Bobcats at My Door
My head exploded and I awoke. Perhaps my gun set itself off again, or the thunder was crying out in the mountains. I wouldn’t know; I couldn’t know. Sounds haven’t meant much to me lately. The color of my curtains and the cigarette ash about my window seal held my attention. I giggled when it rained because it forced my ears. my sullen, limping ears, to collect the noise that shattered about my roof
I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. My ankles cracked and my knees felt like they would fall through the floor. I was thinking about this feeling I had. My dream was nothing to me, but this feeling I had upon waking made me shudder more then the lightning. It felt like the mountains were coming for me, and nothing I did could remove the vexing scent of being trapped. I was making too much sense, and decided to sit down on the floor and eat my bread. I took one bite and was finished. Food didn’t mean much to me these days.
I turned on the television and saw a bald man with very small hands walking in a park. I wasn’t sure to what extent I could have contrived any doubt that his hands were in fact small; I am very observant about such things; the less obvious, the attributes that do not surrender easily, even to a watchful eye. The man turned and looked at me, right into my eyes like they were a target. He shot me a glance and smiled like a child. This frightened me, so much so that I didn’t require an electric device or take any action to turn the television off. It just went black when I squealed. The television squealed as well, like a swine in retort.
There was my music, too, which I hearkened to in the mid-afternoon, after I had finished my laundry and smoking. Lovely music. Happy music. Long music. Music that crept into the corner of my mind, remaining for as long as the record player allowed. Sometimes I would listen well into the night, pausing only to eat and urinate. My eyes would grow heavy and my heart would begin to ache. I grabbed my chest and the music stopped. It would be time for bed, and the sadness would whisper to me in tongues. As if I could understand its menial logic. Over and over again it would taunt me with its distasteful philosophy. You see, I am a joyful man, and such things do not delight me.
Three raps at my door sounded at the nine o’clock hour, when the sun was all but gone, and insects took flight about the street lamp. I saw shadows in my hallway and heard footsteps in the attic. They were at it again, of this I was sure. I stood to answer the door, but found walking difficult. It is always difficult to move when one is accustomed to being still. My knuckles cracked as I turned the door knob, which pained me. Perhaps it was time to settle down and retire my hands to turning pages instead of doorknobs.
The door made an odd sound upon opening, as if it were not satisfied with the manner in which I opened it. I looked down and saw three bobcats looking up at me. One was quite certainly smiling, unlike the other two, which were most definitely grimacing. We stood there in the doorway for twelve minutes, starring at each other, waiting for the other to say something, waiting and watching, and watching and waiting. I scratched my back, and he did also, the one with the smile. I smiled back for the first time, and the other two did the same.
I moved out of the way and offered my guests some tea, which they declined. No words were used, rather, universal gestures that transcend the barrier between animals. We are all animals in some sense, and in some sense, we are nothing more than vegetation that grows in some wonderful garden.
The bobcats sat and crossed their legs, but I arrested my temptation to do the same. It has always been a fact that the crossing of one’s legs is never hospitable to one’s circulation and good health. I decided instead to dance, and then to die.
Copyright © 2008 by Levi Pendleton
