The Calico

The calico’s words didn’t cycle between requests for food or pats as I expected. She knew things, not about the world out there, which she saw very little of, but about her domain; the space between the walls of what she labelled her prison, and the people inside them, whom she observed like an anthropologist. You’re not our slave, or a prisoner, or a piece of furniture, I reassured her, you’re a part of the family, and the closest thing to a daughter. All relationships are transactional. You’re warm and fed, and you make my heart beat slow down like that of a deep-sea diver.

What else is in it for me, in this sardine can you call a home, squashed between snake oil salesmen, where my tiny eardrums are degraded, shrouded by the phantom putting stars out like cigarette butts, feeling faded, while the rain falls and down sinks our ceilings? You silently shout whenever night sets in, at the pub manager sculptured with cocaine. Inevitably, you start to hear the glasses shattering and don’t dare complain. That spider who caught us in her orb-shaped nest will be your pallbearer, and she’s going to stop our hearts one day from pure terror.

I follow the real thing around for more wisdom, and lie down beside her with regret, wiling away the hours, as incense sticks burn to their ends endlessly. I’m crying, yelling, and laughing towards an uncertain place, locked to my chair, unable to see the outside world heating to a boil with plenty of warning. Sometimes, however, the heat subsides, so, the blinds go up. It’s the main road below me where people wander by. I’m thinking about going where the beer is spilled, I want to be where the fight kicks off, deep enough that my inner voice is not let in by the guard. Unfortunately, as true as nature, as our skin and bones will eventually be dust, I’m too comfortable and numb to make such a wager. After chants at the concrete-humans and the last-resort violence, I hear there are knocks at the door that tear everything apart. Who else would take care of the misbehaving cat? She’s lucky she’s not in the pits suffering with me, but I can’t do that to her. I’m still a sensitive little boy at heart.

Don’t mark your exit, Pamuk, and that way I won’t hear your parting meows. There will be no reason for me to mourn, just as there is no reason to keep going. My furry friend, when you are ready, inspect the fields I occupy. If you see the cocktails are stirring, and your humans are lounging around a picnic mat, will you please come back before this kid miraculously and improbably grows up?

First, I will need to get the last and some measuring tape, and a rotary cutter for the homemade boots’ shape. As long as she and I are together, no subtle signalling will be required, just the almighty, glorious and boring weather. We can forever drive down the highways, past the corpses from the fire, as far and fast away as we can from our malaise. We’ll clean the soles and mend the holes to build our walk to a pace, then to a chase. I want us to be recyclable, leave no trace, be survivable. The longer we wait, the quicker the death. We’ll whittle our spoons, freeze our prunes, and this arguing, I’ll leave aside until we’re slowing. We’ll re-learn our names, refill the frames, and leave as saints. The speedier the life, the shorter our breaths across the horizon, above our heads and inside them. It is there that our dinner will be captured and slaughtered, where the rivers' spirits will be watered. I really don’t intend to start counting towards our end. The cardboard and tape are fanning our fear. It’s clear that the sphere will carve again. I know that I should care, but I’d sooner stare and let it pass, unwilling to change into the man that men will need. Mother Nature is gone, estranged and shunned. I can hear it calling.

Do you honestly like what we’re becoming? I refuse to pretend that everything is fine. I felt your kindness, and I couldn’t forget. I hoarded it and hoarded it and now owe you a debt. And I’ve gotten better at saving, so don’t fret. I’ve got goodwill right down to my core. We’re young enough to evolve. Our mistake of depending on each other, we will absolve. We will feel the Earth revolve while there is still hope for us, if not for her. Gather your luggage and that jaunty smile for years and years. When it’s all good, you’ll move beyond your fears. Close your eyes. What do you see? Is this a place you could join me? To rolling pastures and a homestead, until we’re dead?

If it fixes you, if it stops you from yelling, she said.