November 6, full moon
I was walking towards home from work, slowly, sniffing the salty air of San Pedro. I suddenly remembered the apartment in disarray, the empty fridge, the telephone on which for sure Mary hasn’t left a message. I decide to stop at Miguel’s for a couple of shrimp tacos and a beer. Or two.
One November evening, warm. Winter doesn’t reach around here. A wall of fog dampens the harbor lights.
Despite the efforts to embellish it with fountains, the hundred useless yards of pedestrian passage lined with palms where no one chooses to stroll, the industrial port of Los Angeles remains the dirty basement of the city, an endless tangle of iron, rust and oil against the intense blue of the night.
I sit outside. Giant cranes load ships with containers, regular and colorful like Lego pieces. I kind of like to sit before their slow repeated dance. I look at the clock, nine. The kitchen will close soon. Smell of grilled mackerel, laughter from a table far away. Miguel has put on the simple and rickety music that he only likes. He comes out to bring the beer and a basket of tortilla chips that he proudly calls Totopos as they do where he comes from. Don’t put all that garlic on them, this time. He laughs. Who you gonna see tonight, he says, almost to himself, walking back.
I don’t have time to take a sip when a noise explodes behind me. Two cats: spiky, tangled, ferocious. I get up. The bigger cat was able to grab the other by the neck with his clamped jaw, under the acid light of the street lamp I see a trail of dark blood.
I clap my hands, nothing. I kick the garbage container, the sound separates them. One runs away, the other lays on the ground. I pick him up, he’s alive. He lets me touch him, looking at me with frightened eyes.
It does not seem serious. I touch him from head to toe to see if there are other wounds besides the bite. He remains relaxed, there is nothing else. Miguel, you got disinfectant? He comes out with a plastic bottle, gauze and a cushion. He helps me to place the cat on the chair next to mine, lying on the cushion where there is a picture of a girl in shorts, her shirt knotted at the waist, a pouting, red and swollen mouth from which come the words Ay Mamita!
I examine him thoroughly. A black cat with white socks. I keep talking to keep him quiet. I know you. I see you often. You jump into my garden because you’re after the neighbor’s cat. She’s not for you, listen to me. I’ve seen her around with some bad guys… I give a good cleaning to the wound. Not deep. He trembles, groans, but lets me handle his body.
Miguel sits next to me. He brought a band-aid to secure the gauze. This guy belongs to some rich lady, he says, pointing with a nod of his forehead towards the hills beyond San Pedro. I smell it. Look the pink ribbon with the bell.
I do look at it. It’s not pink, it’s fuchsia. It is not a bell, it’s some kind of metal capsule.
I unscrew it, it opens in two. Inside, there is nothing. I wonder what’s it is used for. In cartoons, Saint Bernards bring Brandy, but this guy? Sleeping pills? Diamonds? Ecstasy? It depends on the owner.
The girl from Salvador brings the tacos. She’s a new one, young. I think she’s called Asuncion. Miguel looks at her while she walks back in, he makes a face at me as if asking What do you say? He wants me to think that they’re together. I don’t want to think. There is a new group of customers, he gets up and follows her inside the restaurant.
I pick up a taco. The cat, without looking up, begins to twitch his nose, sniffing.
Here, let’s see if you’re hungry. I bring the biggest shrimp to his lips. He sniffs again, raises his head tiredly, licks the shrimp once, then stops. Well, if you want it it’s there. I put it to next him, on a napkin. He could swallow it without moving. But he’ s not hungry. The rich lady theory holds.
I rummage in my pockets, I find a pen and a packet of post-its. Green. It will work. I try my best handwriting.
___
I often quarrel with a gray cat, down in San Pedro. Fortunately around here they know me, they kicked his ass and disinfected my neck quite well. You can take me to the vet if you want, but I think there is no need.
___
I fold the post-it and I insert it in the capsule so that a corner sticks out. Sure they will see it, I think.
November 22, new moon
I’m kneeling in my garden, staring at the wire mesh that protects the garbage bins, raised and curled like the lid of a can of tuna. Damn raccoons. They bend it, sneak into the bin and throw everything around. People read the FOR SALE sign, enter, see this crap strewn everywhere and think I’m a pig. No one will ever buy.
Then on the sidewalk I see the black cat with white socks.
Tch, Tch, I say to him. Psst, Psst, as my father used to call to cats when I was a child.
He doesn’t come close. I go to the kitchen and come back with a slice of bacon on a paper tray. I put it on the ground and continue to examine the chicken wire fence. Slow, hesitant, with majestic stops and diversions, the cat approaches. Once again he sniffs the food but doesn’t touch it, but eventually he lets himself be stroked. While I’m scratching his ears I can see that the wound has healed well. Only then do I notice that a piece of paper is sticking out of the capsule. White. Not mine.
I unscrew the cap. A slip of a amber paper, thin, almost transparent, with just two words, in delicate calligraphy: Thank You.
I keep scratching the cat while I examine the message. Only a woman could have written such an exquisite line. I feel like I’m a good man.
Wait here, I say to him. I go in to grab a pen and one of my green post-its.
Sometimes cats owners are young and beautiful, I find myself thinking. Then I think of Mary, and I feel like I’m betraying her even if we are no longer together, for someone that is probably eighty years old and curved like a fishing hook.
I write in my most elegant hand, and I’m already shaking my head at my own actions and stupidity:
___
I learned that all of us have someone who, at the right time, pulls us out of trouble.
___
Just as I closed the capsule, the cat, as if responding to a signal, moves away.
I didn’t give a you name, cat. Let me call you Hermes.
December 6, full moon
Also tonight I went to dine at Miguel’s. I no longer cook. Yesterday Maria left me a message. Short, clear: Leave me alone, asshole.
I ordered grilled king prawns, he put a mountain of garlic on them.
Beer? He asked me when I got in. No, make me a margarita. Margaritas are an invention of the Gringos, he says. They’re for sissies. Tequila, we drink it straight. Even better: we prefer this. And he handed me a very generous shot of a golden yellow liquid. That’s Mezcal. Down in one. Prepare the ground. Then I give you another. That, you drink slow.
I do as he says, my head is spinning already. For a moment the harbor lights sway. I bite into a shrimp to ballast my stomach.
I’m not a Gringo, I’m Italian, I try to reply, and already my voice is not obeying as I’d like.
He laughs again. Lately he’s been laughing a lot. He uncovers his new teeth. Perfect, uniform, white, just done by a dentist in Tijuana for less than five thousand bucks.
Same thing, he says. Then: Isn’t that your friend?
Hermes! I shout enthusiastically, understanding immediately that getting up was a mistake.
I approach and now I see what I was hoping for. A small white triangle sticking out of the capsule on the cat’s collar.
I wish Miguel wasn’t there looking at me, but he doesn’t go away, and I can’t resist. I kneel, unscrew the cap, close it again and the cat runs away. I can’t answer this time. That bastard Miguel, however, keeps his eyes on me. I put the paper, still folded, in my pocket. I’ll read it later. Miguel pours me another Mezcal then, resigned, goes back into the restaurant.
I leave two twenties under the unfinished plate and walk away, a bit unsteady. Having turned the corner, I lean on a palm trunk and open the slip:
___
There is something in cats that are free to wander that resents full moons. They go crazy, fight, sometimes they kill each other. From spoiled sleepyheads they turn into idiots looking for trouble.
It always happened to me, too. I don’t know if I love cats because I’m just like them, or if I became so by dint of loving cats. The fact is that now I’m like them. A full moon is the overflowing of the cup, what was bearable is no longer so. And this full moon was the overflowing of a number of moons during which I had somehow managed to bite the bullet. But not this time.
I filled his bowls with food and water so that he has enough for days. So I’m sure that when he comes out for more food, I’ll have gone for good. I’m sorry to trouble you, but after some thought, I realized the closest person I have is you, someone I don’t even know.
I learned that not all of us have someone who at the right time pulls us out of trouble. And that’s just fine.
___
I thought it was a joke. I tried in the newspapers, I did not find anything certain. Last week a Dolores Harrison, 34 years old, divorced, committed suicide in Palos Verdes. I saw a grainy photo on Facebook: a distracted girl, cigarette in hand, two friends with dumb expressions, drunk, their arms around her shoulders.
Every morning, every night, I walk around my house and in the streets of the port. On Sundays I put trays of fragrant meat and croquettes on the low wall of my garden, now well reinforced with mesh fences. Never seen it again once, the stupid beast.
Ideas for a tall story 