Job’s Cat
©1999 Steven Schroeder
The two were old friends.
I noticed them one day on the road in front of J’s house and knew from the start that neither could be trusted.
One was a vagabond who hadn’t bathed in weeks. His hair was matted. A moustache perched perilously on his upper lip like a twisted caterpillar in slow painful transit to his chin, leaving his mouth mostly hidden. His beard was a staging area for remnants of his last meal and an archeological site in which others were preserved at varying depths. Bad grooming is one thing, but this character was jerky, bird-like, and that rubbed me the wrong way. His head bobbed. He had raptor eyes, like high flying birds that take in everything at once—impossibly intelligent and cold at the same time. He looked right through you but didn’t focus: now here, now there, first one thing, then another.
The other was slick, fashionably dressed, not a thread or a hair out of place. I wondered how he could stand on that dusty road without showing a speck of dust. Maybe that’s why the two hung together: Bird was a magnet for dust who kept Slick spotless.
“What have you been up to now?” Bird says.
“With you every separation is nothing but a breath in the middle of an endless conversation,” says Slick.
“Well?”
“It’s been years. You might begin with ‘Hello. It’s been a long time, and I missed you. How have you been?’”
“Hello. What have you been up to now?”
“Wandering here and there. Trying to keep things under control.”
“Have you?”
“More or less. At least I attend to one thing at a time.”
“There’s your problem. You must have noticed J; isn’t he a trip? The man dreams up rituals that wouldn’t come to me in a thousand years—thinks they keep him prosperous and his children safe. Some are really entertaining. Have you seen him? He’s unshakeable.”
“Not unshakeable, just unshaken.”
“Come again?”
“No reason to doubt. Let him lose some possessions, and I promise he’ll be shaken.”
“Promise?”
“Without a doubt.”
“No doubt. That calls for a test.”
I slipped under the hedge and lost sight of the two for an instant. When I looked back, Slick was alone, watching J’s house. A messenger, out of breath, dashed in through the gate and pounded on the door. Lucky I’d moved, or he would have stepped on my tail. The door opened, and I saw J.
“Yes?” he said.
“I have terrible news,” said the breathless messenger. “There’s been a riot. Looters sacked your store and killed the entire staff. I am left alone to tell the tale.”
Before he was finished, another messenger showed up and said, “What was left of the store was struck by lightning and burned down. The fire spread to your warehouse facility, and it was a total loss. Nothing is salvageable. I am left alone to tell the tale.”
A third messenger showed up. I made sure I was completely out of sight.
“There’s been a carjacking. The Mercedes. The chauffeur murdered,” he said. “The BMW was parked at the warehouse and exploded when the fire spread. I am left alone to tell the tale.”
At that moment, a small, serious looking man with a briefcase showed up: J’s accountant. “Bad news, J. Somebody failed to make your insurance payments, and the policy’s lapsed. None of your losses are covered.”
Another messenger arrived, sobbing: “Your children and their families were all together at your oldest son’s house when a tornado struck. The roof collapsed, and they were all killed. I am left alone to tell the tale.”
What else could go wrong? I lay real low.
J said a little prayer, and I saw Slick smile. Then he was not there.
I was considering going into the house for a bite to eat when I heard them on the other side of the hedge.
“Well,” said Bird. “What have you been up to now?”
“Wandering here and there. Trying to keep things under control.”
“Have you?”
“More or less. At least I attend to one thing at a time.”
Like nothing happened.
“You must have noticed J. Just unshakeable.”
“Not unshakeable, just unshaken.”
“Come again?”
“Let him suffer pain, and I promise he’ll be shaken.”
“Promise?”
“Without a doubt.”
“No doubt. That calls for a test.”
Bird was gone. Slick kept watching.
J came out onto the porch. He was scratching, like he had hives or something. I thought of fleas again, and rolled in the dust under the hedge. But I made sure Slick didn’t see me there. J was covered with nasty sores.
Now M, who lived with us in the house, joined J on the porch.
“You are a mess,” she said. “What have you gotten yourself in to?”
“Nothing,” J said. “It has nothing to do with anything I’ve done.”
M was not convinced. She went inside.
Slick smiled.
Then company came.
A bunch of J’s friends heard about his problems and came to call. At first, they all just sat on the porch. They said nothing. They sat there for a week.
Slick was there the whole time, but Bird was nowhere.
Then J complained.
“These damn sores hurt so much I’d rather be dead. What the hell is going on?”
One of J’s friends jumped in as if cued: “You know, J, you must have done something that could explain all this.”
“I’ve done nothing. And what could I possibly have done that would explain any of this? I’m sick, ready to die; but I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
Another friend said, “You know, J, the world’s a reasonable place, and God’s in charge. Why don’t we get down on our knees right here right now and take it to the Lord in prayer?”
Like Bird said, J was a trip. You’d think he’d go for an impromptu ritual—but he asked for an attorney!
“God is my tormenter,” he said. “And I want to sue. All I need is a high enough court and a good enough litigator.”
He was joking. Or delusional.
Slick got it. He smiled. I thought for a moment he was going to step forward. Chances are he is an attorney. He looked the part; and he looked ready to take the case.
But another friend piped in: “Come on, J. You know nobody’s perfect. No need to take God to court; just own whatever you’ve done and ask God to make things right.”
Slick hung back. I lay low.
J went off. A long speech about God being in charge and therefore responsible for bad as well as good.
Now Slick looked like an attorney who expected a substantial out of court settlement—plenty of profit, no trial. He kept smiling.
J and his friends went at it again. The gist of it was that the friends thought it had to make sense while J insisted that it didn’t but should. He wanted nothing but his day in court.
By this time, I was tired and hungry—how long had we been at this?—and I was starting to have trouble following the discussion. But I couldn’t leave. I had to see how things would turn out, and I didn’t want Slick or Bird to spot me. I was amazed at Slick’s single-minded concentration. Bird was all over the place, long ago off to other things; but Slick’s attention never wavered. He was right there, attending to one thing alone.
J was thoroughly ticked off with his reasonable friends. He wanted nothing but a hearing. He was miserable, and he thought he was entitled to shout about it. Too bad he wasn’t aware of Slick there, just listening.
Then another friend showed up, a young guy, excitable. He wanted to preach. J wanted to smack him, but they all let him proceed with a homily on God’s inscrutability.
Then Bird showed up out of nowhere with his cold raptor eyes. Nobody knew where he came from, but they’d been at this so long and they were so tired and hungry that hallucinations went without saying. They weren’t surprised, and they let him rant. He went on about taking everything in at once and stared them down one by one with his cold superior raptor eyes.
I thought Slick would laugh out loud.
J had nothing to say.
Bird told J’s friends off, looked around, and was gone.
More friends showed up, each with a load of gifts. J was rich again.
Like nothing happened.
Turns out M had left long ago, and I decided to go find her. J had nothing to say, and M would feed me.
Bird was gone. Slick was smiling. Bird would come again, and the interval for him would be a breath in a long conversation with his only friend.
I miss the kids and M. The chauffeur gave me tuna. The Beemer had soft seats. The Mercedes engine well was a warm place to sleep outside in winter.
The two are old friends. Neither can be trusted.
I am left alone to tell the tale.
Page maintained by Steven Schroeder | updated 27 april 2009