Authors: Craig Goodman
Indeed—job or no job—
this
situation could no longer go on.
This
situation had to be fixed.
47
On Thursday morning I awoke and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead, and though I was convinced I’d lost my job, I was even more certain that Kitty would be waiting for me to take him home with a clean bill of health from the vet. I felt my outburst from the other day—and the animosity and threats I’d now been bandying about for weeks—should certainly guarantee my termination which was fine, as long as Kitty’s health was at least somewhat restored.
I set out for Petland to secure the necessary supplies which included Kitty food, Kitty litter, a Kitty litter box and some stupid toy on a fishing pole that was on sale, though it was probably inappropriate for a cat that could barely walk. I then returned home and no sooner stepped into the apartment when my phone began to ring. It was Nick and he cut right to the chase:
“Uhhh…listen, Craig—we haven’t been getting along lately and you’ve been running your mouth a lot, so I’m gonna let you go.”
“Did you take the cat to the vet?”
“No, but I had him dropped off at the ASPCA on Tuesday—so don’t even bother coming into the restaurant anymore.”
I stood there in silence for a moment as I digested the news and realized that Nick had just condemned Kitty to a death sentence. Although the ASPCA didn’t euthanize, they only provided shelter for animals considered adoptable. As a result, those that didn’t make the grade were shipped off to the killing fields of Animal Care & Control, of which there were three scattered around the city.
Nick continued to ramble on but it seemed to come from very far away, as if I was hearing the static residue of another voice emanating from another phone that was attached to somebody else’s ear. My body suddenly grew cold and my head froze and became brittle as if it was about to crack, while a wintery kind of grayness seemed to descend upon my apartment. For just a moment it felt like I had died…but was then reanimated as an eerie but quiet voice rose up from a dark place within:
“Nick—the worst enemy a man can have is one who operates beyond his depth and has nothing to lose
—
AND I AM THAT TO YOU
. And now I’m gonna rip the lid right off of that illegal ant farm.”
“I don’t care. Do whatever you’re gonna do. Just stay the fuck away from the restaurant.”
“No problem,” I said. “But now it’s time for me to go. I’ve got a plague of miseries to unleash and some lives to destroy. See ya’ in hell—fat ass.”
After I hung up on Nick, I raced out of the apartment and headed down the stairs in a blind panic. I assumed Kitty had been at the shelter for about 48 hours and given his poor condition, fragile health and the fact that there was obviously no one looking for him—there was a good chance his fate may have already been
sealed. However, in order to remain focused I was forced to temporarily banish any thoughts of an unforgiveable and completely unnecessary execution to that special place in my brain reserved for things I couldn’t come to grips with.
Although I hadn’t been to the area in 15 years, I knew that one of the AC&C shelters was located on 110
th
Street in Harlem—about a mile from the ASPCA where Kitty was initially deposited—and only steps from where the heroin dealers used to set up shop and peddle their brands with impunity. Of course, there were two other shelters where Kitty could have ended up, but given its proximity to the ASPCA this was the logical place to begin the search. Surprisingly, I suddenly felt that same old sensation of heart-pounding excitement mixed with desperation and dreadful fear that always accompanied a trip uptown and considered that sometimes one can never
truly
recover from past indiscretions.
As I bolted out of the building I knew time was of the essence, and in an amazing stroke of last minute luck I noticed a yellow cab parked right in front. Although I had no business blowing money on taxis as I was suddenly unemployed and about to be inundated with bills, I knew I needed to get into Manhattan immediately.
“Are you on duty?” I asked a young man sitting at the wheel of the cab, who looked to be about 15 years old.
“No, but I can be,” he answered.
“Great, because I need to get into the city as quickly as possible.”
“No problem, we’ll leave in a minute. I’m just waiting for my aunt. She’ll be back in a second.”
A moment later my landlady came rushing out of a deli on the corner and toward the cab with a paper bag in her hand.
“Here you are Anthony, now good luck and make lots of money,”
she said to the cabbie as she handed him his lunch and then suddenly noticed me sitting in the back seat. “Ah, Mr. Goodman, this is Anthony—my nephew. Today’s his first day driving a taxi and we’re all so excited! It’s his very first job!”
“Okay sir, where are we headed?” Anthony asked me, a little embarrassed by the fuss his auntie was making.
“A hundred and tenth street and First Avenue.”
“Oh Anthony, that’s a great fare!” My landlady said. “But don’t get used to it. Cabs are a luxury these days, especially with the recession and so many people out of work.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” I told the landlady. “Rent’s gonna be
totally
late.”
As soon as I let that one loose Anthony sped away from the curb, perhaps sensing that his $60 fare was suddenly in jeopardy. But Anthony also seemed to detect my sense of urgency, and though I mentioned nothing about the gravity of the situation he put the pedal to the metal. Then, just as we were approaching the Brooklyn Bridge, my phone rang. It was Nick’s wife:
“Don’t worry, Craig! You’re not fired. Nick is loco! Please come to work today.”
I ended the call without saying a word. Obviously, she was only concerned about the damage that could be caused by a disgruntled employee with a famously bad disposition and a burgeoning list of the restaurant’s violations, both ethical
and
otherwise. Sadly, though, her lack of concern for Kitty was painfully apparent and though it paled in comparison to my own indifference toward that stupid job, the fact that she failed to even mention the situation only escalated my anger. Of course, I’d pretty quickly realized that Nick was a completely callous and morally bankrupt individual and though his wife also seemed unable to appreciate the depth of
Kitty’s suffering, she seemed at least somewhat aware of how it was affecting me. I really expected her to say
something
. ANYTHING. Perhaps something like:
Don’t worry Craig—we’ll get even with the bastard. Tonight I’ll shut down his oxygen tank while he’s asleep. Then, we’ll rent a tow truck and drag his fat ass down to the restaurant and make Beluga tacos. Cook him up
real
nice, see—in banana leaves with essence of habanero to kill the stench of boundless greed and unwavering selfishness. You’ll see, Craig…they’ll be the best goddamn tacos you ever ate
...
As Anthony and I raced up the FDR my heart was pounding, my knees were knocking and by 3 p.m. we arrived at the Animal
Care
and Control facility.
“Good luck,” Anthony said to me as I paid the fare and stepped out of the cab.
As I entered the building and approached the reception area I was overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of sadness that lingered heavy in the midst of barking dogs that refused to relent, and though at first the canine cacophony seemed to conflict with the somber setting I soon realized it was nothing other than a sustained objection to forsakenness. Indeed, I believe these dogs were aware, or at least had some idea of the situation they were in. Certainly, many had come from loving homes where they’d built a single bond with a single clan that had been suddenly and inexplicably ripped away. On some level these animals
had
to recognize the gravity of their plight and in doing so likely communicated their distress to the others.
I filled out some paperwork and tried to refocus on the task at hand, while ignoring the death and destruction around me as I did so many years ago when carrying out an entirely different mission on the very same street. Then, after waiting in the reception area
for about a half-hour, I was met by one of the staff members who led me to an area of the shelter reserved for homeless cats.
“I remember an older, skinny black cat came in here the other day, but I think it was female,” said the woman while looking at a clipboard. “You’re looking for a male—right?”
After thinking about it for a moment I realized I wasn’t at all certain of Kitty’s gender, but for some reason had always assumed she was male.
“Well…I suppose it
could
have been female,” I said and immediately detected I was losing some credibility.
“Yes, here it is,” she said while continuing to look at the clipboard. “A black, female, senior cat with an eye infection and damaged hind legs came in here on Tuesday.”
“
YES!!!
” I shouted with joy. “That’s him—that
has
to be him!!! I mean her. Where is she?”
“Let’s see if we can find her.”
The lady with the clipboard led me down a series of corridors and as she did I quickly scanned several areas containing stacks of caged, frightened felines. What a
horrible
place. The never ending protest of the barking dogs put the cats in a state of perpetual unease as they sat motionless in the cold, metal cages. I continued to follow her down yet another corridor of stacked cats until she finally stopped to look into an empty cage.
“I could’ve sworn she was in here this morning,” she said quietly, practically to herself.
My heart immediately sank as I felt that same, old, sick, familiar feeling that was there all along—waiting in the pit of my stomach—suddenly rise into my chest.
“Please, God,” I really prayed for the first time in my life as tears were welling up in the corners of my eyes. “Please bring Kitty to me…I’m so sorry…Please bring her to me.”
The lady with the clipboard then gently touched my elbow, and that barely perceptible contact spoke volumes. She then led me back toward the reception area, and to another woman sitting behind a desk.
“Do you have anything on this one?” said the lady with the clipboard as she showed it to the lady behind the desk.
I’m not exactly sure what else transpired during those terrible moments as I was overcome by guilt, confusion, rage, resentment, hatred, nausea, love, vengeance, remorse and so much more that I can’t explain.
At one point a black man in a white jacket came out of nowhere. He had a title, but I can’t remember what it was. He was “The” something—The
Veterinarian
, The
Technician
, The
Merchant of Death
—but whatever they called him, this was the man that ended Kitty.
At first, probably due to the fact that I was unaware of Kitty’s true gender, I could tell the staff members—or at least the lady behind the desk and The
Executioner
—had some question about whether we were discussing the same cat.
“First of all, the cat that was euthanized earlier was found over four miles from where you stated she came from and was in terrible, shameful condition,” explained The
Murderer
, who seemed to be suggesting we weren’t discussing the same cat,
and
that I might have been an abusive or neglectful owner as he tried to cover all the bases in an attempt to justify the contemptuous way he earned his living.
“Well, where exactly was she found?” I asked out of curiosity even though I knew in my heart and beyond a shadow of a doubt that the cat in question was
indeed
, Kitty.
“According to the person who brought her in, she came from somewhere on the Upper West Side.”
“Oh—what a crock of crap,” I said while tears were streaming down my cheeks as I detected another deceptive tactic employed by Nick to cover his fat ass.
“So this was probably not the cat you’re looking for,” The
Kitty Killer
continued, as he ignored my response and was clearly trying to distance himself from my gushing grief.
“Yeah it was,” I said as wiped eyes that continued to drip before turning around and leaving the shelter.
I stepped out of the building and felt a momentary wave of relief wash over me as the heaviness of the place began to dissipate and the desperate pleas of its inhabitants faded behind closing doors. Of course, this was only a short respite from the horror of it all, as I was suddenly overcome by a profound sadness and an inescapable sense of culpability that immediately brought me to my knees.
“I’m so sorry, Kitty…I’m so very, very sorry,” I wept with my chin on my chest as my body shivered and heaved with successive sobs and consuming grief. Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, baby—I’m
sure
they’re gonna find him…or her?” said a black woman with a beautiful face as she gently rubbed my shoulder. “Honey? Come on, tell me—is it a him or a her?”
“Oh God,” I said in between sobs. “It’s a her.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s gonna turn up. So just don’t lose hope,
okay?”
“Okay,” I said as I continued to fall apart.
But of course,
nothing
was okay as I sat there wallowing in the consequences of my own inaction and the horror of it all became clear. I had a calling and I missed it. I should have taken that cat to the vet back in August when we first met, but instead I did nothing other than bitch and moan and pass the buck because I didn’t want to pay the bill.
Now I was gonna pay…
for real
.
As I slowly rose up from the sidewalk my grief became uncontrollable as I couldn’t stop weeping and for the first time in my life I was overcome by raw, unadulterated, bereavement. And now, though 15 years had come and gone, I once again found myself broken and vanquished on the very same street by another odious operation dealing death out of another dark building.
I eventually collected myself and headed west on 110
th
Street and though it was no longer the bustling drug bazaar it once was, it was still the same sort of place; a place that sold glassine packets of temporary relief from the profound sickness it was the cause of, and a place where I’d purchased literally
thousands
of those packets that hijacked my spirit and the very essence of what made me feel. Of course, back in 1996 I recaptured some of that spirit when I escaped 110th Street along with the brand of anguish it peddled. But it seemed as if during my absence this dark stretch of Harlem was lying patiently in wait, devising a new and vengeful strategy steeped in awful irony and intended to make me rue the day I reclaimed my humanity. And certainly, now, there would be no relief—temporary or otherwise—from
this
particular brand of anguish.