Crush (14 page)

I’d believe I’m gay, but honestly, none of the
men
I’ve flirted with have caused anysparks either. The guys I originallyintend to be casual sexpartners become friends instead, “breeze friends,” I call them, the kind of friends that you hang out with once or twice tops and then willingly lose in the wind. I’ve been tested for HIV everyfew months and I’m always neg. After all the women, and five men, I’m still healthy. After my fifth encounter with a male that doesn’t result in any satisfying connection, I become celibate. Yeah, me…celibate. I know it sounds about as likely as me living on Jupiter. I determine not to go to bed with anyone else, male or female, unless I feel the smallest glow of an emotional ember.

And I never do. I meet them, and I always go home alone. I’m not sure when it happened, but I’m no longer infected with virulent rage at my Uncle Price. He’s senile, Mom says. He’s a loser, why bother with him? My only regret is not reporting him when I saw him messing with Natalie and those young boys around town. I guess I was young and in denial, but I still feel like shit.
I’m writing again, supplementing my income with articles for the animal shelter’s monthly newsletter, about animal cruelty, which has just recentlygained mypassionate attention. Unlike the days of old, in which I shot at cats with BB guns for sport, I am disgusted and repulsed by the blatant atrocities committed by humans against animals. Videos depicting wanton crueltythat I do not wish to describe are widely known as “crush” videos. I inadvertentlywatched one online a year ago, sent bysome “friend” who opened his email with, “You need to watch this!” To this day, I know not whether this acquaintance was trying to alert me to the seriousness of the issue, or trying to get off on repulsing someone with visual violence. I onlywatched about thirtyseconds or so of it, but the video made me physically ill and heartsick, and so fucking angry I wanted to find the human perpetrators of this sick “entertainment” and kill them dead. I don’t think I was able to get those grotesque images and sounds out of my mind for at least three weeks. I refuse to watch another one of them. I have no need to be emotionally tattered in order to voice my vehement opposition to these videos. I write out a prayer for the animals who are victimized, and for their abusers/murderers. The editor of the newsletter likes it and decides to publish it:

Do you believe in God and that all creatures belong to Him or Her? Then pray with me. It doesn’t matter what God you believe in. If you love God and hate violence against God’s creatures, pray.

Dear God in Heaven, Dear Great Spirit from Whom all things come,
Bless those innocent creatures who are being tortured, maimed and killed for the entertainment of sick, perverted human beings. Deliver them from the pain and horror they are facing, for they are Your creatures, and if they were of no importance to You, You would never have created them. Deliver them from the evil people who are hurting them, even if that deliverance must come in a merciful death. And punish those people who are hurting these innocent beings. They must be punished. If they can’t be punished through our earthly justice system, then bless them with remorse, regret and reform. Make them see the evil of their deeds, make them see the hatred in their hearts, and make them truly repentant for what they’ve done. Make them stop doing those horrible things. Make them so sorry that they absolutely cannot stand the thought of what they’ve done. Bless your creatures, and deliver them to peace and painlessness. Rescue them, deliver them, whether it’s by the actions of good human beings or by the mercy of death. Amen.

The prayer gets a huge response from people who show up in droves to adopt cats and dogs the following weekend. We screen each potential adoptive family as thoroughly as we can, praying under our breaths that myprayer/article has not drawn out any deranged abusers looking for their next victims. But it’s fifty dollars for each cat adoption, not including shots if the cat needs them, and eighty dollars for each canine, and I wonder if abusers would reallyfork over that kind of money, just to kill the animal.

My naiveté annoys me…who am I kidding? How ignorant I am to hide hopefully behind the absurd and prejudicial assumption that people with money don’t abuse animals! The recent headlines about professional athletes who fill their idle time with the brutal thrills of dogfighting pop into my brain…So I pray that our adoptees go to loving, caring, happy homes. I’ve come to realize I’m powerless in this evil world, but that God answers prayer.

I also write pieces about the serious problem of abandonment, a box of kittens left on a roadside in the heat of August, pit bull puppies who are found running crazily in the middle of downtown traffic.

In addition, I begin helping a cat sanctuary in Glendale with their monthly magazine. It is called the Purrfect Peace Cat Sanctuary. They’re cageless and “no kill,” which I love. I’ve fostered a few cats from them myself. “Wheatie” is a pale yellow cat who is terminallyill with the feline leukemia virus, which is basicallyAIDS for cats. When I lose my friend, I pen an article to resurrect awareness of the FLV.

Another of myfosters is a beautiful chocolate brown long hair with a creamy white chest. His name is “Wonka.” I’m told he was raised in a mobile home full of hearing impaired people, so he’s used to loud noises, not that I make any. Also he’s been in so many foster homes in the four years since he came to live at Purrfect Peace, he’s poised and mellow, around other felines, around kids, and even around dogs. He’s easy-going and affable, but he doesn’t take shit either. In one of his manyfoster homes, a jealous little schnauzer charged him once, and Wonka cuffed the dog right across the face. After that, there was a grudging respect between them.

Another cat I’ve fostered is a shaggy black boy who jumps right into my arms from the floor. He reminds everyone of a black bear cub, so he’s called, “Teddy.”

I’d adopt Wonka and Teddy forever, but I don’t have anyone who could sit them if I want or need to leave town for more than a day or so. I give them special mention on my show, hoping they will find the homes they deserve. If they don’t, I’m going to find a wayto give them myhome forever.

I’ve changed. My heart is tenderized. Nothing I do now will ever erase the repulsion I feel about my hateful past though. Animals have souls, contrary to popular belief. You can see their souls when you look into their eyes. When I gaze into the grieving eyes of a kitten who’s been starving or the big, lonelyeyes of a dog who’s been abandoned, I have to steel myself against the urge to cry. And consequently, I oftentimes find myself overwrought and having to take a break from the sadness of this world of big lonely eyes and adorable whiskery faces, because I’ll burn out if I don’t. Either that, or the endless despair of millions of homeless animals will drive me insane.

To this day, I stare at the only pictures I have of Jamie Pearce, the small black and white portrait in the freshmen section of my yearbook, the group picture of the choir, of Jamie standing next to Stacy.

I wonder how he’s doing, where he is, what he’s up to. He’s probably long gone from Sommerville, married, maybe even a father, though I can’t honestly picture it. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. He’s doubtlessly with a guy, a guy who’s nicer, better looking, more successful and more deserving of him than I’ve
ever
been.

I will myself to pick up the phone and call him, ask how he’s doing.
Tell him I think about him everyday.
Ha! I think about him constantly.

He visits me in the night. Every night. In my dreams. He kisses me. He touches me. He holds me close. And I’m not lonely.
Until I wake up and see.
He’s not here.
I left him without an explanation or even a goodbye.
Myshame won’t let me call him.
I’ve made a few visits to Mom and home in the past sixteen years, each lasting a weekend or a day or two, and our fractured relationship is on the mend.
But I haven’t seen Jamie or Stacyaround town anywhere, not once. I go to The End, and I ask the regulars.
“Oh no! They’re still here! Old Reliable!” And they laugh heartily.
“Old Reliable?”
“Yeah,” one jolly, pickled local grins. “Whenever those two can, they get up there and wow us! They oughter have a record deal!”
I go to church with Mom, hoping to catch sight of them there, but the only people I see from school are Yvette and Benny and their three kids. I wish Jamie was sitting here, and that the pastor would request prayer.
When I ask Bennyif he ever sees Stacyor Jamie around, he replies, “Now and then, but they keep to themselves. Don’t come to church much anymore…They’re backslid.”

Though things have vastly improved since my high school and earlycollege days, mylife as a whole has been as emptyand meaningless as the dozens of fastidiously plotted encounters I have had with blameless women.

I never should have left home. I ran away from home. I miss everyone and everything familiar.
I ran awayfrom Jamie when I ran awayfrom home.
It’s sixteen years since I’ve seen him. I fucked up but royal, but I’d love to see him again.
Blue eyed baby.
Red licorice.
The beatific scent of his skin.
The smell of sweet, sticky red fructose.
The way he kissed me in the checkout line.
The way he kissed me in Ray’s driveway. After all this time, there’s no such thing as time. I’d love to…

Lloyd dies right after mythirty-first birthdayin April. I’ve just come home from a double shift and he’s sitting at the kitchen table, where he always sits, eating cream of wheat for breakfast. He’s onlysixty-six.
The night before his death, he doesn’t sleep well. Misty, the mama cat we’ve recently adopted, has gone missing a day or so before, and he’s been up all night, worrying about her and giving her week-old kittens milk from a dropper. We give no thought to the idea that if theydie, there will be four less kittens in the world to feed and worry with. We’re cat lovers. Every time we see a cat, even if it’s not one of ours, we try to talk to it, approach it, pet it. At one point we have twelve cats living on our premises. Over the years, they come and go. They wander away, they die. The neighbors dub Lloyd the “CatMan,” because he never hesitates to take in any stray that needs his help. He leaves food outside and cardboard boxes all over the front porch, hoping cold kitties will seek shelter in winter. It’s a universal belief that cat lovers are eccentric bynature, and we are, Lloyd and I. We watch TV, eat, talk and even sleep in our living room, surrounded by cats. I love this life. With each passing year, I’ve become increasinglyaccustomed to things being the way they are, and I feel safe and warm in Lloyd’s cocoon.
But his once olive complexion has faded to a dusky gray. He’s been retired from the force for about four years now, and the doctor has diagnosed him with dangerously high blood pressure and diabetes. He is supposed to take the pills the doc ordered him, but Lloyd’s a very adamant anti-pill guy. I have to browbeat him just to get him to swallow Tylenol for everyday aches. I try to convince him that it’s extremelyimportant, mandatory, that he take those blood pressure pills, exactly as prescribed. But he’s in denial, saying he’s not as sick as the doctor thinks. He takes a pill whenever he feels bad, even though I keep insisting that he needs to take one dailyfor them to be effective.
I come in from my double shift and find him smiling pleasantly. “Misty’s back,” he says. “She’s in there feeding the kids.” He stands up. “I’m making a doctor appointment as soon as they open.” It’s about a quarter to eight. “Not feeling good.” A tremor of trepidation dances through me as he heads toward the bathroom. In slow motion, he falls, facedown, to the kitchen floor. bathroom. In slow motion, he falls, facedown, to the kitchen floor. 1, search franticallyfor a pulse.
I applymyCPR skills, but it’s different when it’s your own dad laying there rather than a stranger. The five minutes it takes the ambulance to arrive feels like a year. Lloyd’s eyes fix toward the ceiling. His face contorts gruesomely, and I can hear his teeth grinding. The paramedics take over and work him over for a half hour until finally, one of them says, “No, I can’t raise a pulse.” I ride along in the ambulance. They don’t flash the lights or use the siren.
At the graveside service, Stacy sits beside me and holds my sweating hand as I wrinkle my nose at the potent scent of the white roses surrounding the pretty white urn, made of milk glass, sitting up by the microphone. Pastor Sellers recites a few nice words about Lloyd, his life, his role in the community, the goodness of heart required for him to take in an orphan. Pastor looks bored, keeps glancing at his watch.
Lots of people show up for the memorial, Officer Pete Bloom, Lloyd’s old partner, Stacy, Lydia and myfriends from school, Ray’s mom and dad, Mrs. Cooke, the lady from the bakery, and people I’ve seen at The End, most of whom I know by face rather than by name. Theycome up and shake myhand, offering kind words that don’t help.

I recall a bible verse about the dead knowing nothing. I want it to be true. I don’t want Lloyd to see me as I quietly fall apart. I drive his ashes to Fort Bragg, on the coast, where he and I used to go on spontaneous road trips when we were both younger:

He comes home from work on Friday nights and says, “Let’s go!” And we throwa fewthings together and get in the car and take off. By the time we get there, it’s always night time. We get the Motel 6 or the Travelodge, order from a local pizza place, and just veg out, watching
The Silence of the Lambs
or
The Fugitive
or whatever’s on TNT or USA. In the morning, the cold, clammy coastal fog like a cape over our backs, we comb the Glass Beach, gathering round pieces of seafoam, baby blue, rose and peachcolored glass, leftover from smashed beer and pop bottles, wittled over years by the sand and the pounding waves. I have several jars full of beautiful, smooth glass beads.

Now, I let Lloyd’s ashes fly into the wind and they distribute gentlyover the rocks and sand. When I return to the home I shared with Lloyd, I bury myself in the quilt his grandmother made, the king sized one we always shared in front of the TV, pale yellow with colorful stripes. I cry on the little shoulders of our cats, Misty and Sam. I listen to cassettes and CDs of Lloyd’s old radio comedies.At night, I listen to Tammyplayhis ‘80s rock songs and sometimes…I forget…I turn my head, and say, “Remember that song, Lloyd?”