This is a work of semi-autobiography and therefore should be considered fiction. Names and events have been altered. "Seven Years Bad Luck" is an ongoing series. This is part two.
There are still cars coming down the street, and we’re not picking the cat up with our hands. I tell Kelly, “Let’s get out of the road.” When I pull my hand away, it tingles, like there is a film covering it. I flex my hand and frown.
We get out of the road, and I look around. Kelly is still sobbing her high-pitched sobs; I feel awkward about it and so ignore it for the time-being. How to clean up the cat should probably come first. I consider calling a number, but I don't know any and do not own a smartphone to check. Motel front-desk it is.
I tap Kelly on the arm and gently nudge her into the lobby. It is empty as expected on Halloween night. Behind the counter is a white man. He does not look directly at us at first. Kind of strange, since Kelly is still bawling prettily. I can only wish I cried with that level of elegance. When he kind of does look up, from the sides of his eyes, he gives both of us a slow up and down.
He's really ugly. Is that a coincidence on Halloween?
Jesus H., I am mean in my head.
“Hey, uh, can you help us?” I stutter. He sort of grunts. I don't like him.
Forging forward, “So, I ran over a cat outside? I was wondering if you could call someone to clean it up or…?” Or clean it up yourself, since you look not even remotely busy, seem kind of rude, and are not wearing an outfit that is one incline of the waist away from inviting the world to your pussy.
“A cat?” he asks in a mangled kind of way.
“Yeah, a cat.” What he replies with I can in no way parse.
“Ohhhhhh…kay?” I stare baffled at him.
It feels like even Kelly is pausing a little in the depths of her heartbreak to give him a confused look. He does not really look back.
Ah. Ok then.
I feel less offended, but maybe a mite miffed? This is not really helpful.
We all stand in the doorway a little awkwardly.
“We just need someone to take care of the dead cat in the road that I ran over,” I restate, making the request clear, just in case, and stating my responsibility for the mess, for no good reason. Then I spin around and push my way back out the doors again, Kelly following.
We are back to the road, and I'm out of ideas. We go back to stand by the car. I play with my red little keyboard-slide phone, debating to make a call to 911 just so they could send me to the right people, totally forgetting about the operator. It occurs to me even less to call my parents for help. It’s Halloween night, who’s going to want to help me with this?
Kelly has been crying this entire time, sitting on the curb, and now she’s finally ready to tell me why. I sit down beside her, knees tight together when she starts explaining. I guess I am lucky that she read my discomfort as well-meaning.
“You know-- it’s just--” she babbles through her tears, “Blacky just died recently, and it’s been hard, and this just brought it all back you know? It’s so saaaaaaad.”
Her last word warped into her next boohoo.
I put an arm around her for comfort and think.
Do I sort of get it? Maybe.
Blacky was her cat since she was five. I remember pictures of younger Kelly strangling her in a hug that she did not want. Her dirty blonde bangs set like a curtain over a blissful smile as that poor black cat did its very best to escape and ensure her own survival.
Blacky was her oldest pet. She died in May - badly. Rolling on the floor in agony for days and screaming as Kelly tried to take care of her in her final moments, probably crying the whole time like she is now. An ugly hurt.
Kelly’s belief in the sacredness of the final moment vanished at that time too. She tells me all she wished she had done was take the cat to the vet and euthanized her when they told her she should have.
“I just wish that they would just stop dying, you know? Like, why do they have to die,” Kelly cries.
Having been through two pet deaths myself with nowhere close to this reaction, I am a bit at sea. I struggle with it and then give up. Understanding that I do not understand, I probably will not as we have very different ways of dealing with this.
Being reminded of May darkens my own mood. I have to take a moment to shove it back because now is not the time. Quite apart from Kelly’s own meltdown, a precious cat’s life has been lost. The reminder still makes me testy enough, though, to wonder privately if Kelly conflating her grief over Blacky is remotely fair to the unnamed cat that has actually died tonight. I doubt the nameless cat would care, but I'm still bothered by it.
“Hey, is she alright?”
We glance up, and this black man in a security guard uniform is standing on the sidewalk. He is giving Kelly a really concerned look. Can't blame him; she does not mean it, but Kelly has the most attention-grabbing sob I have ever heard. I'm surprised people have not heard it from their cars and pulled over to see what has happened. Maybe that is what happened with this guy? Or maybe the motel clerk called him?
“I ran over a cat on the road and it needs to be picked up. She’s upset about it.”
I keep telling everyone that it is my fault.
What is wrong with me.
Well, I guess including Kelly in the action would be the opposite of a good idea.
“Oh. Yeah?”
“Can you help?”
The guy gives an askance look towards the road and then looks back at Kelly. I'm getting strong vibes now that he was not called to help.
“It’s over here.”
I stand up and lead him over to the road.
