The Cat Lady and the Munsons

1.) The Cat Lady

You might not have grown up in the same neighborhood as a Cat Lady, but in all likelihood, one of the neighborhoods next to yours had a Cat Lady. That was the case with me. I had to bike five blocks to my friend Willy's house to get a load of the Cat Lady on Adderley Street. Neighborhoods, like thermostats, so often change one degree at a time. And that single degree that separated Willy's neighborhood from mine permitted a habitat for an old woman whose ramshackle house was swarming with cats.


The Cat Lady (I never got her real name) lived across the street from Willy. One day we asked Willy's mom if there was a Cat Man in the picture for this Cat Lady, and she replied that, to her knowledge, the Cat Lady had never married. She had been willed a large sum of money, so the story went, but she spent it sparingly.

Willy's mom was one to adorn ceramic plates and coffee cups with phrases such as “Blessed are the meek.” She was an artist who made enough to get by and co-provide, along with her husband. She never begrudged the Cat Lady. Some of her neighbors felt otherwise; they instilled some anti-Cat Lady sentiments in their children. Rex Munson from across the street used to complain about her. Like all the Munsons, he was incensed by the Cat Lady's indifference to the fortune she supposedly had.

We'd put a game of catch on hold and gape at the lonesome Cat Lady as she lurched and labored toward the bus stop. On one such occasion, Rex slugged the football with his fist.

“That lucky old bag...” he griped, shaking his head and coveting.

I was too young to appreciate the humor.

We watched her shamble around the corner, out of view. Then something strange and magnetic happened: The six of us were compelled to gather in a huddle. Those among us were either summoned or summoning. The effect was the same. To children on the brink of puberty, there is no human-noise more compelling than: “Psssssssstt.”

It was agreed upon that we should take a look inside the Cat Lady's home while she was away. We reasoned we'd be exploring rather than breaking and entering.

To add some intrigue and suspense to the mission, we slunk past her house and followed the gravel driveway to her garage. It was a small structure composed of worn and peeled siding. The door was chained shut by a Master-lock. We crept around to a window that was bug-ridden and sheeted in dust. One by one we peered in. When it was my turn, I strained my eyes and made out the shadowy form of a bed.

“She lives in there now,” Willy explained. “The cats took over her house.”

I reeled, shook my head, and cupped my hands against the glass again. Sure enough, there was a kerosene heater inside. I considered the nights of bitter cold that would eventually come, shivered at the thought of how she must survive the winter: surrounded by that worn and peeled siding, beside a smelly fire, hidden beneath a mound of blankets, for five months. Alone.

It was too much. I jerked my head away, toward daylight and friends. Despite the pleasant weather, I was still shivering. When it came time to ascend the rickety steps into the Cat Lady's back entryway, I felt conflicted. Rex turned the knob and cracked a Grinch-like smile, for the door was unlocked. My guts sunk heavily. I kept my mouth shut and considered aborting the mission.

“Last one in's a chicken-shit,” Rex declared.

The matter was settled for me, but two others expressed their misgivings and opted out. Tyler feared his father's wrath should we get caught; he seemed to have horrid visions every time he blinked. Lucas cited religious reasons that still remain unclear. Willy's little brother Calvin fussed with his jean shorts and tangled with trepidation. Our gazes met for a second and I gave him a quick, understanding nod.

Rex shoved against the door until a barrier of trash yielded enough room for passage. He slithered inside, followed by Willy. I was next, dreading all the germs but pushing forward, anyway—and that made Calvin the De facto “chicken-shit.”

“Hey! At least I'm doin' this,” he called out.

Tyler and Lucas fled to the latter's home for lemonade and Super Nintendo. The rest of us were determined to snoop around. We sought answers from this spinster who'd left civilization without so much as murmuring goodbye. How did she succumb to this cat uprising? We searched for clues left behind by this ghost who somehow lived among us.

The closest I ever got to walking on the moon was walking atop the rubbish in the Cat Lady's house. The stench notwithstanding, the sheer elevation of the garbage made me queasy—and Neil Armstrong had no equivalent to the surreal feeling I had as I climbed the trashy summit into the kitchen. During our tour, we leaped from one flimsy plank of cardboard to another—landing-spots that must have been strategically placed by the Cat Lady herself. (Years later this strikes me as a pretty ambitious move for a shut-in: to even bother laying down a big piece of cardboard here and there to plateau the heap of squalor you've amassed in your own home.) Feral cats with coats like defiled carpet-samples hissed at us as they backpedaled. Countless trash bags spewed their contents: shards of Coke bottles and light-bulbs, mold-consumed bread, soiled rags and tissues once coated in fluids that had long-since hardened, coffee-filters splattered and laden like neglected diapers, newspapers from decades ago and yellowed mail that had decidedly become the junk kind. Clothing that would never be worn again was strewn everywhere, and so were impotent cans of Pledge and Lysol.

In the living room we gaped at grime-encrusted knickknacks of fishermen and sad clowns. I spotted crushed games of Life and Sorry and an antique vacuum lying kaput in the corner. Its rubbery bag was bloated. Its chrome had been reduced to tiny dots amidst all the rust. We surveyed the end of the world and its dearth of redemption. We breathed fitfully through our mouths and gagged our noses as we pointed and hooted at the cat droppings littered throughout.

We marveled at all the crap until we got bored.

“Let's get the shit out of here.”

That was Rex again. He cussed more than the rest of combined, and though he may very well never amount to much, to this day I give him credit for that suggestion.

As I've mentioned, he belonged to the Munson clan. They were not exactly known for breakthrough moments in wisdom.

2.) The Munsons

White Kids Dunking...

^Spud Webb, a black man dunking.^

Rex was a participant in the Slam Dunk Contests we had during those summers in the mid-'90s. The events were held on a modest slab of concrete in Willy/ Calvin's backyard. The hoop was adjustable, and so we lowered it to a height of about 8 feet, for slam-dunking purposes. To that same end, we procured two mini-basketballs that were easily palmed.

Our slam dunk excitement was brought on by ideal circumstances. The best player at the time, Michael Jordan, was also a sensational dunker. Ho-hum dunkers like Bird and Magic had retired from the NBA. They gave way to a new breed of high-flying freaks whose M.O.'s were posterizing chumps and then losing to MJ's Bulls in the playoffs. Finally, the sprites in NBA Jam paired superhuman leaps with a tempo that catered to our Mountain Dew dependencies.

In retrospect, few things are sillier than prepubescent white kids charging a hoop and exclaiming in the high-pitch of Mickey Mouse. “Clyde Drexler!” “Shawn Kemp!” “Spud Webb!”

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

April Fool's Day

This is a work of fiction inspired by actual events in my life. Names have been changed, but I'm still me.

(Love Interest: 1)
I suppose it all began—customarily enough—with a beautiful woman, and wanting to offer her the bare minimum required of a worthy boyfriend.

Amanda and I met at a bar. I was unaccustomed to meeting sweet and receptive women at such a place. She was unaccustomed to spending time in such a place whatsoever. I drew the latter conclusion after I caught her twice looking at me, pleasantly enough, and I introduced myself, confidently enough. We talked. On-stage 30 feet away, a raw yet rollicking band covered hard-rock standards. They employed a saxophone wired with pedal-effects in lieu of an electric guitar, which was a novel yet ultimately unsatisfying touch, I thought, but I didn't tell Amanda that because, hey, in due time and with all due respect, I was going to try to get laid.

During a reprieve from the racket, I let her know that although it's pointless to attempt coherent chats once the music begins to blare, I'd be happy to resume our talk after the next song. And this actually worked. Four local musicians did a raw yet rollicking and novel yet unsatisfying rendition of “The Ocean” by Led Zeppelin, and when I turned around, Amanda was still there and I really was happy to resume our talk.

We agreed that it's usually much more fun to watch others embarrass themselves on the dance-floor and comment on it than partake in such nonsense when one is not in the mood. I got bought her a rum and soda mixer and then I got her number. When she replied to my initial text two days later, I felt like a had no regrets.

A week later, we met for drinks amidst the omnipresent green and racket of St. Patrick's Day. Beneath that racket, as I inched closer to her in gradual increments, she offered that she lived on the outskirts of town, a brief commute from the college in which she pursued her masters in Nursing, mainly because her preferred option—located across the street from the campus—lacked a carbon monoxide detector.

I thought, That was the deal-breaker? Really? I've always rolled the dice on detecting carbon monoxide and I'm still breathing. Jeez—LIVE a little.

But I said, “Well, you can never be too cautious.”

When asked about which TV shows and movies she liked, she eventually relayed that she can't stand humor that is edgy, obscene, or satirical, that she is put-off and not at all entertained by shows like The Simpsons and South Park.

I thought, Sometime in the post-tonight future, I will have to show this woman the Homer tattoo on my arm , reassure her that it is both real and permanent, try to keep her sufficiently attracted to me,  and--oh, I don't know, just keep my fingers crossed.

But I said, “You probably hate that show Family Guy, right? Yeah. Me too.”

In spite of these demerits, I was still attracted to Amanda, the subtlety of her eye-popping curves, the mastery of shampoo and conditioner that she squeezed into her chestnut locks, her sweetness and unflagging willingness to study hard so that she could provide sick and injured patients with the best care possible.

She let me know ahead of time that she intended to be home before midnight, but I coaxed her to stay until 12:01. I walked Amanda to her car. When we hugged goodbye, she turned her face away from me. I obligingly refrained from forcing my tongue into her ear canal.

I thought, I must move out of my parent's house quickly in case the topic of my living situation is brought up the next time I see this woman.

I said, “Do you want to have lunch together next Saturday? Well, how about the Saturday after next? Cool. I'll see you then.”

You know what? This one has been revised so many times. You're better off getting the eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. Why in the fuck would I be shitting you about this?

It's rhetorical. See... I'm smart that way.

What Pizza Taught Me about Women

When a fresh pan of pizza is presented to me, its skin undulating with subtle bubbles that rise and fall quickly, my first impulse is to snag a slice and gorge myself with savage abandonment. The problem with this reckless act of gluttony is that pizza fresh from the oven possesses a self-defense mechanism to thwart its overzealous predators. This self-defense mechanism comes in the form of tongue burn. Insatiable as it is, fresh pizza does not want to be ravaged with desperate urgency. No. Pizza, like no other delicious food, demands a grace period of reverent appreciation and heart-pounding patience. Eaters who infringe on the respectful ground rules of fresh pizza are punished with a scalding blaze on the roof of their mouths. With the proper mindset, then, it's plain to see why pizza is my favorite food. Pizza shares so many correlations with the sort of beautiful woman who would take a chance on spending some time between the sheets with a guy like me.

And what kind of guy am I? Well, let it be stated that it may prove daunting for me to compare pizza consumption to sexual conquests. The hours I've spent eating pizza far exceed the time I've spent with my favorite appendage tussling inside that warmth-exuding, moist tunnel of delight. Think of a number on par with the population of a Chicago suburb and without a great deal of hyperbole that is the number of pizzas I have consumed. Conversely, when you multiply the number of times I have seen the end of the rainbow by three you arrive at the number of woman who have laid naked panting beside me and proclaimed, “That was a solid C-plus.” * (And don't go multiplying zero by three with sneering doubt because I have indeed witnessed the glorious nexus of a rainbow.) In short, my ratio of pizzas devoured to women seduced is all out of whack. Humble and neurotic confessions such as these hint at the kind of guy I am.

But don't dismiss me as an amateur on a topic of my own design. Every time my sperm has ventured someplace as meaningful as the tip of a condom, I have treated the woman like a steaming pan of pizza that deserves a grace period of reverent appreciation and heart-pounding patience. I have subdued my urges for instant gratification and been rewarded, by pizza and women alike.

In a perfect world—that is, by definition, a heavenly scenario in which I am perceived as perfect by Victoria's Secret models and everything else stays exactly the same—I could gobble pizza the instant it hits the table, launching into a wild spasm of feral indulgence, too classless and indifferent to don a bib to prevent the tomato sauce from splattering on my Beastie Boys t-shirt. I could do all this at a ritzy pizzeria in front of a Victoria's Secret model who manages a fantasy football team and owns a collection of Trailer Park Boys DVDs—and she wouldn't mind in the slightest that her boyfriend acts like a debauched slob at fancy restaurants.

“To hell with 'em,” my Victoria's Secret model girlfriend would say about the critical naysayers in the pizzeria. “The dude I'm with is perfect in every way.”

After pizza, as our idyllic date continues, we walk hand-in-hand a short distance back to the condo I own. My Victoria's Secret girlfriend listens with attentive reverence as I expound on my theory that the ongoing and sordid saga of Brett Favre draws strong parallels to the Batman flick The Dark Knight. My Victoria's Secret girlfriend is enthralled rather than annoyed like most people by a game I invented called “Name That Snarf.” It works this way: The singer belts out lyrics to popular songs in the voice of Snarf from The Thundercats, replacing every word with the skittish sidekick's name. Here is a transcript from the game of “Name That Snarf” that two of us play on the way home.

“♫Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf. Snarf. Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf ♫.”

That is, of course, the chorus to “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles.

At my condo we get naked and rattle the bedsprings while the Cubs game is on mute, with the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street blasting forth from the stereo. “Gonna get my Rocks Off tonight,” I'd announce, mid-thrust. Right into the “Loving Cup.” Gross...but that about sums it up.

Afterward, I'd demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen by cooking a Tombstone pepperoni pizza. Once it's ready, I'd be free to indulge like a Neanderthal once more, without fear of tongue burn. And here's the best part: just like me, my Victoria's Secret girlfriend dowses her 'za in hot sauce. Now that's my kind of imaginary vixen.

The problem with this elaborate scenario that so pristinely meshes my insatiable love for pizza and women is that it's entirely implausible; in fact, it's delusional. The truth is that I'm nut perfect. Hell, I just misspelled the word “not,” if you don't believe me. Creating a game as dopey as “Name That Snarf” is a foolproof way to demonstrate your imperfections to the world and all of its readers and Victoria's Secret models.

I am more likely to someday behold the end of a rainbow again than make it with a Victoria's Secret model. I am still coping with this sobering notion.

In reality, I am the antithesis of that feral Neanderthal who eats his pizza just as he seduces his women: Swiftly. I have to be the antithesis of that. The bookish and nerdy variety of women that are attracted to me tend to be impressed by good manners. It's okay. To oddities like me, the most arousing word one can hyphenate before the word “Sexy” is “Librarian.” An oddity, in this case, is exemplified by an American male who does not detest reading and everyone and everything associated with it.

Some men are impervious to the tongue burn metaphor as it applies to seducing women. These are the sort of men capable of penetrating the birth canal while I'm still bandying small talk along the lines of, “Interesting. And what does your mom do for a living?” These men, some of whom have muscles that bulge out of flesh-clinging Polo shirts, boast gaudier, more impressive pizzas-eaten to women-seduced ratios. They typically don't care about beholding the origin of a rainbow; for them witnessing a stripper launch ping-pong balls from the holiest of holes sets the gold standard for awesome sightings.

I share the same instincts as machismo-loaded men when it comes to pizza and women. The difference is that I am not built for instant gratification as they are. When I try to express urges for instant gratification, I come across as desperate, and pizza and women alike are wont to burn me for conveying that sort of desperation. I am resigned to the fact that, for me, pizza and women are not meant to be ravished instantaneously. I am comforted by the wisdom that writers are not meant to experience instant gratification. Our game so often entails suffering with patience, style, and resolve.

I will wait for the incendiary passion of a fresh pan of pizza to cool down as I look on with tortuous anticipation, my taste-buds salivating and unquenched, just as I will wait for the love of my life to spread her legs for me. This is my mantra.

It is perhaps a dowdy concept, but I recommend behaving like a gentleman to piping hot pizzas and potential sexual partners. Be patient. Let the anticipation and reverence well up inside of you. But—and I can't stress this enough—never, ever wait so long that the pizza or its counterpart get cold.



*Interestingly enough, you can't spell “C-plus” without “C-minus.”