The Vagrant

My mind runs lucid. My dreams run vivid. Everything, chiefly my imagination, runs unchecked. Weird cats and doped-up-to-the-gill-losers, surrealists and curated nonsense—an odd quartet. This PCP-infused picture is brought to you in immersive 75mm CinemaScope. What a sight! A revolutionary take on dreaming, this is.

Get this: I’m in a park. Slammed right in the middle’s a giant baobab. A door grows on its base and I enter. My mind goes giddy when my eyes peep the room, when my nose sniffs the sugary promise of a bowl of porridge, when my ears catch some humming. Is that a rendition of Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang, Bang”? Oh, my favourite! Fucking take me on a nostalgic binge, will you? A tear wiggles free from my eye when I see them. There’s Mum, Da, and the Twins, all pre-fallout. They look happy to see me.

My mother has thick curly locks that flank her round face and looks closer to twenty-five than she does to fifty-five. My father’s built like a bulldog, and has this imposing figure to him. But his most remarkable feature is his habit of wearing formal clothes even during the most inappropriate times. My little brothers are what my mother would look like if she was broadly built and had her hair buzzed.

Mum pulls a chair beside her. “This is for you,” her hand gesture says.

We get to chattering as we eat: the old timer mentions the engine of his ancient 1275GT that’s particularly particular. The conversation then naturally sees Mum assuming the reins. She’s talking about this family court case; the way she moves her arms and the apparent emotional weight in her words suggests to me that this is something she’s most passionate about. That gladdens me. Next up’s my two little brothers. They proudly tell of their exploits in varsity. Yeah, they assume an air of superiority when talk of their studies is mentioned. “Medicine’s nothing,” they say, smiling. Their boundless arrogance arouses a laugh in me. Then, my family moves onto me. SHIT!!! What happened to being a wallflower?

“What’s going on with you?” my father asks.

I try to play it off. I shrug and say, “Nothing.”

“Nothing in the pipeline?”

“Actually, yeah. I’m sitting on something.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Care to explain?” my mother says.

Why would you say that? What is it you’ve got against me? I try to reach for the words. Anything will work. . .anything? Nothing comes to mind. My vocabulary thinks it a right idea to forsake me. I open my mouth meaning to say, I can’t divulge a lot right now, you know. I don’t want to jinx it. But instead I say, “Well. . .that’s. . .you know how it is in. . .art is a fickle thing. . .I can't talk about it. . .the wheels are greased up and if I tell, I run the risk of drying them.”

That short ramble only serves to put a red dot on my forehead, though. My parents zone in. “What?” Da says. Mum’s more precise: “There’s nothing, is there?”

No, there’s not. “Yes, there is.”

“How sad,” my brothers say.

It’s my turn to go, “What?”

My father turns to my mother. “He’s obviously doped up.”

I try to defend myself but the world around me melts away. Everything starts running downward, like rainwater dripping down a window. The happiness that devoured me dissolves into a paralysing melancholy. Joy turns to despair. Self-loathing, my old and constant friend! How have you been? God, how I missed you! You and solitude are my very good companions in this sad thing of a world.

As I sit there, I recall my position. For blankets, I have a stack of flimsy newspapers. For a bed, I have a concrete floor. For a roof, I have a bridge. For a home, I have an underpass. What an existence.

I kick off the blankets. I have myself a stretch and proceed to scratch my arse. The fire’s been reduced to grey smoke and half a dozen embers. What are we doing today? Mmm, it’s Tuesday, so that means those skater kids are coming by this afternoon. Last week they popped close to fifty bucks my way. I can swindle a couple more.

I dig in my pockets and have a feel for things. I count three coins. Two silvers and a bronze.

“What do you want in life?”

The spin-on-my-heels is inspired, in-part, by Cinderella. I see a ginger-furred feline walking my way. His eyes are emerald and seem keen to regard the world around it with an acute level of wariness. Quick note: something’s amiss with this feller. Why? For starters, he’s biped and he sports a tie and jacket. I’m taken aback by the image he cuts. But I don’t think it prudent to run off and cry witchcraft to the nearest pair of human ears. Instead, the sight of the cat leaves me laughing. I laugh until my guts hurt, until my throat hurts.

The following is a conversation between a cat and a man:

“What’s going on with you?” the cat asks.

I snort away the laughter. “Oh, I’m off my nut!”

His round, scruffy face goes, What-does-that-mean?

I go, “It means what it means.” Then: “What do you want?”

“What do you know about the Clowder?”

“That’s not a real word, no?”

“The answer’s binary, kid. It’s not deep like that. It’s yes or no.”

I clock his persona: He’s the don’t-fuck-around type. Strict and unbending, prone to bouts of indifference and impatience in the face of folks totally unlike him. He’s the sort who rarely speak and you can bet your sweet ass that that mouth has a proper stink to it because of that—hahaha!!

To the question he posed, I shake my head and he says, “Good, good. Very good.”

“Why?”

“I’m here to offer you a job. . .”

“What kind of job?”

“You’d know if you cared to lemme finish.”

I shackle my mouth with lock and chain and throw away the phantom key.

“Well, I can’t coat shit in gold and try to sell it for what it isn’t, so here goes: we need your help with an op we’re running.”

I frown but hold my tongue—better to not let it wag.

“You must be asking what kind of op it is.”

I nod.

He spins on his hindquarters, real princess-y, and walks away. “Be quick in how you come along.”

“Where to?”

“Our target/home.”

The cat leads me down an alley where we come upon three other cats. The cat sporting the curly wig sports a midnight purple Mauser C96 and she don’t seem too ashamed to brandish the piece. Because of the thing on her head, I think Curls is the perfect epithet for her. She’s the Bonnie of this op. Think Sadie Adler of the Van Der Linde Gang. Beside her are two black cats. Litter mates, I deduce. To tell them apart I quickly take to calling them Lefty and Righty. The former sports a Kalashnikov over his shoulder. The latter sports a Tommy gun evoking the spirit of Chicago circa 1925. They look drunk on a feeling of self-importance. They’re the muscle of this operation. They’re the Pinky and if that’s the case, then the ginger has to be the brain. Ah, yes, he’s the Don. So, kind of like Vito Corleone or Tony Soprano? Nah, fuck that! Think Lucky Luciano.

After we exchange pleasantries, we hop in their classic Mini to their target/home.

It’s a small pad, cradled between the third and fifth floor. It looks something like this: as you enter, you have the bathroom to your left and a supply closet to your right. Beyond this narrow passage the place opens up. Right there’s the living/TV room. To the left, where there’s another passage, you’ll find the two bedrooms. To the right, you have the kitchen. This and the living room are designed in the open floor style.

“Whose place is this?” I go asking.

“Our owner’s,” Lefty answers, turning on the TV.

“Part-time owners,” Curls corrects him.

I turn to the Don, who’s padding to one of the bedrooms with Righty. “What’s the deal here? What’s the play?”

Lefty says, “What kind of a man are you? Are you a drinker? Smoker? Snort-er? Injector? All of the above? Come on, give me something, man. Which is it?”

“You look freaky enough to stick a suppository coated with LSD up your sphincter,” Curls quips, as she brings over four cans of beer—all for herself.

Her words send Lefty howling in laughter.

I let the joke subside for a bit, let them sit in silence before I start asking about my doing there.

“The Don’ll give you the gist,” is all Curls says to reassure me.

But I’m not reassured. As far as I know I’m breaking-and-entering. I could ask for more but I’ve come to learn that people don’t like being asked the same questions. So, I decide to let it be. If the Don’s going to explain, then so be it. In the meantime, I content myself with whatever these cats find enjoyable on TV. . .I try to ignore the absurd sight of a cat drinking beer.

A moment later, the Don and Righty return, with the latter carrying a black safe on his shoulder. “This is our deal,” boss-man says, “there’s close to fifty-five thousand in this here box—”

“How’d you figure that?”

“There you go interrupting again.”

I turn meek and weak. “Sorry.”

“There’s close to fifty-five thousand in this. Help us crack it and I can toss twenty grand your way.”

“Why not half?”

“Because that’s not how we conduct business.”

I lick my lips and give it a think. 20K, you say? That’s enough cash to have my mind on “Oh-la-la” mode from angel dust for the rest of the year! An exciting prospect, this. I can regularly treat myself to that taco truck! Why, I’ll be the richest fucking pauper in existence, the way I see it!!! I look at the cats and look at the safe. Another thought—much more Machiavellian than the last—flashes before me. But it quickly dies down when I note their guns. I’ll be full of red holes before I get out that door. And besides, I dunno the combination, which brings me to: “I’m not a thief.”

“Never pegged you for one,” the Don admits.

“So, why am I here?”

“Cats lack the dexterity humans have.”

“Does that mean you can’t use guns?”

“It means Mother Nature’s unknowable at times. What evolutionary purpose do breasts on a man serve?”

I shrug, unwilling to admit I hadn’t given the thought much thought.

“The dial’s the problem,” Curls explains.

I ask for the code and summarily get to work. It’s a quick job; seconds later, we’re inside. True to the Don’s word, there’s a pile up of cash in there. I don’t have to count it all to know it’s a lot. In the 40-60 thousand range, I suppose. Besides the cash, there’s a cache of jewels: earrings wrought in fake gold, necklaces wrought in fake silver, actual diamond earrings, copper bangles and bracelets, a purse full of rings. “Have your pick,” the Don tells us referring to the jewellery. What results is light chaos:

Lefty makes a grab for the clutch of pearls and gets socked right on the nose by Curls. In response, he hisses but she smacks him again. He’s sent sprawling and whimpering in defeat. Righty and I almost get into it when he complains about the diamond earring in my hand. I point out that he can have the other but that isn’t enough. Soon, he’s making threats, asking if I prefer a flaying over a slit throat. The Don, trying at diplomacy, sends Righty away to “go load the money in the car with the others”, while he sits me down. “You look like you like a whiskey,” he starts, “am I wrong?”

I shake my head and he goes over to the kitchen. He returns with two glasses of whiskey and the bottle.

“Righty’s kind of soft in the head.”

I frown to show my confusion.

“He’s got mud for brains. . .he sees the worst in people, that’s the code he lives by. That way, disappointment never surprises him.”

“What a code,” is all I offer. Then: “So, what’s the deal with you?”

“Meaning?”

“How long have you stayed here?”

He squints. “We’re going on four days now.”

“Where were you before?”

“Another house. We got taken in by this elderly couple. For a time, we were nursing home cats.”

At this particular moment, I’m starting to board the train of what’s going on here. “Then you robbed them while they were away?”

“That Mini’s theirs.” He smiles. “Perfect isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Our get up. This isn’t the Middle Ages—nobody’s going to throw a non-human animal in court.” He looks at me and at the glass. “You’re not drinking. Don’t you like?”

I hastily blurt, “No, no, no. It’s not that. . .it’s just strong, you know. . .besides, I have to pace myself, otherwise. . .” I take a forced sip and wince in disgust.

“So, what makes one homeless?”

“In my case, a series of bad decisions and a sprinkle of self-destruction. And maybe a side of bad luck to make it a trilogy.”

He grabs my glass and pours more liquor in it. “I’m your barman. And you’re a disgruntled customer who’s come to lighten the load.”

“Ah, what a life poorly lived, man. What’s sad is I grew up in a well-off home. My parents always got along, to a certain extent. They worked good jobs. Every present I could ever think of I got on Christmas. I went to the best schools and got good results. But I trekked the self-inflicted journey to my own ruin. It’s all on me.”

“And your family. . .they never call?”

I shake my head before going on to take a massive gulp of the drink. Moments later, my stomach has assumed hellish conditions.

“And you never called them?”

I nod. “I naturally assumed I was dead to them. The things I did, man. . .if I was them and they were me, I wouldn’t want to call me.”

“But luckily they ain’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s to say what they’re thinking? My mother always said she would gladly die by my hand if her death made me happy.”

I frown again. “What?”

“Well. . .see. . .what’s the right wording here. . .the point I’m getting at is nobody loves you like your mother loves you. If that’s lost or was never there to begin with. . .well, fucking hell.” He puts a paw to my shoulder. “Your folks ain’t given up on you.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“I have a feeler for these things. Just give them a ring and see what happens.”

“Boss,” I hear Lefty from behind, “everything’s ready.”

"Why do you care so much about what happens to me?"

"You'll know in time. The answer lies in our interactions."

He nods to Lefty, who leaves. “I know you want to talk to them. Just as much as them, I think. Do it. The streets aren’t for you. You deserve a home, kid. You deserve a smile.”

I smile, however wanly.

“I don’t want to see you in the streets no more.”

“Uh-huh.”

The Don holds out a paw for me to evidently shake. “Have we come to an understanding? Yeah, I should hope so.”

I nod.

“Come along the others are waiting.”

I follow him to the sled and we drive away.

As the others celebrate the success of their operation, I find myself a prisoner to my own mind. As it is, I’m shackled by my thoughts. The only way through them is exactly that—through not around. So, then I let them consume me:

Four years as a vagrant. Christmas and birthdays spent on cold turfs. Misery, misery, misery, I am your mistress. At your call, I come running. Whatever your desires, I will make true. Solitude, oh, solitude, when will you lemme be? On my deathbed? Impossible, for even then you’ll still haunt me six feet below. You know how to fix this. But, I’ve been forsaken. I want to believe, man. . .I want to believe in flying pigs and in aliens and in dragons and trolls and that the universe is finite and in the heart-wrenching notion that my family wants me back. Belief is misdirected hope dressed in a fancy bow and skirt. But. . .

The desire to be loved is a righteous mind-fuck, you know.

“Stop the car,” I say after noting a phone booth. I say my thanks to the Don and hop out.

I scurry over to the booth and start dialling Mum’s number. It ring-ring-rings six times before someone picks up. I hear static and b/g noise. A familiar voice says, “Yes?”

Tears flood my face. I try to lick my Sahara Desert-turned lips. I try to ignore the complaints of my stomach. I try to ignore how light my head feels. I can’t do this—

“Hello?”

I try to recollect myself. I steady myself. I find the resolve I momentarily lost, and then I take a deep breath.