."
"Five dollars."
"I have to change over."
"You should have said so before you agreed to take me."

I eye the Taxi Rider's Bill of Rights at the part where it claims I must be taken anywhere I'd like within NYC. Luckily, I don't have to continue the argument further, and luckier still, the ride is, indeed, for free. I wish him good day and vanish into the subway.

There, some quiet. A child admires my cat, and wonders why I carry him all the time. He's right. So, I put him down on the ground and relax for a bit.

At the broker's--late--I sign the lease. She talks about a plastic horse she has bought from the Salvation Army, which she insists that I inspect. ("It's made in the USA! How rare!") Her dog sniffs my crotch for a good, long while.

A good, good, long, long while.

On the subway ride back I listen to the new NIN album. It's good, and would have made for a mind-blowing EP. "Only," "Beside You In Time," and "Right Where It Belongs" are highlights. It's funny how NIN remain to be my favorite band. They saved my life when I was a teenager, and even when they're not perfect, it still seems awesome to me.

I come home and decompress. I dunk the cat in water and clean his cage. His cold clears up. I eat dinner. My one roommate Mike goes out. My other roommate Big Jake goes to work. I fall asleep.

I stay in and watch Buffy. I weep during "The Body," because I am a nerd. Or maybe not. It's Bergmanesque and Lynchian and whatever else, and probably the best cinematic depiction of death I may have ever seen.

I play with the cat. I read. I talk to Big Jake via IM.

And now I write this.

Just before I started to write down my day, the cat sat on my chest for a good long while. No longer sniffly and over the traumatizing events of the day, he was a little love bunny. It's funny how he attacks everyone else, but treats me with something resembling not-wanting-to-murder. I mean, he's much better now, but still. He's a far from perfect animal. But he's still very much my cat, and the closest thing I have to a concrete accomplishment from this past year.

At least, so it seems, sometimes.

I dunno. His weird and hostile nature strikes a chord with me. Maybe it's just because I raised him. Maybe it's because neither of us are neutered. Maybe it's something to do with that magic ruby that makes us switch out bodies every so often.

I dunno.

Nonetheless, after solitary days like today, sometimes it's nice to end with a moment of connection, even if it is vague, fleeting, and to the Poop, Snot, and Vomit King.