Before the age of eighteen, I had already suffered several license suspensions. During the Autumn of my seventeenth year I had just gotten my driving privileges back after what then seemed to be a lengthy duration to go without driving. One of my first drives, after legally being able to do so again, had been a trip to Cleveland, Ohio to see my cousin. Cleveland is considerably larger than the place I call home. It’s more densely populated. Its streets are therefore frequented by police more than I’m accustom. I guess it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when I found myself being closely followed by a cruiser soon after entering the city limits. But… It did. In fact, having been conditioned to expect trouble from the police, I could hardly take my eyes off the rearview mirror.
Damn! I was sick of being pulled over; sick of tickets; sick of the courtrooms. The temperature of my forehead began to rise as miniscule beads of perspiration were seeping from beneath my skin. Suddenly, breathing had become a chore and my chest drummed a heart-stressing conga rhythm. I tried to clear my throat, |
tried to swallow the invisible lump of gravel that accumulated therein since the arrival of my tailgater. My eyes were performing a frantic routine: My speedometer… The road… The rearview… My speed, again… The yellow lines ahead of me… The lights on the car roof behind me… The bright orange needle within my dashboard, hovering at 35 mph… The asphalt ahead… The bastard apparently attached to my rear bumper.
Maybe it was suicide. Maybe it was an accident, sheer stupidity, or a case of a bad kittenhood. But, for whatever reason, by the time my eyes made it back to the “road” portion of their routine… There stood a cat, already too close to my car’s route to be avoided. “Fump-tih-tih-thump”, went the creature’s body as it flopped and tumbled about beneath the underbody of my Honda.
By this time, I had been outright panicking; sweating profusely. I watched as the cop’s car swerved to avoid the carnage I’d just created. I watched as the lifeless row of flashers became animated. My pursuer, passive until then, had become a pulsating tantrum of light, color, and sound. I no longer felt nervous. My panic subsided; only sickness remained. My rearview mirror seemed to undulate in blue and red. I felt green. Defeat washed over my body as I coasted to a stop alongside a row of mailboxes near the shoulder of the road.
Maybe it was suicide. Maybe it was an accident, sheer stupidity, or a case of a bad kittenhood. But, for whatever reason, by the time my eyes made it back to the “road” portion of their routine… There stood a cat, already too close to my car’s route to be avoided. “Fump-tih-tih-thump”, went the creature’s body as it flopped and tumbled about beneath the underbody of my Honda.
By this time, I had been outright panicking; sweating profusely. I watched as the cop’s car swerved to avoid the carnage I’d just created. I watched as the lifeless row of flashers became animated. My pursuer, passive until then, had become a pulsating tantrum of light, color, and sound. I no longer felt nervous. My panic subsided; only sickness remained. My rearview mirror seemed to undulate in blue and red. I felt green. Defeat washed over my body as I coasted to a stop alongside a row of mailboxes near the shoulder of the road.
I couldn’t remember doing it, I must have -sometime during my panic- fastened my seatbelt. The officer, snatching the rectangular plastic from my hand, barely looked at my license. For all he knew (or seemed to care) I could of handed him a library card instead. I began to speak, “I didn’t think I were spee-”. He cut me off in mid-sentence. “You even aware that you hit a cat back there!?”, he barked; his words were heavily saturated in genuine distress.
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I remember my delayed reaction… I was processing his apparent love of cats.
He was impatiently tapping my I.D. against the half inch of window protruding from my car door. Trying to remain calm (or, at least, look like it), in spite of the officer’s obvious agitation. I acknowledged the dead cat. The two of us agreed, much to my relief, there was little I could do about hitting it. The thing was though, he insisted I not leave its body sprawled out in the middle of the street. And, to make matters worse, he was intent on making me inform the owner…. If the owner could be determined.
As I look back on this adventure, some 20 years later, I can’t help realizing it would have been different if I had been a confident, respect-inspiring adult at the time. I mean, I can’t imagine someone, law enforcement or otherwise, successfully putting me through the following madness today… Anyway, I digress. Back to the story.
I exited my car, leaving it windows-down and unlocked in total confidence it were immune to public violation as there, not a car length away, waited a particularly diligent cat-loving police officer. As I walked towards the now-lifeless mound of fur that -moments earlier- had been a jutting bolt of ginger, orange, white, and whiskers, I prayed (yes, PRAYED) with all the fervor of any foxhole Christian. I prayed that if the cat weren’t actually a stray it at least wouldn’t have a collar. I approached the body.
Before me laid a twisted mess of damp muscle, exposed, shattered bones (freckled with blood and other miscellaneous fluids). The beast’s fur (that which hadn’t been turned inside-out) was marred and all-adorn in road grime from the underbody of my car. A wonderfully heinous site actually in terms of horror-appreciation. Nonetheless, the discovery amidst the mangled pile of cat which inspired the most disgust had been the presence of a small nylon strap upon which were affixed an even smaller pair of metal polygons. Engraved (with what felt like my epitaph at the time) on one of the condemnatory rectangles were the words: “Samson” 925 W. Market Street.
I still, twenty years later, remember the cat’s name and address. My eyes made a quick jump to where I had left my car. The cop was still there, watching me intently. I felt I had little choice… I had to return the mess to its home. I was ON Market street and, judging from the mailboxes, |
925 had been a mere house or two from my location. Samson or, should I say, what used to be the cat named Samson, still was in one piece. It’s just that “piece” had been radically reconfigured. Its tail, relatively free of the offal that had become the rest of its body , made for an adequate handle. As I carried Samson by his tail (as far from myself as my arm could manage) he looked more akin to a mentally deranged artist's mobile than he did a member of felis genus.
I remember wondering if his owners sometimes called him “Sammy”.
Liquids, some dark and sinewy; others, less colorful and extremely thin, pattered from the discrepancies I put in Samson.
I remember wondering if his owners sometimes called him “Sammy”.
Liquids, some dark and sinewy; others, less colorful and extremely thin, pattered from the discrepancies I put in Samson.
Photo is representation of actual event. Photo originally from the motion picure "Fight Club"; property of 20th Century Fox & Regency Enterprises.
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The few moments I spent at 925 West Market are an experience I will never forget… It were a dingy two-story house with siding that had begun to surrender to nature years ago. Apparently, the property were a victim of humanity’s most simplistic vice… Neglect. The concrete steps leading up to the front porch, where I deposited Samson’s remains, were crumbling and uneven. Where once installed had been a doorbell, only a pair of wires hung (heavily entangled by a long-abandoned spider’s web). The screen door, its mesh hanging tattered in an unpainted weathered frame, was unable to close properly due to some kind of apparent hinge damage.
Again I made a quick assessment of the cop’s attention; it were still entirely on me. Forcing myself to knock was a challenge similar -I imagine- to wrestling a loaded crack-stem away from a fiending addict, but eventually, my knuckles intermittently rapped |
upon the addressed listed on Samson’s tags. The possibility that no one were home suddenly washed over me in celebration. I told myself I’d wait for a response the entirety of thirty breaths (which in my excited state wouldn’t take long).
Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen…
I could detect motion from within the shadowy unknown territory within. An egg materialized in my throat. My fifteenth breath couldn’t be drawn. My heart didn’t bother beating, it was waiting to see what would happen next. The door opened. The odor that came meandering out complimented the man that appeared. One could reproduce the odor, if one so desired…
Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen…
I could detect motion from within the shadowy unknown territory within. An egg materialized in my throat. My fifteenth breath couldn’t be drawn. My heart didn’t bother beating, it was waiting to see what would happen next. The door opened. The odor that came meandering out complimented the man that appeared. One could reproduce the odor, if one so desired…
Copy the following recipe:
First, purchase the cheapest beer available. Pour a can of it into a five gallon bucket. Place the bucket in the sun, weather permitting. Wait three days. Next, drink enough coffee to split your bladder. Wait until the urge to urinate has become so painful that merely moving causes you to moan. Then, empty the contents of your bladder by releasing a fiery piss into the bucket of sun-ripened beer. Again, place the bucket in the sun. Another three days will need to pass… I never said this would be easy. Next, go into your uncle’s freezer and remove approximately 1 pound of frozen walleye. Thaw it. Eat it… Raw. If you fail to vomit naturally, make yourself do so… Into the infamous bucket, of course. Finally, call a taxi. Tell the driver you need a ride to Peaceful Hills retirement home. You will also need a jar of bread n’ butter pickles but do not open them until you reach your destination. Bring the bucket. Once inside Peaceful Hills, add the pickles to your bucket, walk the halls, allow for the ambient fragrances to blend subtly with the aroma of your bucket. Old Spice aftershave, the pungent sting of urine, the array of muscle rubs, menthol, witch hazel, and powders… Ground bologna, Ensure nutrient drinks, vitamins, and latex… Breathe deeply. You now stand amidst the odor that greeted me that afternoon. My host’s wardrobe was far more simplistic than his aroma. The shorts he wore, boxers which in their prime may have been periwinkle blue. His T-Shirt, a “wife-beater”, thoroughly stained. Scaly feet, toenails heavily encrusted with nail fungus, resting in a “pair” of non-matching flip flops. It didn’t look like he wanted to grow a beard but, on the other hand, he hadn’t shaved for days. His hair hung in un-groomed, greasy clumps from his head… A head that stood approximately a foot higher than my own. When he spoke, in a dialect heavily urbanized and slurred, I could see the few remaining teeth he possessed. His brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What d’ya want?”, he blurted. It wasn’t going to be easy. I tried, despite my anxiety, to explain with every bit of diplomacy I could employ. I explained the unforeseen and unpredicted speed with which his cat came bolting into traffic. All throughout my confession he just stood there, alert, but seemingly as unaffected as a sculpture fresh off the boat from Easter island. |
WHAT YOU WILL NEED
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He stared at me with vacant eyes, their whites colored pus-yellow and splintered with redness. And, finally after I finished explaining, finished showing him the pile of bloody cat-burger on his steps, finished apologizing and saying all I could think to say.. He said something as he stood there staring. His gaze then turned to the mass of fur, entrails, and gore.
“Yah killed my fahkin’ cat…”, he slurred, “Gimme ten bucks”.
I’m not sure exactly what made me get out my wallet. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it were guilt. I was seventeen and this guy were intimidating. Plus, I happen to like cats. Maybe it were a combination of influences but -regardless to the reason- I reached into my wallet and retrieved a five and five singles. He took the money instantly and shuffled angrily back into the seclusion of his pestilent dwelling.
There I was, my eyes transfixed on Samson where he now lay, twisted inside-out, in a puddle of his own fluids. Flies were beginning to gather in celebration of the event I created. I felt horrible. I felt bad for Sammy, like I should bury him or something. But, it wasn’t my problem anymore. A crumpled pile of newspapers, huddled in the corner of the porch, caught my attention. I covered the still limp (but quickly solidifying) mass of cat parts with a page of yellowed newsprint before heading back to my car.
“Yah killed my fahkin’ cat…”, he slurred, “Gimme ten bucks”.
I’m not sure exactly what made me get out my wallet. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it were guilt. I was seventeen and this guy were intimidating. Plus, I happen to like cats. Maybe it were a combination of influences but -regardless to the reason- I reached into my wallet and retrieved a five and five singles. He took the money instantly and shuffled angrily back into the seclusion of his pestilent dwelling.
There I was, my eyes transfixed on Samson where he now lay, twisted inside-out, in a puddle of his own fluids. Flies were beginning to gather in celebration of the event I created. I felt horrible. I felt bad for Sammy, like I should bury him or something. But, it wasn’t my problem anymore. A crumpled pile of newspapers, huddled in the corner of the porch, caught my attention. I covered the still limp (but quickly solidifying) mass of cat parts with a page of yellowed newsprint before heading back to my car.
The cat-loving officer had been waiting for me with his questions. Police are notorious for asking the obvious. He asked me if I had the right house. He asked me if the man who came out onto the porch were the animal’s owner. After going over the obvious, he asked me something I didn’t expect.
“What was that transaction about? I saw you get your wallet out. I saw you hand the owner money.”, he said. |
I explained that I gave him ten bucks, upon being asked. I figured maybe the guy were going to get a new cat or something.
The cop’s face suddenly went dark and serious, even a little angry.
“Ok, you can leave. But, I’m going to go and arrest that guy.”, he explained while turning toward the house. I couldn’t make sense of it, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was happy to be leaving. Still… Though… As I were leaving I couldn’t resist it. I called to the officer, “Officer, why?”.
Without even breaking his determined stride towards the house, he replied, “For selling pussy!”
The cop’s face suddenly went dark and serious, even a little angry.
“Ok, you can leave. But, I’m going to go and arrest that guy.”, he explained while turning toward the house. I couldn’t make sense of it, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was happy to be leaving. Still… Though… As I were leaving I couldn’t resist it. I called to the officer, “Officer, why?”.
Without even breaking his determined stride towards the house, he replied, “For selling pussy!”
You’ve just read through approximately 2,000 words of bullshit. The whole thing were an elaborate joke. How does it feel to realize you’ve read through this story, perhaps thinking it real, then discovering otherwise?
This story has been an example of what so many people do… They present themselves as whatever they want others to perceive them as. Often, people are led, by use of intricate details to increase sincerity, to see things in a misguided light. I presented this story as factual, supporting its authenticity with meticulous detail, just to get what I wanted… The punch line. In life, people sometimes fabricate an image or a “truth” to get what they want… Sex, Money, the trust of others, and so on. It’s evil and I’m not a fan of it. But there is something to be learned, something beautiful if used for the right reasons… Detail.
Detail is the key to success in everything from bullshitting to painting, from cooking to writing, from solving crimes to enjoying a fulfilling sex life. If there’s a moral to this story it’s twofold. One: Some people are willing to mislead others, with every bit of cunning at their disposal, to obtain what they seek… And, they suck. And, two: Detail is the principal element in concocting excellence.
This story has been an example of what so many people do… They present themselves as whatever they want others to perceive them as. Often, people are led, by use of intricate details to increase sincerity, to see things in a misguided light. I presented this story as factual, supporting its authenticity with meticulous detail, just to get what I wanted… The punch line. In life, people sometimes fabricate an image or a “truth” to get what they want… Sex, Money, the trust of others, and so on. It’s evil and I’m not a fan of it. But there is something to be learned, something beautiful if used for the right reasons… Detail.
Detail is the key to success in everything from bullshitting to painting, from cooking to writing, from solving crimes to enjoying a fulfilling sex life. If there’s a moral to this story it’s twofold. One: Some people are willing to mislead others, with every bit of cunning at their disposal, to obtain what they seek… And, they suck. And, two: Detail is the principal element in concocting excellence.