Eyeheart Everything (5 page)

I often find myself at parties, drunk and cornered, or else simply cornered, by someone who wants to ask me getting-to-know-you type questions. Where am I from? Where did I go to school? What do I do for a living? Oh, really? Maybe they find me attractive, maybe they feel some social obligation to be chatty. Either way I find these questions tedious, and the answers more so. It’s fortunate for these inquisitive party types that I am a professional liar, er, I mean, author of fiction.

“Where are you from?” is a popular question, and I have been asked this one many times. Where I’m from is a long story that’s not particularly easy to tell or interesting to hear. Some time ago, I began lying about this, just to get things going. “Armenia,” I say. “My parents moved to the U.S. shortly after I was born.”

“Armenia? Really? I’ve never been there!” Their eyes light up. People want to hear all about it. “What part of Armenia are you from?” As if they’ve heard of the different parts of Armenia. “Do you speak Armenian fluently?” “No,” I answer, “Armenians generally speak French and Uzbek. But I speak only Uzbek.”

What do you eat in Armenia? Camels, mostly. Oh, are there many deserts there? No, they aren’t desert camels, they are plains camels. And how are the camels prepared? They are prepared with many native spices, including saffron, tunic, and monticello.

How fascinating! Tell us more! And so I have bamboozled many strangers with stories about my non-homeland. Occasionally someone who has heard something about Armenia will interject a morsel of relevant trivia. In these cases, I usually explain that my people are Southern Armenians, who have a very different culture from the Northern Armenian culture that is so frequently portrayed in your Hollywood movies.

Armenia is the answer to all irritating questions. For instance: I am in the habit of wandering aimlessly around antiquarian bookstores, because I like old spines. I never ever buy anything. I really don’t think this is such a crime, but book-thropes who hope to subtly unwelcome me from their shops usually begin their efforts with some sort of inquiry along the lines of first “Ehem,” then “is there something in particular that you’re looking for?” When dealing with these unpleasant people I usually do my best to send them on some sort of hunt:

“Yes, in fact, do you have any Armenian poetry?”

Usually the proprietor is very certain that they don’t have any such stuff. But you know, booksellers really can’t keep that good a track of their stock. Say: “A friend of mine told me that he saw a very nice collection of Armenian poetry here just one month ago,” and then they will get all tizzified looking for it. Insist that they search thoroughly. I used to think there was actually no such thing as Armenian poetry, but once I got a call from some antiquarian bookman who had noted my interests and made me write my number down. Months later he left an excited message on my machine pertaining to a collection he had located quite by accident, known to be available for sale, of Armenian love poems in translation. I called back to ask him whether the poems were in sonnet form. They were not. Now I ask for Armenian sonnets specifically.

One fine cocktail I found myself surrounded by a trio of young, attractive female college students — my favorite kinds of people, really — and was asked about my background. Upon my reply, I was informed that they were all Armenian too. The three of them were the first Armenians I ever met, and in my haste to impress them and create a bond, I unfortunately forgot that all my Armenian knowledge was drunken fabrication. I stumbled through an interrogation. What city in Armenia? Ludou. Where is that? In the south. Do you play Kratsky Tolny? I love to when the weather is fair. Do you know where a good dolma can be had? No, I have never had a dolma like my dear dead grandmother’s. (Much commiseration here.) So, are you spatni or strashny?

Eh?

You know, are you red or blue? It’s okay, they said. We aren’t political. Just curious.

I launched into an oration concerning the international brotherhood of humankind and the need to erase borders and heal broken scars. They applauded my sentiments, and then asked again, this time most intently: Spatni or Strashny?

I said I was half-and-half. My mother was spatni, my father strashny. They paled. One of them turned and stormed away. Another one said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I don’t mean to embarrass you.” But after that they looked at me like I was a troll, and the conversation returned to safe topics, and then petered out completely.

Everybody knows you can’t just go out walking around. There’s places in Northeast where they’ll just come running out of their houses with guns, looking for meat. Anyway, there’s a huge speed trap out that way — the cops there are real rednecks. Downtown you have to watch out for feral cats. There’s packs of them, some have rabies. Don’t — DO NOT — flash your headlights at someone who hasn’t turned them on! I read on the Internet that there’s a new gang thing — the city is full of gangs and drugs, especially in the Northeast — where they drive around with the headlights off & carjack the first car that flashes at them. Carjackings are up this year ... but God knows it’s not safe to just walk around. I just hope we can keep all that stuff out of this neighborhood. Yesterday a big Oldsmobile parked right in front of my neighbor Mabel’s house — they didn’t look like anybody she’d know — I just didn’t know what to do! I was about to call 911, but then I remembered that I had heard the police will only answer one 911 call per telephone per month, because the crime problem is so dramatic, and I thought “What if they go away when the police arrive, but then come back afterwards? And what if the police want to come in, and they decide I look suspicious, and they search my apartment and find my stash? Or they just decide to plant something on me?” So I went down to the basement with the mobile phone — I hoped to God they didn’t have a one of those scanners! — and I listened, and I waited. The phone has emergency buttons programmed on it, red buttons, so I can dial 911 with only one press instead of three, or else I can call Animal Control, Poison Control or my sister in Medford, instantly. I was down there for a couple of hours, just listening for trouble and watching all of the horrible little bugs we have down there. Honestly — little silverfish, spiders, they get in through the cracks. I never imagined there were so many. I finally got down on hands & knees with a brick and started crushing them, one after the other, until I was pretty sure I got them all.

When I went back upstairs the Oldsmobile had snuck away. But then I noticed there was some sort of flyer stuck through the mail slot, and then I remembered: they haven’t caught the Unabomber yet, have they?

Dear sirs: I would like to thank and congratulate you on the quality of your cat repellent, Alley Katz Katz Food, which I’ve been using for the last few months to keep these meowing pests out of my home. Never have I seen animals so transfixed, held firmly at bay by an invisible feline wall of distaste. I am writing also to inquire whether you market a slug and snail food, preferably in the same cheese and liver flavor that you claim Katz Krave, or else in a configuration that might analogously nauseate slithering pests. (I imagine you employ experts in this area.) (Lettuce and salt peanuts, perhaps?)

Finally, I would also inquire whether you could recommend a company that manufactures edible food for cats, in case I suffer a change of heart.

Yrs, E. Tarantula, fellow cat hater.

Sirs: in inconspicuous lettering on the back of my box of Alley Katz Katz Food, you warn that a temporary period of appetite loss is normal when attempting to feed your products to Katz. How long does this period last, in the normal case? I opened a bag of your Liver ’N Onion flavored product two weeks ago, and have been unable to stomach either of these foods in their unprocessed form ever since. My cats, meanwhile, have begun to eat their own litter and beg from passing children. Also: you warn that if this condition persists for over a month, some other cause (malnutrition?) may be suspected and a veterinarian ought to be consulted. Call me premature: I have spoken with my regular vet, Frida, who has suggested that I investigate the meat over meat by-products ratio of your Katz Food. Apparently when this ratio approaches zero, so does one’s cat.

Please advise, E. Tarantula, vegetarian adept

Sirs: a spot of confusion surrounding your product, to wit: on the front of your package you picture, seated on an ersatz fence, a furry creature of feline build, healthy in appearance and cat-like in all outward aspects, but apparently able to metabolize Alley Katz Katz Food for nutritional value. I suspect the confusion here is that this creature is a “Katz,” perhaps some bizarre Australian offshoot from the evolutionary tree of the common housecat, with entirely foreign dietary needs, and what I suspected as mere post-literacy on the part of your writing staff was actually a subtle but important distinction overlooked by the stock clerks at my local market. I should be relieved to know if this is true, and out of curiosity and ignorance, what other toxins is this creature able to absorb, and could one cohabit with humans? I’ve considered procuring a goat to clear out the blown waste that collects in my yard. Perhaps a Katz would be less obtrusive, and also able to dispose of this mistakenly purchased bag of Alley Katz Katz Food (tofu double liver flavor), which my garbagemen refuse to collect for fear of being fined.

Inquisitively yours, E. Tarantula.

Dear Alley Katz Katz Food Kreators: Your Krispy Kroutons of Krunchy Katzfood Kause my Katz to Kough up Krust! Klearly I am Koncerned! If you Kontinue to Klaim that Katz, or any Kreatures, Krave this Krud you Kall Katfood, you risk being Kalled in by the Kops and the ASPKA on Kharges of Kruelty!

no Kidding! E.T.