Questions

Questions
T A Ciccarone

 
Gus the Theater Cat
T.S. Elliott

Gus is the cat at the theater door

His name, as I ought to have told you before

Is really Asparagus, but that's such a fuss to pronounce

That we usually call him just Gus

The old man lay in bed for almost thirty minutes before attempting to get up. He stretched the various troublesome areas of his body before turning back the covers. The onset of age was disturbing to him, and at fifty-eight, he was constantly dealing with the ravages of a lifetime of grueling work in the fish markets. That and thirty-five years of athletic training had left him with an arthritic deterioration in most of his joints. He set his foot down on the floor, testing the day's temperature. It didn't seem too cold, and he set down the other foot. He gave up a heavy sigh, waiting as if expecting some response. None were forthcoming in the half-light of the early morning, and groaning, heaved himself up. He thought he might call that chiropractor guy over in that rundown office building across town. The chiropractor did make him feel better after his occasional visits, but he was a strange man. His receptionist was friendly enough and cute too, but the doctor unsettled the old man and triggered vague uneasiness every time he left the office. He had toyed with asking the receptionist out every time he went there but couldn't muster up the nerve.

The November morning had not yet broken, and the gray landscape outside his window was cast in a monochrome, reminding him of old aluminum. He turned and eyed the bed, longing for more sleep, and then shambled to the bathroom.  

"I'm late," he muttered to the mirror as he cleaned his teeth. He glanced at the man facing him. How did this happen, he thought as he assessed his hairline and the wrinkles, which these days were more impossible to ignore. It seemed that someone had left the door unlocked last night and the dogs of old age snuck in.  

He shook off the feelings and opted not to shave or shower. He sniffed his armpit as he walked more briskly to his bedroom. His first student would be waiting at the club in twenty minutes. The boy was never late and showed up in the hopes that the great truths of fencing would, in this lesson, finally, be revealed to him. "Hmm," he grumbled. Five minutes to dress, twelve to get there. He might even have time to grab a coffee if traffic was light. He knew he could make it. He was just not sure, lately, if he wanted to. He took five Advil tablets on an empty stomach as he went out the door, knowing that it would most likely nauseate him. The old man watched the Friday play out in his mind as a long, nonstop ordeal. From the early lesson with the boy, he was scheduled to go up to Poughkeepsie and do team lessons at Vassar all day. Then there would be more lessons and another class. He knew he would not return home until after nine.

This early kid was good in his way. He had talent, was big and strong enough. He had the desire to endure the torturous training necessary to become a champion. He had too many questions, though, always with the questions. It wouldn't be so bad, the old man thought, as he pulled his Jeep out of the driveway If only one of the questions had a definite answer. That would be nice. Years ago, he would have had all the answers. That wasn't the case now, though.

His coat's very shabby. He's thin as a rake

And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake

Yet he was in his youth quite the smartest of cats

But no longer a terror to mice or to rats

As the old man drove, his mind wandered away from the road. Lately, it did that more than it used to. Memories of the past and the tournaments he had fenced roiled to the surface. He reached for the radio but then reconsidered. The churning memories that popped and bubbled promised to be more entertaining than Click and Clack, The Tappit Brothers on NPR. It always seemed as if someone else controlled the remote for his brain, and he was powerless to change the channel.  

The recollection that began to play was from the circuit event twenty years ago in which he had almost won. Second place was good, but it wasn't first. His old fencing master had told him that once. "B was a good ranking, Tommy. Very good." The statement was lilting, followed by the slightest pause and then, "I thought I had trained an A, but B is good." The Master's tone assumed an air of unconvincing reassurance. That day was anchored in the man's mind as one of his greatest triumphs wrapped in the greatest of failures. It was strange to recall these moments as if he could cue up the past and relive it differently.

Now it was late. Not late in the day, but in the life and there were no more opportunities in which to compete and excel. The man had problems with almost every joint in his body, and he knew they were getting worse. There were days when he almost stumbled through even the most basic lessons while his tendons and joints sizzled in agonizing pain. The episodes of insomnia that resulted from the throbbing were becoming more frequent. He just couldn't get a good night's sleep anymore. On the mornings after these days, he would go to the peculiar chiropractor in hopes of relief.

For he isn't the cat that he was in his prime

Though his name was quite famous, he says, in his time

And whenever he joins his friends at their club

(Which takes place at the back of the neighboring pub)

He loves to regale them if someone else pays

With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days

For he once was a star of the highest degree

He has acted with Irving, he's acted with tree

And he likes to relate his successes on the halls

Where the gallery once gave him seven cat-calls

But his greatest creation, as he loves to tell

Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell

When he arrived at the fencing salle, the boy was waiting outside the door. The old man pulled up to the door and pulled himself out of the car using the Oh shit bar. He shouldered his case from the back seat and went in, followed by the boy. He started up the stairs. The first step took the old man by surprise as the searing pain from last night's snapped Achilles tendon shot up his calf. He realized that he would have to favor the leg throughout the day. Images of the strange chiroman and his receptionist immediately surfaced for air, and the man plunged them back under the surface.

"Tom, do you need any help?" The boy was staring up at the man with concern. 

He had noticed the obvious wince.

"No, I'm ok." His reply was terse and final as he pulled himself up by the handrail.

When they ascended the twenty-six steps and entered the fencing salle, it was chilly. It always seemed cooler in the salle than the temperature was outside. Once inside, the boy went to stretch, and the old man turned on the front lights and heat.  

These early morning lessons were nice. The man liked the solitude. It was good to give lessons in the mornings, except for the stiffness and aches. The salle was quiet, and the boy was fresh. He asked fewer questions during these morning sessions. Maybe he just wasn't awake, the man surmised, zipping up his plastron.

The lesson, with the boy, went well, as usual. The man tried to confine the lesson to review, but the boy continually pressed into new areas. Lately, the boy was doubling up on lessons in preparation for the circuit event coming up in a week and the early morning slots were all that the man had left. When it was done, the two sat as the boy mopped his head and neck with a handful of paper towels.

I have played in my time every possible part

And I used to know seventy speeches by heart

I'd extemporize backchat; I knew how to gag

And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag

I knew to act with my back and my tail

With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail

I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts

Whether I took the lead or in character parts



"Tom,"

"What," the fencing master looked askew at the boy. Questions again, the man thought. The boy had to go to class, and the old man took it for granted that there would be no questions due to the lateness of the hour.  

"Did you ever do any circuit events? I mean−when you were younger."

The man paused as he turned the question over in his mind. "Yeah, I did a lot of them. Why?"

"I don't know. Just curious, I guess."

I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell,

When the curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell

In the Pantomime Season, I never fell flat

And I once understudied Dick Whittington's cat

But my grandest creation, as history will tell

Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell

"I did a lot of tournaments. Nationals, Sectionals, Pomme d'Terre. The same ones that you're doing now. Not much has changed, really, in that respect." The old man looked over at the boy. What was this all about? Was he afraid? Maybe that was it. The man started talking as he watched the boy, trying to get to the root of these questions.

"The last circuit event that I did was in 93. It was a foil event. I blew my knee out in the quarter-final bout and wound up fencing for the gold medal, unable to advance or retreat."

"How did it go?"

"I lost." The man chuckled at the memory to chase away its sting. "Thirteen to fifteen."

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin

He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne

At a Shakespeare performance, he once walked on pat

When some actor suggested the need for a cat

The man stared off into space so hard the boy looked as well. Maybe we make it too easy for them, he thought. “It was a bitch when we were coming up. We had to train ourselves. There were no classes. We worked our asses off." The man hashed these thoughts as he looked over at the boy. The boy did the work, though. If he would just stop all the damn questions, he might make it. He desperately wanted the boy to make it. The man saw the boy as pure potential, unlimited and brilliant. The training wasn't enough, though. It never was. The boy had to make the final leap into the abyss alone, where his only protection would be an unshakable belief in himself that he could do it. Then, and only then could he seize what he had labored so hard to earn. 

And I say now these kittens, they do not get trained

As we did in the days when Victoria reigned

They never get drilled in a regular troupe

And they think they are smart just to jump through a hoop

"Hey, Mike."

"What."

"Don't worry so much. You're ready. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. Just try to have a little fun. Fence hard but have some fun. And don't get cocky, ya hear."

"Yeah." He looked down at his feet.

He says as he scratches himself with his claw

Well, the theater is certainly not what it was

These modern productions are all very well

But there's nothing to equal from what I hear tell

That moment of mystery when I made history

As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell

The boy went to class, and the salle was silent again. The old man drove the Jeep back to the house with the radio off. The memories dogged him with an intensity so vivid that he almost regretted that he learned to fence. He replayed the bouts from the day of failure over in his mind as if they happened only minutes ago. The memories crystallizing in his mind were clearer than those that had happened yesterday, and he was irritated they had bubbled to the surface once again. 

I once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire

To rescue a child when a house was on fire

And I think that I still can much better than most

Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the ghost

The problem wasn't recalling the visions; it was getting rid of them. He pulled the car into the driveway and sat for a long while. The memories thrummed with the engine but were no more now than fluttering echoes, and he felt relieved.  

And I once played Growl Tiger

Could do it again-

Could do it again-

Could do it again

"Shit," the old man spat as he kicked the Jeep door open.