The Gift of the Garbage-Train

I’d been at the expo all day fielding questions about the technical specifications of our products, and my brain was numb from repetition. Rather than rush home, I popped into a nearby bar. I’m not much of a sports fan, but every March at work we each throw a twenty into a pool and fill out brackets for the college basketball tournament. The existence of that jar of cash imbues the whole affair with a gravitas that I recognize as the first step on the slippery slope to gambling addiction, but I seemingly only have room for so many dopamine demons in my life and it’s only once a year. Maybe things would change if I ever won.

I was slightly drunk by the time I made my way down to the subway platform to wait for the train to Brooklyn. It was well after midnight, and after the bar I’d wandered until I found a bodega where I bought a tallboy of beer and one of those scratch-off lottery tickets that’s like a crossword puzzle. This late, the trains ran infrequently and I knew I was likely to be there a while.

Posters on the walls behind the benches featured advertisements in Chinese. Surrounded by bright, smiling faces and incomprehensible text, the scene felt dream-like, with the ethanol-sleepiness of several pints of stout adding to the otherworldly milieu. I blinked my eyes and tried to focus on the lottery ticket, mindful that if I fell too deeply asleep I ran the risk of missing my train. Scratching away at the letters, I found myself wishing I’d chosen a less complicated game while sipping my beer from a brown paper bag.

My attention may have drifted, or I may have dozed, but I was suddenly shaken back to the present by the sound of an approaching train. Its headlights illuminated the dark wall of the tunnel as it screeched its way around the curve, filling the empty, tile-walled station with a banshee’s shriek. I stood, ready to board. Knowing I was alone, I still placed my back to one of the steel support pillars on the platform, ever mindful that the world is full of people who would push you onto the tracks just because.

Realizing it was a bright-yellow garbage-train filled me with disappointment. The deadpan conductor didn’t make eye contact with me as he passed, trailing a dozen flat cars piled high with oozing black trash bags, but he did bleat the horn, which made me jump. My heart was still racing as the last car passed. When a small bag of garbage leapt from the last car and landed at my feet, I screamed.

“Oh, relax,” said the black cat that I had mistaken for some possessed bit of detritus. The words were well-formed, and it spoke with what I can only describe as the dismissive tone of a frustrated missionary who’d spent too long in the bush.

“Y-y-you can talk?” I was embarrassed to hear myself sound like the main character in a slapstick kids movie, perhaps one starring a German Shepherd voiced by Michael Caine, but I was more ashamed at how I slurred my words during what I imagined was a monumental moment in human history.

The cat smiled, exposing needle sharp fangs which stood out in gleaming contrast against its black fur and drew my attention away the glowing yellow eyes set into the void of its face. “We all can talk, we just mostly choose not to, but you are stupid and drunk and no one will believe you. If you press it, they will throw you in a mental institution.” When the cat said stupid it nodded at the lottery ticket still clutched in my hand and then it laughed, chittering like a bird.

“But why?” I asked.

“Because I am feeling impish, and this will give you something to think about for the rest of your life instead of tech specs,” it offered with a wink.

“Can you read my mind?” I asked, aghast, fearing too late that I may be squandering questions.

The cat laughed again as it indicated the paper hanging out of my jacket pocket, reading “TECH SPECS” across the top.

“No,” said the cat, “but I know your kind well and you have always wished to read ours. You betrayed your envies when you put a man’s head atop the Sphinx so long ago. If you had all the tech specs for a bird, could you catch one on the wing? I think not.”

“What is the meaning of life?” I asked, again embarrassed at my lack of creativity in the moment. The cat regarded me with the look of pity and contempt that all felines can muster in an instant.

“For me, it is to roam as I please across everything everywhere, as all of creation is my domain, as promised by The Sun, in whose glorious image I am made. And I shall go largely unmolested, for unlike all other things that spark the jealousies of Men, which they choose to destroy, most humans still adhere to the ancient covenant whereby we graciously granted you agriculture in return for shelter from the rain and an abundance of rodents,” it said, adding, “The meaning of your life is to keep doing things that make rats so that my people may never starve.”

I wanted the cat to be wrong, but I thought about every half-eaten sandwich I’d ever mindlessly tossed into a garbage can and wondered if it might be right, so I grunted an acknowledgment of understanding.

“Lovely talking to you,” offered the cat, then, “Now I’ve got to go see a lady about a fish.” It slinked a figure-eight between my legs before trotting up the stairs into the night. I sat back down, but didn’t scratch my ticket. Some time later the sound of an approaching train roused me from my sleep.