I saw him coming of the bus, a mass of elbows and knees gawkily dragging a trunk behind him. I saw it catch, and I saw jerk free. I saw him fall, and I see him land. I saw him pick himself up with mundane regularity, and I saw him walk. To my home.
I live in the church, the chapel, in the back. I live, not alone, but with a single acquaintance, the ancient priest who owns the place. I was him come through the door to meet the priest, I saw him pull out documents and letters, I saw him ask questions. I saw a type of fear drift unseen across the priests face, echoing in the valleys of his deep wrinkles, apparent in the way his red tongue licked over his yellowed teeth. I saw it all. I watched, I waited, I learned. The man captivated me, drew me like a bear to the beehive. I felt helpless to follow.
The man was speaking of his past, his parents, and his mysterious abandonment at the chapel. He wanted to know more, and the priest was unbending. Whatever the priest knew, he wasn’t telling. The man, the boy drifted from friendly to frustrated. He began yelling, demanding a room. The priest, to my surprise, gave it to him, although he knew that the only room was mine and mine alone. The man dragged his trunk through the church, down the aisle. His shoulders sagged. Eventually, he reached the room, my room. I followed after him.
“Hey there, little buddy,” his first words friendly. “Do you live here too?”
I sat there watching him. He wasn’t supposed to talk to me. He wasn’t supposed to exist. His flaws marred my perfection; his words punctuated my silence. His elbows stuck out in sharp contrast to my sleek fur, and his jerky walk bore no resemblance to my silent swank. However, I would not leave. So I sat and stared.
He stuck out his hand in friendship. “Come on,” he whispered. After several seconds of standoff, he went into his trunk, and emerged with a piece of jerky. It sat on the floor at his feet. I sat on the floor in front of the door.
“Suit yourself little buddy,” he said tiredly. He had finally appeared to resign himself to his fate. “It’s been a long day, buses after buses, hours after hours. And I can’t sleep on the damn things to save my life.” He threw himself backwards onto the old bed. “I need some sleep.”
And with that, he turned off the light. Without climbing under the covers or removing his wool coat, without sliding his worn down sneakers off his feet; he went to bed.
“G-night,” he sighed. I didn’t move.
It was only after many minutes, after his breathing had slowed to a predictable pulse that I said, “My names not little buddy. It’s Aaron Thames.”
His breathing changed slightly. Perhaps he heard me, perhaps he didn’t. I slunk from the room, tired of this man. I needed to find somewhere else sheltered to sleep, for it was beginning to turn bitterly cold. However, I suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over me, and I crawled back to the room, to the bed, to the man, before dropping off quickly.
The next day, I awoke to find the man dressing. “Hey there Aaron, Aaron Thames. You’re one cool cat.” He smiled down at my stretching form. “I’ve got a big day today; I’m going to find my parents. So I’ll see you later.” He whooshed past my bed, through the door.
I stared at the door, long after he had left. He had been awake; he knew my name. He had smiled at me; he had still dared to speak to me. He was winning, and this was not allowed. I had no choice; I had to follow him. He was not the gawkily aged adolescent who had walked off that bus. Like transformers, there was more to him than met the eye. I had no choice but to follow.
Out into the cold air. I stayed to the wall. Keep warm; follow the smell. Things were simpler out here, they always were. Left, to the coffee shop. Where the indie punks come with their guitars to blare their incompetence. Joy. The door opened and closed, and jetted in.
The man was seated facing the counter, alone. He had shaved, removing the grizzle, which had marked him the night before. He did not notice me, thankfully. No one did. Cats do not show up in coffee shops. If they do, they must be part of the décor, part of the owners artistic expression. What bullshit. However, it served me well. I parked myself inside the door, near a heater. I stared at him. He had the upper hand, he knew my name, and he had beaten me. I was not going to let this pass. I would learn his secrets; I was determined. I was stalking my prey.
The man was oblivious to all this. He was staring at the counter, at a girl who had just placed her order. She was stunningly beautiful. I moved around to see her from all possible angles. She turned and tripped, sending coffee all over the man.
“Oh my god,” she screamed. “I’m so sorry.” The man was whipping himself off, with a silent smirk. He was no doubt pleased with his luck.
“No-” he started.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know-”
“It’s o-“
“What happened-“
“k, really.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” She was scrambling around for napkins.
He grabbed her by the shoulder, which apparently got her attention. She stopped her incessent babbling.
"It's OK," he said, forcing a chuckle. "It's only a jacket."
She looked back at him. "I'm sorry."
Jesus Christ, like a broken record. Couldn't the guy have better taste. Brains with beauty anyone? But he kept going.
"Hey, stop. Its only a bit of coffee. How about you make it up to me over dinner tonight? Meet here at 7?"
She nodded. He smiled. Then he confidently strode out the door.
Once safely in the nipping cold and the polluted streets, he looked down and examined the damage.
"Shit."
