Philip Dick - Confessions of a Crap Artist

It bothers me, he thought. Her reaction to those two young people. Because—why? Shows something is lacking. She doesn’t get something she should get.

True, he thought. Neither of us do. We both crave it… he had first noticed the boy and girl himself, had called his wife’s attention to them. The soft fluffy sweaters. Warm colors. The pure skin, such freshness. What had they conversed about in such low tones? The girl stroking the boy’s face, soothing and cherishing him… deep in their combined world, while standing before the Tomales Bay Pharmacy, in the middle of Saturday afternoon, with the sun shining down. And neither of them perspiring … -

Barely touched by us, he thought. Not even aware. We’re shadows drifting around, going nowhere.

The next day, while he was in the post office buying stamps, he saw the boy and girl again. This time he had driven down alone, leaving Fay home. He saw them, with their bikes, at the corner, apparently trying to decide on something; they had stopped on the curb.

An impulse came to him to stroll out of the post office and up to them. Lost? he would ask. Trying to find some house in particular? No street numbers; too small a town.

But he did not. He remained in the post office. And presently they pushed their bikes from the curb, into the street, and wheeled off out of sight.

At that he felt empty.

Too bad, he thought. Opportunity missed. If Fay had been here, out the door she would have gone. That’s the difference between us; I would think of it, she’d do it. Be doing it while I was trying to figure out how to do it. Just start doing it—she wouldn’t think.

That’s what I admire about her, he thought. Where she’s superior to me. Now, that time… when I met her. I would just have stood there forever, staring at her, wishing I knew her. But she started talking to me, asked about the can. Without hesitation.

It occurred to him that if Fay hadn’t started up a conversation with him that day in the grocery store, back in 1951, they never would have met. They wouldn’t be married now; there would be no Bonnie and Elsie; no house; he wouldn’t even be living in Marin County. She makes life over, he realized. She controls life, whereas I just sit on my can and let it happen to me.

God, he thought. And she’s certainly got firm control of me; didn’t she engineer this whole business? Get me, get the house?

All the money I earn, he thought, goes into maintaining that damn house and everything in it. It drains, it absorbs. Devours me and everything I make. And who gets the benefit from it? Not me.

Like the time she got rid of my cat. He had found the cat hiding in a supply shed down at the plant, and for almost a year he had fed it in the office, buying cat food for it and giving it scraps brought back to the office from his lunch. It had been a large fuzzy gray and white cat, a male, and in the year it had become devoted to him, tagging around after him, which amused both him and his employees. It never paid attention to anyone else. One day Fay had stopped by the office for something and had seen the cat, had noticed its devotion to him.

“Why don’t you bring it home?” she asked, scrutinizing it as it made itself comfortable on his desk.

He answered, “It keeps me company here. When I’m doing paper work at night.”

“Does it have a name?” She tried to stroke it, but the cat moved away from her.

“I call it Porky,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it eats everything anybody gives it,” he said, feeling embarrassed, as if caught in an immodest or unmasculine thing.

“The girls would love it,” Fay said. “You know how they’ve been wanting a cat. Bing is too big for them, and that guinea pig they got at the museum did nothing but crap all the time and hide.”

“It would run away,” he said. “The dog would scare it.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Bring it home. We’ll keep it inside. I’ll feed it; it’ll be much happier there. You know you’re only down here at night once a week at the most—look, it’ll be in a warm house, which cats love, and it’ll have all the bones and scraps from three meals—” Petting the cat, she added, “And I want a cat, too.”

In the end she persuaded him. And yet, watching her try to stroke the cat, he felt convinced that she did not really want the cat around the house; she was actually jealous of it because he liked it and wanted to keep it away from her, down at the plant. He kept the cat separate from his life with her, and to Fay that was intolerable; she strove to draw the cat in as a part of her world, dependent on her. In his mind he had a quick image of Fay weaning the cat away from him, pampering it, overfeeding it, getting it to sleep on her lap—not because she loved it but because it was important to her to think of it as belonging to her.

That night he brought the cat home in a box. The two girls were delighted and set out milk and a can of Norwegian sardines for it. The cat stayed in during the night, sleeping on the couch, apparently contented. The dog was kept locked up in a bathroom, and neither animal came in contact with the other. For a day or so Fay fed and cared for the cat, and then one night, when he got home, he found the front door open.

With apprehension he tracked down his wife. He found her out on the patio, knitting. “Why’s the door open?” he demanded. “You know we’re keeping the cat in for another couple of days.”

“He wanted out,” Fay said, her expression lost behind her huge sun glasses. “He cried, and the girls wanted to let him out, so we did. He’s around somewhere, probably down in the cypress trees chasing squirrels.”

For several hours he roamed around with a flashlight, calling the cat, trying to catch sight of it. He saw no sign of it. The cat had gone off. Fay did not seem worried; she served dinner calmly. The two girls never mentioned the cat. Their minds were on a party that some boy had invited them to on Sunday morning. With despair and fury he choked down his dinner and then arose to resume searching.

“Don’t worry,” Fay said, as she ate her dessert. “He’s a fullgrown cat and nothing’ll happen to him. He’ll turn up in the morning, if not here then back at the plant.”

In a frenzy, he said, “You think it can hike twenty-five miles across to Petaluma?”

“Cats travel thousands of miles,” Fay said.

They never saw the cat again. He put an ad in the Baywood Press, but no one reported having seen it. Every evening for over a week he drove slowly around the area, calling the cat and searching for it.

And all the time he had the deep, intuitive sense that she had done it on purpose. Got the cat home so that she could let it go. Had deliberately gotten rid of it because of her jealousy of it.

One evening, with wariness, he said to Fay, “You don’t seem especially disturbed.”

“By what?” she said, glancing up from her pottery. On the big dining room table she was busy shaping bowls from clay. She wore her blue smock, shorts and sandals, and she looked quite pretty. Resting on the edge of the table, mostly ash now, her cigarette burned away.

“By the cat disappearing,” he said.

“The girls were quite upset,” she said. “But I told them that a cat is more adept at taking care of itself than any other kind of pet that gets out and goes off. And up here there’re gophers and rabbits—” Tossing her hair back she finished, “It probably caught the scent of game, and now it’s gone wild, having a hell of a good time out there in the woods. They say a lot of cats brought up here do that, get the scent and go out after it.”

He said with cane, “You didn’t mention that when you got me to bring it here.”

To that she did not bother to reply. Her strong, effective fingers shaped the clay; he watched and noticed how much pressure she was capable of exerting on the material. The muscles along her arms rose and changed shape; the tendons stood out.