Authors: Craig Goodman
I suppose my ten-year journey through opiate abstention or if you prefer—recovery, could be described as a long, drawn-out, tumbling descent down a very slightly sloping hill until I finally reached the bottom, and though there were certainly the occasional bumps and bruises along the way, I apparently succeeded in boring
my addiction to death. Gone were the cravings, intrigue and desire associated with heroin as the city no longer inspired those feelings, but it had nothing to do with the fact that the dealers had disappeared from the streets. Indeed, to put it succinctly, I finally gave myself a chance to
grow up
. But the pivotal thing to consider is that I managed to grow up without killing myself in the process, which, when I look back over the last two decades, was an amazing and unlikely thing.
In any event, one afternoon in March while waiting in-line outside in freezing temperatures to interview with a woman who owned the French restaurant next door, at some point I decided to say fuck-it and had no sooner set foot into Mole to get out of the cold, when I was apparently hired for something by Moochie—Nick’s beloved Boston Terrier—who practically jumped into my arms when I walked in. I pretty quickly realized the restaurant wasn’t opened just yet, but after a moment or two of small talk and some loving on that dog Nick mentioned that he had, in fact, been looking for a waiter and of course I immediately took the job.
In platform shoes Nick was about six feet tall, and though he once told me he was 350 pounds he was MUCH wider than the Good Detective—so I think he was probably over 400. But head and heart issues aside, I initially thought he might be a decent chap. He owned and operated Mole along with his Mexican wife, Lupe, and though that particular store was located in the West Village, he had two other successful operations in Manhattan and would soon be opening a fourth in Williamsburg.
Although it would come at a cost, I would be lying if I said Mole didn’t offer some of the best Mexican fare in the city. The quality of the food was without question the result of Lupe’s hard work as she seemed to have an endless supply of authentic recipes from Mexico, as well as an endless supply of good-looking, dapper and undocumented young men hailing from the same place. As a result, Mole became the Mecca of great Mexican food in Manhattan, and the Underground Railroad for gay bus boys looking for work in
America.
45
“Hey,” said a little girl with blonde curls that were glistening in the summer sunshine. “
HE
is really cute!”
“Thanks.”
“What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
“Is he a puppy?” she asked in a kind of hopeful way.
“No, honey,” I said as I tried to break the news gently.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But he’s
soooo
cute!” she insisted. “Are you
sure
he’s not a puppy?”
“Yeah, I’m sure…But he doesn’t listen like a puppy!” I said, hoping that might count for something.
“Okay, then…bye!”
“Goodbye,” I said and then returned to my apartment before getting dressed for work and beginning the disorder-driven departure as Leo now actually seemed to be getting fat from my
sickness.
As far as my job at Mole was concerned, by July things were already beginning to get old. Although I had complete faith in Mr. Raines, the notion of airing my dirty laundry was still an unsettling prospect as the months continued to pass and I suddenly found myself a middle-aged waiter…
waiting
. Then, later that summer, the restaurant was invaded by a crew of ravenous rodents with a hankering for habanero and little interest in the glue boards Nick had distributed around the restaurant. Obviously, a more measured solution to the problem was needed, and Nick pretty quickly realized he would have to retain the services of an expert. So, in keeping with his strategy of circumventing any business regulation that might require him to spend some money, Nick gave the job to the lowest bidder—which happened to be an unlicensed, 20 year-old cat who was willing to work for nothing.
My first encounter with Kitty occurred just after clocking-in on a sweltering afternoon in August. In fact, it happened in the hot and humid basement while I was preparing to change into my uniform and discovered him desperately trying to avoid a wave of soapy water rushing toward him from the prep area, as one of The Railroad’s most recent arrivals was preparing to mop the floor. Of course, the cat was failing dismally in his attempt to remain dry, as the basement was little more than a three-foot-wide swath of cement floor that led from the stairway to the prep kitchen, with supply-laden shelves stacked to the ceiling on either side. As Kitty stood there frozen with fear—his back arched, tail in the air and water rising up to what would be the equivalent of his ankles— there was simply nowhere for him to run.
“Yo! Chill the fuck out with the water for a second, alright?!” I roared at the guy with the bucket who was about to send forth another sudsy wave.
To say this feline’s finer days were behind him would be a gross understatement. Besides being little more than a black bag of
bones, he had an eye infection that continuously oozed a mixture of puss and blood, and two damaged hind legs that unnaturally flailed to the side as he hobbled about.
I ignored my blossoming allergic reaction and picked up the cat as he immediately began to purr. I quickly realized that among the long list of deprivations this poor feline had obviously been forced to endure, he was also starved for affection which was painfully ironic as he happened to be one of the most affectionate animals I’d ever come in contact with. I carried him over to a chair and as he sat on my lap and continued to purr, I tried to wipe away some of the pussy accumulation. As I did he looked at me with these beautiful, soulful eyes. I then staked out a small corner of the basement, soaked up the standing water with some napkins and fashioned him a bed out of a few tablecloths.
Then I went upstairs.
“Hey
Nick
!” I called out as soon as I noticed his 400-pound frame obstructing traffic in the tiny restaurant—
much like the gobs of plaque that were lining his arteries
.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What’s up with the cat?”
“He’s gonna get rid of the mice.”
“He’s like 90 years-old and can barely walk!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That cat’s got a smell about him that’ll naturally scare the mice away.”
“Yeah—that’s the smell of death, Nick…
Seriously
, that cat has to go to the vet.”
“The cat’ll be fine,”
he said in a tone that was clearly a precursor
to what could soon become an explosive reaction to my insolence. However, my own fury was now also ignited and would continue to smolder without ceasing as the depth of his disconnect simply astonished me. I just couldn’t understand how Nick could so incessantly dote on Moochie, while at the same time put that cat in such an unsavory situation during what was clearly the final stages of his life—and all just to save a few bucks.
Of course, as we all know I’d had some unpleasant experiences with a cat in the past and at this point wasn’t particularly a fan of felines. But my affection for Kitty grew on a daily basis as he remained confined to the narrow basement pathway, and though he occasionally found refuge on the floor between boxes of supplies when a particular item was liquidated, it wouldn’t be long before it was restocked and he was once again evicted from his space. Although there were a few other staff members who felt some pity for Kitty, I suddenly found myself emotionally invested in his well-being or unfortunately—lack thereof. Each day I arrived early for work to clean his eyes, brush his coat, make sure he was fed and issue threats. And though I couldn’t risk losing my job, I was definitely travelling down that path as I would openly make loud remarks about Kitty’s failing health and the terrible living conditions he was subjected to.
“Hey Nick! For about a billion reasons that cat shouldn’t be down there,” I told him about a week after Kitty arrived. “But the bottom line is that he’s old and sick and there’s nowhere for him to hide. Let me take him home with me so he can live out the rest of his life on my shitty couch. Come on, Nick. It’s the
right
thing to do. Besides, Leo could use the company. Just do me a favor and bring him to the vet for a check-up because I totally can’t afford it, and I can’t risk getting the dog sick.”
“Yeah, but what about the fuckin’ mice?”
“I’ll get you another cat!” I said as I flared my nostrils with undisguisable disgust.
“Alright—fine,” he said without any real conviction.
Though I hated the idea of condemning another living creature to that dungeon, a younger, healthier cat might be able to find shelter in spaces that ancient Kitty couldn’t access. Besides, I promised myself it would be only a temporary solution. I was already resigned to finding another stupid job and the moment I did, I’d find another home for the other cat.
46
By September several weeks had passed, and as absolutely nothing was done about the condition of Kitty my anger began to mount. Then, one afternoon after clocking in I descended to the basement and found him in the corner where I’d left him the previous night—only with a kind of sick and sad expression on his face but without the makeshift bed of tablecloths I’d arranged.
“Yo!” Where’s Kitty’s bed?!” I demanded from Juan who was busy scrutinizing the social security card he’d just purchased on Roosevelt Avenue.
“No good, papi,” he said. “The tablecloths have cat hair. The Health Department don’t like that, papi.”
“Oh really? Well how does the Health Department feel about a hairy puss ball dropping turds by the kitchen?”
Without much of a response from Juan, I immediately headed upstairs to address the issue with Lupe and found her terrorizing one of her countrymen.
“What’s up with the cat?” I asked her. “Nick said he was gonna bring him to the vet so I could take him home with me.”
“Ah yes,” she said seeming to be aware of the arrangement. “My brother is bringing him to the vet soon,” she said.
Later that night I was able to secure feline antibiotics from a friend, and within a few days Kitty seemed to improve slightly, though the infection continued to seep from his eye. Ultimately, there was no question that he needed to be seen by a professional, and at one point I was on the verge of taking him in myself. Unfortunately, earnings from the restaurant were so paltry that I was barely getting by, and I was certain that Kitty’s vet bill would be—at least from my position—nothing short of astronomical. Besides, since
Nick
created the situation
Nick
should be the one to rectify it and given the fact that he owned several thriving restaurants, the resulting expense should have been well within his means.
Unfortunately, weeks continued to pass as Kitty continued to languish in the basement without seeing a vet. Of course, I would incessantly push the matter of his failing health with anyone who would listen, but by this point no one was even humoring me anymore. Each time I raised the issue with Nick, his wife, or any of their immediate underlings I was dismissed with a variety of vague or mostly incoherent responses, and it soon became clear that nothing meaningful would be done to relieve Kitty of his suffering.
The upshot came around the middle of October when I made my daily descent to tend to Kitty and was mortified. As I opened the door to the dungeon I found Kitty in a strange position and with what seemed like an almost surprised and frightened expression on his face, as he was attempting to shit in a litter box that had been carelessly kicked under an old ventilation shaft. Only the edge of the box was visible, and as Kitty desperately attempted to aim his excrement at a target that was impossible to hit, he simultaneously
tried to avoid being trampled upon by workers rushing by with cases of tequila. In the midst of it all Kitty looked up at me and for a moment time stood still. Then I melted down.
“WHAT THE FUCK!!”
I screamed with real fury and genuine malice—though the only one I scared away was Kitty. “What the hell is wrong with you stupid fuckers?! Don’t any of you have a brain?! For God’s sake, CAN’T YOU SEE THE FUCKING CAT’S TRYING TO TAKE A FUCKING SHIT?!”
This poor, sick, sweet cat was now being denied even the most basic dignity, and as my blood was boiling I likewise found myself confronted by five miffed Mexicans who, like almost everyone else, seemed totally oblivious to Kitty’s condition. It was as if a cloud of indifference had descended upon virtually everyone in the restaurant. But that was
it
. That was the
final
straw. Something was going to be done about this
today
and fuck the consequences.
I pulled the litter box out from under the ventilation shaft and stormed upstairs to officially put an end to it all, but Nick and his wife were nowhere in the restaurant. Instead, I found Lydia, an immigrant from Ecuador who spoke a horribly butchered version of English but was still able to manage the restaurant because she understood every word of it…which was a good thing:
“If one of you fuckers don’t do something pretty soon, that cat’s gonna die—
AND GOD HELP ALL OF YOU IF HE DOES!!”
I screamed at her and everyone else in the area because I’d finally snapped and didn’t care anymore.
“Dios mio!” exclaimed Lydia.
“Don’t dios mio me! This nasty bullshit is now coming to an end so here’s the deal: I’m in no condition to work today and tomorrow I’m off. So I’m gonna do everyone a favor and go home for a two-day respite from the depravity before
I KILL ALL OF YOU!
But on Thursday I’ll be back, and when I clock-in that cat better be
waiting for me with a note from the vet and a goddamn bow wrapped around his neck because if he’s not—I’m gonna start making some calls. And when I do you better fire up a few plates of nachos cuz there’s gonna be a soiree of agencies partying it up in the basement. Catch my fucking drift?!”