Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

Puss stops in the center of the room and sits down. He looks at me silently. His ears are no longer pricked back. I loosely cup my remaining testicle. Okay. Time to change tactics.

“Here, kitty. Come on, fella. I just want to pet you.” I start clicking my Goddamn fingers because it seems to be the sort of thing that cats like. I keep clicking them, and in my mind a movie plays with me in the leading role, wringing the stupid cat’s neck. The cat must be watching the same movie, because it won’t come near me. I make my way toward my briefcase. Both the cat and I look at the knife I pull out, and both of us know what it can do. It knows I’m about to test the adage and see just how many ways I can skin the little bastard. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the blade. For a few seconds I just keep looking at them, and all I can think of is how I have my father’s eyes. Thinking of Dad makes me feel suddenly sadder at losing those I love, and then I get angry at the cat for making me feel sad.

“Good boy. Come on.” I keep clicking my fingers. The cat meows.

Then I throw the knife. I’m quick. The knife is quick. The cat’s even quicker. The blade digs into the floor exactly where he’d been sitting a split second earlier. Then he turns his back on me and slowly walks back over to the bed. I’m making my way to the knife when the phone rings. I don’t want to answer it. All I want to do is kill this Goddamn cat. My testicle hurts like hell. The phone keeps ringing, and ringing.

I pick up the knife and throw it toward the cat, and the cat darts forward a second later without a knife protruding from him. He looks back up at me.

“I’m going to kill you, you little bastard.”

The cat hisses at me.

The phone keeps ringing. It’s giving me a headache. Ring, ring, fucking ring. Why isn’t the machine picking it up?

I pick up another knife, then carefully make my way to my feet. The pain in my groin is going. I walk slowly over to the phone. It has stopped ringing and the answering machine is recording a message. The volume is turned down and I can’t hear it. I interrupt the message.

“Hello?” I say, hoping that my goldfish are the only things I am losing today, but my gut instinct is that something has happened to Mom. That premonition is back, riding my inner thoughts. Why must life be so cruel to those I love? And why must those I love betray me? I took the cat in and gave it a home, and in return it has done this to me.

“Joe? Hi, this is Jennifer.”

Jennifer? How does she know my mother? “What can I help you with, Jennifer?” I hear myself asking.

“You’re not going to believe this, but we’ve just found the owner of the cat!”

She sounds excited. I look over to my bed. The cat is still sitting there. I take aim with the knife.

“Really.” This means my mother is still alive and well. Thank God!

“Really! Isn’t that exciting?”

“The cat isn’t here anymore,” I say, wondering how hard I need to throw the knife to pin him to the floor.

“What do you mean?”

“I gave him away to one of my neighbors.”

“Can’t you get him back?”

“Well, the thing is it kind of ran away.” I’m still talking, but hardly listening to her or even to myself. My brain’s on automatic. I can’t take my eyes from the Goddamn cat, and all I can think about is Dad. Dad killing himself. Dad being found locked inside his car.

“You’re kidding,” Jennifer says, and for the first time she doesn’t sound like she’s desperate to see me naked. I look from the fishbowl to the cat.

“It gets worse,” I say.

“Worse? Did you say worse? How?”

“Well, it didn’t just run away. It ran out into traffic.” No way in hell is she getting the cat back. It represents too much. Melissa betrayed me. Dad betrayed me. I won’t be beaten by an animal with a brain a tenth the size of mine.

“Is this for real, Joe? Or are you trying to keep the cat?”

“If you don’t believe me, you can come and dig the damn thing up out of the yard!”

“There’s no need-”

“I hate meatloaf!” I scream, and she hangs up on me without another word. Guess I won’t be seeing any more of Jennifer.

Rather than throwing the knife, I decide to take another crack at being nice to the cat in hopes of getting near it. I glance at my fishbowl. The murky water is dead still. This is what I get for trying to be a good person, a caring person.

“Come on, pussycat. Come and see Joe.”

Slowly I lower myself to my knees. I am only a few yards from the thing now, and it has no idea what’s about to happen. I continue to make my way forward. The knife’s going to look good coming from the side of the cat’s head.

“Come on. Come on. That’s a good boy.” I’m nearly there. I start to reach out with the knife. I’m going to teach it a lesson it will never forget. It moves into a standing position.

“Come on. It’s okay.”

Then the bastard runs. I bring the knife down hard and fast, but miss as it scoots around me. It heads toward the kitchen.

But then it sees the open door.

I throw the knife at the cat as it skids on the floor, changes direction, darts past my briefcase, and heads for freedom. This time the blade sails just over the cat’s head and sticks into the door. He stops in the doorway, looks over at me, gives a meowing sound that makes me want to spend the next twelve hours stomping the life out of him, and then he’s gone.

I get to my feet, race to the door, and look out into the corridor. If I had the ability, I would run after it, but my groin is throbbing and possibly bleeding. I close the door, slump onto the sofa, and stare at the goldfish bowl. Pickle and Jehovah are still floating on the surface. I can’t tell who is who. And as I stare, my eyes mist over. I allow myself to cry. There’s no shame in crying.

I will find that cat. I will find it and kill it. I swear.

I get up and move into the kitchenette. The night is young, and even though I’m suffering from setbacks, I need to push myself forward. My eyes are blurry from tears and sore from being rubbed. I’m shivering even though it has to be ninety degrees in here. I hang up the phone, pull the bed back onto its legs, and tidy up.

All I can do is move forward. Pickle and Jehovah would want me to.

I start to head down memory lane. Thoughts of buying my fish start flooding my mind. I bought them because I was sick of living alone. At first they only suited the purpose of giving my apartment a feeling of life, but within months there was a bond between us that I knew would one day be broken by death. But not this day. Not so soon.

I pour the murky water from the fishbowl down the sink. Dad keeps coming into my thoughts, and I wish he’d just leave me alone. I scoop my goldfish into a clear plastic bag, then tie it shut before heading downstairs. In the front lawn of this apartment complex-and the word lawn is being generous-I pull aside some of the weeds, then use my hands to dig a hole. I put the plastic bag inside, then scoop dirt back over it. I could easily have flushed Jehovah and Pickle away, but I did not want to insult their memories by having their bodies float around for eternity with pieces of shit. I pat the dirt down nice and tight before saying some words over the piece of ground where my friends lie. My eyes fill with tears. I swear revenge on their grave.

I look for the cat, and though I can’t find it, I can feel its eyes on me. After digging the dirt out from beneath my nails, I manage to get into bed early, which is the only good thing to happen to me all night.

I dream of death, but of whose, I can’t be sure.

Sally wouldn’t mind living on a street like this. Every night she would leave her window open, listening as the ocean crashed against the shore. Every summer morning she could go for a swim before heading to work. She’s sure the people living out here must be more laid back, more relaxed. Martin would have loved living out here, she thinks. He used to love the beach.