What’s Happening? (17 page)

Ever so slightly, the claws of a street cat rummaging hungrily through a garbage can, scratched the air. In the distance, a boat, whistling to the river, greeted the new morning. In the street below, a lone car engine growled, then roared with life. The crescendo of engine blended with motion, at its zenith a fender rattled, then the sound was absorbed into the oblivion of silence.

The room was again abuzz with the static and pressure of quiet. The silence existed and was ever the same and undisturbed, an intermingling with eternity and nothingness.

Suddenly, a rattle ushered a golden, gleaming brightness into the room. Rita clamped her eyes closed more tightly, drawing her head back and away from the sudden burst of incandescence. Her hand shaded her eyes as she squinted toward the source of the light. Tom, shirtless, was outlined before the window. He had pulled back the drapes, allowing shafts of sunlight, just risen above surrounding buildings, to sear the room. Through the shafts floated a myriad of dust particles. Tom, risen, washed, had opened the curtains to let in the day, to awaken Rita.

Rita watched Tom's back. One of her arms lay outside the covers. Her other hand held the blanket to her chin. Only her head, floating on a spray of long, black hair, contrasted against the whiteness of the sheets.

Tom peered through the windows, absently rubbing his hands in a towel. He watched the street below intently. Now he turned and walked toward the bed. He noticed the glistening reflection of Rita's open eyes.

“Morning, baby …” His face rippled with a smile. “Hope you don't mind getting up so early? I have to go to work.”

“That's okay,” Rita's voice rasped shakily as she stretched one arm into the air, then wiped the sleep from her eyes. “I have to go to work,.…” She stretched her shoulders, her head trembling, her voice straining out. “… too, this morning.”

“Man, it takes you a long time to wake up,” Tom chuckled. He tossed the towel toward the bathroom which was through a door near the side of the bed.

“How long have you been up?” Rita asked, looking around. She sat up holding the covers about herself.

“I don't know—fifteen minutes or so.” He looked at his watch, then sat on the side of the bed.

“What time is it?” Rita stretched her free arm over her head. When the muscles were taut, she lowered the arm and began to stroke Tom's neck.

“Seven fifteen.” Tom nestled his head further into her hand so she could stroke it more firmly. “Mmmmm, … that's nice,” he purred. “A beautiful woman stroking your head early on a beautiful morning—great!” He raised his arms straight over his head and stretched them, letting himself sink backward slowly so that he lay across Rita's legs. She lay back on the pillow, still holding the covers in one hand, stroking Tom's head with the other. They stared absently at the ceiling.

“I was just looking out into the street,” Tom said, twisting to gaze toward the window. “And there was this cat—a real one, that is, to be differentiated from the swinging kind.” He smiled. Rita laughed in crinkly-eyed enjoyment. “And he was digging in the garbage pail for his breakfast, or dinner. I don't know what hours this cat keeps.”

“Probably going home from a night on the town. He's picking up breakfast.”

“Yeah. Well, I'm looking at this cat, and I said to myself, I wonder where his woman is? Then I thought of me—us—and I thought how much nicer it is to be here with you than out there.”

“Thanks a lot. You're real cool with your compliments.”

“Aww, you know what I mean.” Tom twisted toward Rita, appealing.

“I know,” she said softly, smiling, nodding her head slightly. As lovers sense each other's mood because they are
sympatico
, close, almost one, so Rita could sense Tom's thoughts. The closeness they shared dispelled fears, opened the way for a deeper mutual understanding.

“I mean, it's so alone and cold out there,” he said intensely, “and somebody's liable to come along any minute and shoo him, or put the lid on the can, or throw a rock at him, or something. You know, like he's all by himself, all lonely and all, and maybe he got in a fight last night and some big cat came and took his girl away, and now he's thinking of his girl, and how it used to be, and how the big cat is probably making it with her, and like that. You know what I mean?” he asked hopefully. “Like, it's real tough to be out there all alone.” Tom's head twisted back toward the window.

“I guess I know how the cat feels.” Rita was grave and pensive.

“Yeah, you know what I mean,” Tom agreed. “Now all the little God damn cat wants to do is get himself some chow. Nobody else is going to take care of him. He probably sees Mary's cat in the window—Mary is a chick that lives across the street—and like the cat in the can looks up and sees this cat inside the window, all warm and fed, and taken care of, and as he looks up over the lip of this greasy garbage can, he gets to wish he had some place warm with somebody to take care of him.”

“Yeah, I know, and like maybe it's been that way all his life,” Rita added, “running and jumping, and he wants to stop but he can't. He was probably born in a back alley one night, and his old lady took off right away without even saying ‘hello'—just left him there to shift for himself. And all people ever do is throw rocks at him or chase him because he wants to eat. Probably that first night some guy came along and saw kittens, all newborn in his alley, and gathered them up, because it was dark and no one could see him, and threw them in a garbage pail so he wouldn't have to bother keeping them.”

They lay silently on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, the mood and quiet infusing them with thought. Time passed slowly. Tom lifted himself up on one elbow and twisted toward Rita.

“That's what I mean about being so much nicer here with you than in the garbage can. And yet, maybe we're both in the garbage can right along with him, and like, maybe that's where we'll stay, and … ahh, …” Tom exclaimed hopelessly, “I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.” He twisted back toward the window, propping himself up on both elbows.

Rita sat up and touched his shoulder. He turned, embraced her, and they clung to each other hungrily. Her bare body felt warm and soft in his arms.

“I know what you're saying,” she assured him consolingly. “People are like that. They don't only treat cats like that either.”

Tom snuggled his head on Rita's shoulders. She pressed her head against his.

“Maybe we only met for one night, but even for one night it's better than being in the garbage can alone,” Tom murmured, not looking up.

They were silent, both aware that their brief warmth was over, not knowing if they would ever find each other or warmth again.

“It's as if we're cats and found a whole clean fish, and like we enjoyed it, and it was good, and we'll always remember it,” Tom continued. “People should accept temporary pleasures and not grumble, or worry, or bitch, because life isn't better than it is. It's rough and rotten sometimes. It's cold and it's hard, like a garbage can.”

“And the cats from the nice warm houses come out and want to pick at the garbage cans too,” added Rita. “They don't have to. They do it because they're bastards, or because they don't have any sense, or they don't know why. But they keep coming out and eating in the pails, and when they go home they get cleaned and fed, and make believe they don't eat out of garbage cans. They never had to feel the cold. They don't know what it's like; they just do it for a lark, … and they don't even know how cold it is when they get there, 'cause they can always go back. It's different when there's no place to go back to—tougher.”

“I hope the cat in the pail downstairs will be lucky and find some good food for a change today. That makes it a little easier sometimes. When he finds it he won't worry about it, or hoard it. He won't worry about anything until it's all gone. That's what's good about animals. They find something, they enjoy it, and that's it. Like we found each other, and it was warm and tender for a while, and it helps you to forget the rotten times. Soon the real smart, normal people in those warm houses will start going to work and chase all the cats out of the cans as they go. They don't want to feel that anybody can use or enjoy something they can't—even garbage. They chase the cat because he's not working or something. They don't know why they chase him. They just chase him 'cause they're not cats and so what's the difference? They don't feel it.”

“People are the most vicious, brutal things alive. An animal wouldn't bother anything unless he was hungry or frightened. People are jealous, envious, sneaky, rotten, treacherous …” She cut herself off disgustedly.

“It was real nice here in our garbage can, baby.” Tom squeezed Rita to himself more tightly, desperately.

“Too bad it ended so soon,” Rita added sadly. “But that's the way it goes. It would anyway. We should only remember it was nice.”

“I know what you mean, baby, and like you're one of the only people I know that knows what I mean. Oh, they know all right, but then they don't know—they don't want to know! They don't want the burden of thinking about it. It's easier to go along without thinking. But underneath they really know.” He became silent, staring at the ceiling. “I wish this would never change, … that we could always be warm and happy. I guess because I know how cold it can be.”

“Maybe that's why the cats with warm houses don't want to think, to know,” Rita murmured. “They're afraid of the garbage can, and the cold—afraid they'll be in it. So they make believe it doesn't exist, as if that will make it disappear.”

“Yeah. I'd like to be warm and happy too, … we, … you and me,… me and somebody. But it's better this way. Better to be happy once in a while, better to think about having been happy once, than to curse and be miserable 'cause you can't be happy all the time. Lots of those cats are unhappy living in a warm garbage can. They're unhappy, but too afraid to move. They'd rather be dead, warm and safe, than live by taking a chance.”

“They're going to die anyway, …” Rita commented indifferently.

“Yeah. And they're getting fat and lazy, forgetting how to run. If somebody ever chases them, they die like a miserable pig. A cat's not a cat if he doesn't know how to run. Those house cats are just throw-pillows, not cats. You've got to taste life and remember the important things. The rest doesn't matter.” He looked at his watch and turned to Rita. “I gotta get going. You can stay until later if you want to. Just shut the door behind you—if you want.”

“Okay. I don't have to be to work until eleven thirty.” She smiled, a deep sadness in her dark eyes.

Tom stood and began to button his shirt.

“I guess we'll just keep jumping from pail to pail, …” he added.

“I guess so, cat. And all my life, even when I die, I'll remember all the good things, and I'll remember you, and this, and I'll be happy again because I'll know I didn't waste it. I touched life.”

“Don't talk about dying. There's not a cat alive more alive than you.” Tom tousled her hair playfully, pushing her back on the bed.

She watched Tom finish dressing. As he put on his tie, he walked to the window and looked down into the street.

Below, a janitor in sooty clothes leaned on his broom, interrupting his sweeping to allow some people to pass on their way to the subway. The lids of the garbage cans had all been replaced. The janitor started to sweep again, his broom scratching the sidewalk.

“Well, the garbage can is covered, and the long hungry coldness begins again.” Tom walked back from the window, slipping his jacket on.

“But he'll remember and it won't be so bad.”

“No, … it won't be so bad.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I'll see you soon, okay?”

“Sure, maybe I'll see you tonight,” Rita said perfunctorily, not sure that she would.

“No, I have to leave tonight, go home. Somebody in my family is getting married, so we'll all get together and say, “Isn't it a shame we only get together at weddings and funerals.” He smiled.

“Be cool then.” Rita lay back on the pillow. She was sad. The warmth was really over, and she was alone again. She pulled the covers tightly about herself.

“So long, baby.” Tom opened the door. “Listen, be sure to shut this tight will you?”

“Sure.”

Rita heard Tom's footsteps follow one after the other down the steps. She felt colder and lonelier with each step. She pulled the covers up over her head and cuddled tightly against the pillow.

11

The flames encased by the front window of the hamburger shop licked spectacularly through open grillwork at the oozing raw meat patties. Smoke swirled and funneled up into a bright copper flue hanging imposingly, open-mouthed over the grill. Droplets of moisture rolled paths through the steam which fogged the inside of the plate window. From outside, occasional human shadows filtered through the steam; anonymous eyes watched the leaping flames, the cooking meat, studied the menu taped to the window, then passed on to be engulfed in the all-encompassing light beyond.

Work was as usual for Rita this day, save that she was a bit tired. She sat at a back table sipping coffee and gazing absently at the people in the shop. Her customers, already served, sat upon the low, revolving stools of the counter and at the tables, eating and talking. Two girls, obviously from Uptown, unconsciously munched hamburgers as they giddily and voraciously observed and absorbed the sights and people about them. Boxes of new-bought clothing from one of the Village shops were propped against the legs of their chairs.

Unwont to move, her head supported on her palms, her elbows on the table, Rita turned her thoughts within herself, unhurriedly contemplating her work. Work began and ended and what was accomplished? Serving a plate of food, removing an empty plate, washing the plate, out again, in again, day after day. It seemed so useless, redundant, futile, working to maintain life, maintaining life to work, ad finitum. Rita's work, however, provided the funds necessary for Rita's acting class; it had a purpose, a reason, beside itself, for being.