Sunday, May 24, 2020
Dudu lost his balls because of his roommate’s cat. Molly, his ex, prefers to imagine a yellow canary of a cat, taking feline-like steps, with grace and delicate balance. But no, the cat is somewhat fat, quite black, with small white paws. He is the ultimate tuxedo cat, a proud American.
Dudu was in the business of trafficking Mercedes car windows. One can only imagine the outbursts of anger and insanity which reigned over such dangerous daily operations.
“I’m involved in no risky operatives and can knock down doors and bathroom mirrors in a few seconds time,” Molly used to tell herself whenever Dudu would walk out the door of their modest apartment overlooking a major highway.
With furtive looks outside the window, Molly’s imagination would quickly exchange those noisy cars on steroids for the ocean’s stillness. Determined to turn this vision into reality, Molly left the shadow of a man she once adored and moved into a new place, pleasantly surrounded by all the green. No busy highway, true, but no blue waters either.
When Dudu’s roommate took the dog for a 10-minute walk, the somewhat fat, quite black cat, with small, white paws decided that Dudu must die. The universe usually grants cats their perverted wishes. It’s not for nothing that these witchy nocturnal creatures are known for possessing multiple lives, all enacted in a present, manifested one. And daytime proves perfect timing for them to release all conflicts and possibilities. The somewhat fat, quite black cat began the experiment.
Dudu chased the four-legged creature around the apartment with a box cutter, settled to cut open the cat’s guts, and thus, release his own inner turmoil. Remembering all his moments of social instability and fugitive action, his forced confessions at the police station—to which he resisted at the expense of his own knees, Dudu took the matter further and grabbed his gun. A loud noise pierced through. The tuxedo cat sprung from his lap, screeching. Dudu leaned slowly forward, twisting his mouth down, imitating the cry of the cat, hideous and long. He shot himself in the balls.
At last, his roommate arrived with the leashed dog who, by now, was wagging his tail in pure bliss. He twisted the knob and allowed the servile dog to take his first steps inside the apartment. The air reeked of fresh blood and tension. It closed in on the servile dog and his master. Dumbstruck, the roommate grabbed a hold of his phone.
“What was he thinking”? Molly told herself while placing the phone back on the hook.
Nobody seemed to notice the somewhat fat, quite black cat, with white paws. The feline retreated in its safe place, under the bed, to further ponder on the incident that just took place. Ten minutes later, the cat reaffirmed its mechanistic self-cleaning rituals.
Displeased with the whole suicide affair, Molly showed up later that day to get the black cat with white paws and a tuxedo. With Dudu out of the picture, the creature now becomes her responsibility. The two will be sharing lazy evenings, indefinitely. Molly would have preferred a cat in the color of canary, with Bengal spots, in possession of a graceful, delicate balance. The universe doesn’t usually grant Molly her whims and caprices. But, although she slept in a bed for 34 years, a king mattress thrown on the floor reclaims her dreams now, product of her own deep-seated wish to take rest closer to the ground.
The yellow canary of a cat stares at the world through a set of white horizontal aluminum roller blinds, longing for the touch of a blade of grass. From the comfort of her king mattress, Molly absorbs the beauty of Alma, which doesn’t quite resemble her own, and reinvents endings for Las Chicas del Cable, a Netflix series which captivated her mind during a plane ride to the beach. Molly’s God is the beach—the answer to all her exaggerate cries of despair. She is now in the possession of an undesirable, somewhat fat cat, product of her unwanted dreams, vestiges of a past life shared with Dudu.
“You, yellow canary of a cat, you killed Dudu,” Molly whispered, sneering at the cat, watching him struggle to make an unencumbered path cutting through the roller blinds. Suddenly, Molly bursts into Ursula’s demonic laughter. And who can blame her? After all, Dudu shot himself in the balls.
The cat remains stuck in between the roller blinds, meowing pitifully. His presence annoys Molly. The tablet hits the hardwood floor. In a hysterical twitch, the woman springs out of the yellow sheets. Molly’s nerves are burnt. She hated Dudu, but she meant contrary. She wanted to silence him, when silence should have been hers. She yelled at him for taking too much time with toiletries, when time should have been hers. She was longing for something that couldn’t be defined—trips, dinners, sex, toys—all trivial matters of concern. The cat longs to touch a blade of grass and Molly knows.
“Couldn’t this be the whole point”? Molly thought to herself. “A blade of grass—all else is trivial pursuit.”
The yellow canary of a cat is not a secondary stage runner, but a harbinger of social instability. He lights up the torch for the world to marvel at. Molly is simply around. Like a fly in the eyes of mankind.
Raluca Comanelea is a writer, born in Romania and residing in Las Vegas. She is currently teaching English at UNLV. Raluca experiments with various forms of fiction: sudden, flash, and micro. Her writing centers on the tiny revelations sparked by the immensity of character contained in the seemingly ordinary people of our modern day society. Her academic work in the field of American drama and theatre has been published in the Journal of the Far West, Popular and American Culture Association. Her creative work has been published on Alpha Female Society's website. You can connect with Raluca at https://www.ralucacomanelea.com