Meatball gets a demon

The other day, I was working on a story that just wouldn’t quit. It was like a runaway train or a swollen deadly creek rushing in late spring. Just couldn’t get a grip on something to pull me out. I have to say, if that story doesn’t turn out, I’m going to…well, I don’t know what I’d do. Paper doesn’t respond when you yell at it.

I’m hard at work and hear something loud pouring through my open kitchen window. First, I think…no, I don’t actually think anything. It’s like I’m a deer in the headlights. It’s the neighbour lady blasting pow wow music on her back porch about 3 meters from my kitchen window. And it’s rolling in like a force, into my room through the door and all around me. My ears are going to suffocate. I might go just a little crazy if that’s the soundtrack of my day so I open up the door and get her attention.

Hey man, could you turn the music down a bit? I say. She can’t hear me, so I wave and repeat. That’s when the plane took off like it already knew it would crash. The following hour was a mix of shit crashing around, a couple of death threats, and a tirade of 120 decibel screaming. I’m not exaggerating. Little animals nearby have probably gone deaf. Ok that might be a tad of exaggeration. For me, it was deafening. And since I have an aversion to getting punched out in my own yard over a loud stereo, I just stayed inside wondering when someone, anyone, even a cop for god’s sake to arrive and give me cotton balls soaked with witch hazel or similar. Ok not that last part. After about a half hour of this, I start to wonder if this is a police matter. I sighed and thought of letting everything run its course. I mean, at some point she’s got to take a breath, right?

She switches gears and starts screaming at Meatball, who’s sitting in the window. ‘Why are you looking at me, stupid. Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me, I see the demon in you! You won’t get me with that look! Just you wait, I can’t protect you anymore’. Me: huh? And of course, he’s not answering her, he’s a cat for god’s sake. Of course he’s staring, he’s looking at someone going batshit under our window.

The cops did arrive and I thought great, they must read minds. I opened the door, mid bang and I have to say I was both relieved and chagrined as I realized I have finally gotten old enough to call the police about a neighbour and loud music. Jesus, I say. It’s not like I’m front row at Black Flag show. They looked a little puzzled by that and now I’m a little sad the younger generations have never rocked out to Henry Rollins. Maybe this a watershed moment.

I also have to say I was surprised to be told the neighbour lady was the one who called, advising I (me) was yelling at her in her window and she got scared what I (me) might do. She mentioned death threats. It’s good to note I am wearing a pair of yoga pants I never wear for yoga, a really old ratty The Smiths T-shirt, one sock because I keep forgetting to either put on one or take the other off (and really, who gives a shit about socks). And I’m aware my hair is put up in the technical sense of the word. It’s messy and I forgot I had a pencil in it. So, I know I don’t look like I’m serious about anything not even hair or pants. Turns out cops care about missing socks. That stupid missing sock is going to haunt me later, I bet. They ask me where the other sock is. I don’t know, I truthfully say. Maybe they think wearing just one is suspicious. There are probably a whole host of things I can do that could warrant suspicion. I wouldn’t even need to dig deep.

The cop actually asks me if Meatball was staring at the neighbour lady. I go blank as my mind tries to formulate an answer that’s both coherent and…sensible. Diplomatic, even. Umm. He’s a cat. Sitting in a window. That’s his job. I mean, really? I say this. With a straight face, even.

I never thought I’d live on the Rez and have cops called on a fictional me about loud music and a demon cat. On my best day, I couldn’t dream this up. Truly. The police ask me to turn down my music (not of the loud variety). Sure thing no problem, I say. The cop visibly relaxes. I guess not everyone likes The Afghan Whigs, I say as a joke. He just squints at me like what the hell am I talking about. I give him a sheepish smile and raise my eyebrows, as if to say both ‘never mind’ and ‘plebeian’. Two references of music bombed in one day. It was like taking a bullet.

The neighbour lady is quiet, now. Blessedly so. She’s not screaming at Meatball, although he’s still maintaining his stance in the window. She probably hates my guts but that’s ok, I don’t care about guts. I managed to enrage a neighbour lady, be overly flippant in an informal discussion with the police and continue to harbour a demon cat by the name of Meatball all within the space of 2 hours.

My work here is done.