I heard on knock on my bedroom window while I was using the few extra minutes before I had to leave for work on Friday morning to examine some bruises on my arms and hands.
I wasn't sure where all of them originated. I had a constellation of yellow bruises on my right arm that were most likely from walking into doorframes throughout any given day as I rushed here and there at work.
There was one especially ugly one on my left arm, but I knew that happened when I was pushing a collection of shirts away from the folding door and then closed the door while my arm was still inside the closet.
I was pretty sure I had a bruise on my left ass cheek from taking a tumble at work while helping a resident sit down at the bingo game. It all happened so fast that one moment I was upright and the next I was on the ground, my glasses flying off as I fell.
It was like the few times during my youth in West Virginia when I would get in a hurry and slip on a patch of ice–one second I was running to the bus or galloping down the slope in front of my house, and the next thing I knew, I was staring at the sky or squinting at a canopy of bare tree branches wondering what the hell just happened.
"What the hell is happening?" I asked out loud as the knock on my window became more insistent.
It probably wasn't any of the cats who hang out on my private patio. This was, unfortunately, rutting season for them. They were–I thought: but I jump ahead of my tale– scattered all over the apartment complex howling and yowling and hissing and scratching for their chances to reproduce more solid black and tuxedo cats to confuse me at dawn and twilight.
I prayed it wasn't Mr. Jerry. The evening before, he had offered me part of a "still warm" pizza that he first tried to pawn off on Dave Nexdore, who wasn't answering Mr. Jerry's knocks. I refused to take the pizza box from his nicotine-stained hands, citing that I "gave up pizza for Lent," which was as blasphemous a lie as I have ever told anyone.
Instead of taking my advice and saving it to eat the next day, he shuffled off and made his way to the door of the Uber Eater, who, I'm sure, rebuffed him, too, but without the mendacity attached to my refusal.
It couldn't have been Dave Nexdore knocking on my window. If he wanted to tell me something he would have just texted or called me. Because I hadn't seen him in a few days, and because he told me he was fighting a stomach bug the last time we were in communication, I suspected he was away selling ball-bearing-filled Monkey Fists to the military.
This wouldn't be surprising, since the world seems to be ramping up for the arrival of World War III. I'm not sure where the U.S. is going to get its horses, swords, or suits of armor but when all these purchases fall into place we'll be more than ready to fight for our right to party.
I lifted the blind on the window to see who now seemed to be focused on breaking the glass to get my attention. There stood Citizen Jim, my best friend and the person I love most in the world! Behind him were two sets of fornicating cats and a film crew wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the logo for an PBS-funded production company specializing in wildlife pornography.
"Let me in before I get caught up in this feline filth fest!" he shouted.
He was fuming when he barged into my apartment!
"All I need to make my life worse than it is already is Mama clicking her remote to that 'Hot Fur on Fur' show on the public television station after she watches 'Angels Touch Us Everywhere' on the Grit network," he said.
"I'm just glad it was you out there and not Mr. Jerry," I said.
"Well, don't be too hard on that bleary-eyed old smokestack," Citizen Jim said. "He did give me half of a pizza before I got to your place. It took you so long to let me in that I ate most of it and gave the rest to the director of that dirty movie."
I decided to just let it go.
"Are you–" I started, but Citizen Jim held his left hand to silence me.
"No, I'm not hungry! I just ate pizza! And no, I'm not thirsty for a cup of your shitty coffee or a mug of paint-stripping tea. I don't want to watch one of those boring movies you like, and I'm not interested in being read to from any of those books about the Paris Commune," he said.
"That's good because I have to leave for work," I said.
He ran over and threw himself against the door. "Not yet! You haven't heard my good news!" he said.
"Is this actually good news, or is it a plan of some kind that might one day produce good news?" I asked.
"Yeahyeah, whatever, just listen! Those guys out there, they don't know what they're doing! They're just making what'll basically be five or ten memes on Tik Tok and Facebook. And, I mean, that's fine! But once they leave, we need to wrangle every cat in this entire stray cat village and make a feline pornographic extravaganza!"
I had no words.
"I imagine you're speechless because you're thinking about what an amazing idea this is," he said. "I get it. I'll give you a few more seconds to take it all in."
We stared at one another in silence.
"I'll think more about it once I get to work, but I really need to go," I said. "I've got to teach some residents how to play Kings in the Corner at ten o'clock."
"So you're telling me you're willing to throw away a chance to produce a movie with Taylor Swift to teach a gaggle of Mamaws and Papaws how to play a card game?" he asked.
I wasn't sure where Taylor Swift fit into this, but that was far beside the point. "Also, there's a bingo game this afternoon. The Friday bingo game is no joke. It can't be missed," I told him.
"Why do you always fight opportunity like a Commie fights a Nazi when it comes knocking on your door?" he asked.
"Right now you're lucky I'm fighting the urge to call your mama to come get you if you don't move out of the way and let me leave," I said.
He issued a short bark of laughter. "Ha! Good luck with that! When I left her apartment she and her friends from the quilting circle were about to open the monthly box they order from a bakery in Colorado that uses Blueberry Muffin in their blueberry muffins," he said. "If you've never eaten a treat that mixes Razzleberry and Purple Panty Dropper, you'll never know what a true high is."
Though I'd never heard of anything he was talking about, I knew I'd probably pay good money to see any quilt they made after they ate those muffins.
"And by the way," I said. "What the hell does Taylor Swift have to do with any of this?"
"Look, I don't have the time and you don't have the attention span for a full explanation. The long and short is that Tay is trying to break into the movies. And she loves cats, right? You and I," he said, using a finger to indicate himself and myself several times, "we have access to as many cats as we might need to make a full-length erotic motion picture that she could produce and then show off to her own animals at home."
"But to what end?" I asked.
"I'm assuming you've heard of Joe Namath, right?" he asked.
I rolled my eyes. "Of course I've heard of Joe Namath!"
"And do you know why you even know about Joe Namath?" he asked. "Have you ever asked yourself, 'How did this jug-eared nobody suddenly start appearing in TV commercials for pantyhose and hearing aids?'?"
"No, I haven't. Because I know how he ended up on TV–he was a famous football player," I said.
"Well, it's one thing to be a famous football player, but quite another to be a famous football player dating Taylor Swift," he said. "It's like the difference between being a humble car tire and being a car tire on a Rolls Royce."
"Do you actually think Taylor Swift is dating Joe Namath?" I asked.
"Do you actually think Joe Namath would turn down a date with Taylor Swift?"
"They're not dating!"
"So I guess you're calling Mama a liar? My mother? She may get a little loopy from eating those muffins with her quilting circle, but she's certainly not a liar!" he said.
"Oh, Precious Lamb! Joe Namath is eighty years old! Why would you even think he and Taylor Swift might be dating?"
"I guess I just figured when Mama said something about Taylor Swift and her football player boyfriend, she meant Joe Namath. Mama loves Joe Namath," he said.
"I'm going to work. You need to get online and start Googling so you can get up to speed with what's going on in this century," I said.
"But I've got a good name for the movie and everything!" he yelled at my back as I walked to my car. "Who wouldn't want to be part of a film project called Catligula? Come on!"
When I looked back he was running from what looked like the entire cat colony, the film crew, and Mr. Jerry.