Friendship

There’s cat in my neighborhood, kitten-sized and hairless, one of a tribe called Canadian Sphynx. She wanders in the open fields, with a little bell on her neck. Jingle-jingle, I hear up the hill. Jingle-jingle, I hear down the street. When I hear the jingle-jingle near my front yard, I put out a bowl of cream and whatever meat is left in the fridge. She eats it all, as though she hasn’t eaten for days. Hobo cats don’t last long around here; we see coyotes trot down the road with 20-pound Toms in their mouth, and we have hawks and owls. But this little girl, with her thin skin and no apparent weapons, has survived for years. After eating and drinking her fill, she curls up on my front step. Always, when I check back later, she’s gone.

Shortly after R left, to be more accurate, shortly after R left me, I moved in with Cathy and we both dropped out of college. We lived on the second floor of a creaky old house; we sent our rent check to Chicago because our landlord was serving time as a slumlord. I probably don’t have to tell you how great it is to be that age and have no one bother you about your noise, your dogs, the constant stream of guests. Plus, this place had the best front porch. We’d set up our Panasonic speakers and blast Tom Waits and Springsteen.

(Years later, Cathy and I chatted by email. “The neighbors must have hated us!” she wrote. This was a revelation -- We had neighbors?)

We lived on peanut m&ms, dinner dates, and whatever anybody else brought around. Cathy was the resourceful one. She knew how to cook. I remember my sense of awe the first time she fried up some bacon.

We had much in common. Cathy was a good poet, though didn’t write that much; I was a very bad poet, and prolific. We had lots of boyfriends. Her ex-boyfriends remained friends; mine lit candles and pushed pins in little blond dolls.

Cathy got stuck working as an aide at a nursing home. Because I had no skills, I got a good-paying job working for Tom, a millionaire. It was a general/limited partnership, some sort of tax dodge for his wealthy clients, and Pam, the office manager, spent half her time dealing with the feds and lawsuits. I just xeroxed and typed address labels.

Tom would have me out to the club to play tennis with his family – a wife, and a son my age. The first time, I showed up in black tights and daisy dukes. After that, his wife bought me several tennis outfits. Tom and his wife were ancient, mid-forties, I think.

One time Tom’s wife came to the office, sat on the edge of my desk and said to the window, “People think when you reach middle age, the love dies. My husband and I are more in love than ever.” Then she turned and looked straight in my eyes. I wanted to tell her not to worry on my account, but then, I couldn’t. She was telling me she didn’t like me.

I took my dog Bru to work, because Tom was usually traveling the country raising capital and Pam never chastised me for anything, unless I didn’t show up and neglected to call. (“Don’t ever do that,” Pam said once. “I called hospitals. I thought you were dead.”)

But sometimes Tom would pop in unexpectedly, and I’d shove Bru under my desk.

“Karin, did you bring that dog in here?”

Thwack, Thwack, went Bru’s tail, against the side of my desk.

“Karin, this is a business office. You can’t bring a dog.”

“Sure, Tom. I won’t do it again.”

And the next time, “Karin, I thought I made myself clear…”

Thwack, thwack.

I was no use around the office, but Tom didn’t care; he just dumped more work on Pam. He wanted to take me to Las Vegas, New York, London. He even brought brochures. “Actually, I’m still involved with someone, Tom.”

Thwack, thwack.

At one point Cathy had a boyfriend, a guy on parole. (Drugs? Theft? I think it was theft. Whatever. Cathy didn’t believe in judging people. ) She wanted to take him to Chicago to see a concert for his birthday. Cathy was my best friend and I was right to go the extra mile. Lots of guys have fed me, but for years and years, not one other girlfriend ever cooked me dinner.

Tom was out of town, but I called him and said, “I have to borrow your car, but I can’t tell you why.” I hate to lie, but don’t mind getting by on a technicality. He arranged that I pick up the keys and the car at his son’s house.

It was – I don’t know – a two hour drive each way? That sounds right. We enjoyed the concert. There were four of us – the boyfriend brought his friend, some guy in prison who had weekend or weekday furloughs, I forget which. To be honest, I thought this dating convicts thing was totally crazy. But Cathy was way crazier than I was – a good poet and a lapsed Catholic. Anyway, for me, it wasn’t a date, I did nothing more than kiss him on the cheek at the end of the night. Or I guess, it was early morning, by then. He was very sweet, and no older than I was.

I took the car back to Tom’s son’s place, the gas tank dead empty. Then I walked home.

A few hours later, around 8 in the morning, Tom’s son called. “Karin, the car reeks. Get some Glade and bring it over here now. Otherwise Dad will blame me.”

See, Tom’s son was an entrepreneur in his own right, and ran a successful, albeit illegal, business on the side.

So we sprayed the interior with two cans of Forest Mint, permanently killing all odors, including the Cadillac’s new car smell.

In any case, I had planned to quit my job that week. I needed to take some time to think about the future. Cathy was moving back home. I moved in with my boyfriend, D. My parents weren’t speaking to me at the time, but D’s family practically adopted me. Other people’s parents were always doing that.

Six months later, I moved to the west coast. I still didn’t have much of a plan, but I had a ticket. And I bought another one for Bru.

song