Love Story

I got insomnia right before I met Brad, Tim, and oh my God, Raymundo. 

I had restless leg syndrome before Herb.

 I walked naked through the neighborhood before Maynard. 

Love, for me, is like a hurricane, a tornado, a blizzard, a mudslide, a tsunami. Love grabs me and turns me inside out and leaves me sobbing on a curb, at a bar, in a rehab facility, in front of a therapist. For me,  love is a bad, bad thing. When it comes, it is precipitated by some sign in the night. 

I am coming off six wonderful years of peace. My tomatoes are growing abundantly. I just got a promotion at work. I am on good terms with my family, friends, and neighbors. I even have a dog I felt confident enough to name Happy.

That’s all over because last night I woke up in the bathroom, my hand swishing around the toilet. My life is about to be turned upside down. 

#

Take a Benedryl. 

Take a Tylenol PM

Take an Ambien. 

Take a vacation. 

If I told my mother I am having premonitions again, this is what she would say. So, I don’t tell my mother. I tell my sister. 

Jeanie thinks I’m crazy. 

“That’s  a bunch of nonsense,” she says.

Jeanie is the most likely to listen to me, but, as a former alcoholic, she believes deeply in recovery, healing.  She thinks all of my former bad behavior was my choice, not something that happened to me. She refuses to see me as a victim, and to her, this is a sign of her love for me, her respect. She doesn’t know what I know. There is no recovery with this. There are no choices. This is a curse. 

My family and friends are traumatized by all the times I stood them up for love, stole from them at a boyfriend’s suggestion, skinny dipped in their pools, got drunk in front of their kids, and, just once, crashed my car into their living room. Love, lovers, drove me to hurt them all, but it was never, ever my choice. 

#

On the third night, Grandma Vargas, long dead, spoke to me from the side of the bed. 

“It’s happening again, my dear one,” she said, her withered hand touching my sweaty one. 

I sat up panting, a sweat stain on my pillow. 

If another lover is coming, I decide the only reasonable choice is to stay in. I tell my boss I need to work from home for a month. Since the pandemic, this is not a strange request.  

I hide in my living room when the mailman brings my packages, when the takeout person drops the cheeseburgers and fries. I cancel the HVAC guy. The toilet overflows and I google how to fix it myself, not wanting to risk the plumber. I cut out the gym and do exercise videos on the internet.  My groceries are delivered. I don’t even talk on the phone or text very much, just to avoid any friends suggesting someone. Once a love interest casts his shadow, I know I will not have much time before things spiral out of control. 

After a month, I am so lonely I am depressed and crying constantly. Grandma Vargas is not letting up.

Jeanie says, “How can this be a good thing?  You need to at least do some teletherapy. Get a female therapist.”

“What If the next one is a woman?”

“Are you gay now?”

“I don’t think so, but, I told you, this is not in my control.”

Jeanie sighs. 

#

Happy gets sick. Really sick. He can’t eat. He can’t stop retching, even though barely anything exits his mouth. There’s diarrhea too, and it smells terrible. There are stains all over my new rug. 

I have no choice. I need to take Happy to the vet. 

#

Dr. Ramos looks at my droopy dog, feels her neck and abdomen and says, “I hate to tell you this, but Happy only has a few weeks left.”

My throat catches.

Happy needs to stay overnight to get the infection in his bowels under control. 

As I am leaving with my empty dog crate, my nose begins to pick up the itching feeling it gets when there’s a cat close by. I sneeze, lowering my head as my body spasms in the explosive moment. I look up and there is a man standing there offering me a tissue. I reject the it, bypass the man’s smiling face, and head to my car. 

A Chevrolet Caprice classic is parked next to my Honda. The license plate says CAT GUY.

#

Jeanine assures me that if I need to believe in the premonition, even though she doesn’t, then I should believe it’s about Happy. 

I go in to visit my dying dog, share pleasantries with the staff, including Dr. Ramos, who is friendly, totally appropriate. 

In the parking lot, I notice a small piece of paper wedged under my windshield wiper. 

I’m the guy with the tissue yesterday. 

I work for Dr. Ramos. 

Coffee sometime? 

Call me! 555-1212

Rich/CAT GUY

I crumple the piece of paper.

That night I soak my sheets. Grandma Vargas is back, stroking my hand. 

“You’ve suffered enough, my love,” she says, her voice as wrinkled as her skin. 

Is CAT GUY going to kill me?

#

I wake the next morning feeling hopeless, despondent. There Is nothing I can do. It’s CAT GUY, not Happy. He’s the one. I will not only destroy my life, but I will be sneezing the entire time. This will most certainly be the end of me. 

I need to go back to the vet to visit Happy. Another thing I have no choice about. 

Of course, CAT GUY is there, behind the desk. He looks up and smiles. 

He asks about his note, did I see it, how about that coffee?

I can’t help but allow a rising tide of insomnia-induced rage well up. 

This guy,  this CAT GUY, does not know the shit storm he is kicking up.

I tell him how he does not want to get to know me, that I have a bad history, that I will destroy his life, he will destroy mine. 

CAT GUY keeps smiling, has the audacity to reach across the desk for my trembling hand, which I snatch away from his grasp. 

 “Ever since you sneezed, I can’t stop thinking about you. It was like magic.”

“I’m allergic. To cats. To everything.”

He tells me there are medications. He tells me he doesn’t like dogs but he can change. 

I do not have to tell him I soon will not have a dog. I start to cry. He comes out from behind the desk,  opens his arms. I fall into them, my nose erupting into a violent outburst, a cacophony of sneezes.

I rip myself from his warmth and rush home without seeing Happy. 

At night I am awakened  by the phone. Dr. Ramos. Happy is gone. I cry myself into a deep sleep.

#

In the morning,  the sunlight drenches my bedroom. 

I am still tired, drag myself out of bed, to the coffee pot, to the car to get my dog’s remains. 

Thank goodness, another person is at the desk. She offers me her condolences, hands me a card. “It’s from Rich, you know, CAT GUY?”

I sigh and reach out to receive, open it.

Storms don’t always destroy. Sometimes they wash away all the bad and make things new. Trust me. 

I drive home, thinking about that, wondering if maybe, just maybe, I do have a choice.