Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

The old man just stood there, hands shoved past the wrists into his trouser pockets, a fine dark dribble of tobacco spittle still clinging to the side of his stubbled chin, staring mildly at me with hat bill-shaded pale-blue eyes. After a few false fluttering starts of his chapped-lipped mouth, he said, “No self-respectin’ cat ever wants to be a model… you have to sorta sneak up on ’em, when they ain’t payin’ you no mind.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, turning my attention back to the six-foot-tall cat painted next to the neatly lettered legend: KATZ’S CHEWING TOBACCO—IT’S THE KATZ’S MEOW. This Katz’s cat was one of the finest I’d seen yet—unlike other cat-logo signs, like the Chessie railroad cat, for instance, every Katz’s cat was different: different color, different pose, sometimes even more than one cat per barn sign. And this one was a masterpiece: a gray tiger, the kind of animal whose fur you know would be soft to the touch, with each multi-hued hair tipped with just enough white to give the whole cat an aura-like sheen, and a softly thick neck that told the world that this cat was an unneutered male, old enough to have sired a few litters of kittens but not old enough to be piss-mean or battle-scarred. A young male, maybe two, three years old. And his eyes were gentle, too; trusting eyes, of hazy green touched with a hint of yellow along the oval pupils, over a grayish-pink nose and a mouth covering barely visible fang tips. He was resting on his side, so all four of his paw pads were visible, each one colored that between gray and pink color that’s a bit of each yet something not at all on the artist’s color wheel. And his ombre-ringed tail was curled up and over his hind feet, resting in a relaxed curl over his hind paws. But something in his sweet face told a person that this cat would jump right up into your arms if you only patted your chest and said “Come ’ere—”

But… considering that this cat was mostly gray, and the barn behind him was weathering fast, I had to make sure the shutter speed was adjusted so, or I’d never capture this particular Katz’s cat. Not the way the clouds were rolling in faster and faster—

“Don’t look like Fella wants his picture took today,” the tobacco-spitting old man said helpfully, as I missed yet another split-second-of-sun opportunity to capture the likeness of the reclining cat. That did it. Letting my camera flop down against my chest by the strap, I turned around and asked, “Do you own this barn? Am I supposed to pay you for taking a picture or what?”

The old man looked at me meekly, his bill-shaded eyes wide with hurt as he said around a glob of chaw, “I already got my pay for that ’un, but I ’spose you could say it’s my cat —”

When he said that, all my irritation and impatience melted into a soggy feeling of shame mingled with heart-thumping awe—this baggy-trousered old man had to be Hobart Gurney, the sign painter responsible for all of the Katz’s Tobacco signs dotting barns throughout southern Illinois and western Kentucky, the man who was still painting such signs up until a couple of years ago, stopping only when old age made it difficult for him to get up and down the ladders.

I’d seen that profile about him on CNN a few years ago, when he was painting his last or next-to-last Katz’s sign, but most old men tend to look alike, especially when decked out in the ubiquitous uniform of a baseball cap and paint-splattered overalls, and at any rate, the work had impressed me more than the man who created it…

Putting out my hand, I said, “Hey, sorry about what I said… I—I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just that I only have so many days of vacation left, and the weather hasn’t exactly been cooperative—”

Gurney’s hand was dry and firm; he shook hands until I had to withdraw my aching hand, as he replied, “No offense meant, no offense taken. I ’spect Fella will wait awhiles until the clouds see fit to cooperate with you. He’s a patient one, is Fella, but shy ’round strangers.” The way he said “Fella,” I knew the name should be capitalized, instead of it being a generic nomenclature for the animal at hand.

Judging from the way the clouds scudded across the sun, I figured that Fella was in for a good long wait, so I motioned to the rental car parked a few yards away from the barn, inviting Gurney to share one of the cans of Pepsi in my backseat cooler. Gurney’s trousers made a raspy rubbing noise when he walked, not unlike the sound a cat’s tongue makes when it licks your bare arm. And when he was speaking in close quarters, his tobacco-laced breath was sort of cat fetid, too, all wild-smelling and warm. The old man positioned himself half in and half out of my car, so he could see his Fella clearly, while still keeping his body in the relative warmth of my car. Between noisy slurps of soda, he told me, “Like I said, no self-respectin’ cat aims to model for you, so’s the only way to get around it is to make your own cat. Memory’s the best model they is—”

I almost choked on my Pepsi when he said that; all along, I’d assumed that Gurney had used whatever barn cats were wandering around him for his inspiration… but to create such accurate, personable cats from memory and imagination—

“Funny thing is, when I was hired on to work for Katz, back in the thirties, all they was interested in was gettin’ their name out in front of the public, in as big letters as possible. That I added cats to the Katz’s signs was my idea—didn’t get paid no extra for doin’ it, neither. But it seemed natural, you see? And it did get folks’ attention. ’Sides, them cats, they kept me company, while I was workin’—gets mighty lonely up on that ladder, with the wind snaking down your shirt collar and no one to talk to up that high. Was sorta like when I was a boy, muckin’ out my pa’s barn, and the barn cats, they’d come snaking ’round my legs purrin’ and sometimes jumpin’ straight up onto my shoulders, so they’d hitch a free ride while I was workin’—only I didn’t get ’round to givin’ too many of them cats names, you see, ’cause they was always comin’ or goin’, or gettin’ cow-crushed—oh, them cows didn’t mean no harm, see, it’s just they was so big and them cats too small when they’d try snuggling up wi’em on cold winter nights. But I sure did enjoy their company. Now you may laugh at this, but—” Here Gurney lowered his voice, even though there was no one else around to hear him but me and the huge painted Fella resting on the side of the abandoned barn. “—when I was a young’un, and even a not so young’un, I had me this dream. I wanted to be small, like a cat, for oh, maybe a night or so. Just long enough for me to snuggle down with a whole litterful of cats, four-five of ’em, all of us same-sized and warm in the hay, and we’d tangle our legs and whatnot in a warm pile, and they’d lick my face and then burrow their heads under my chin, or mine under theirs, and we’d sleep for a time. Nothing better for the insomnia than to rest with a cat purring in your ears. ’Tis true. Don’t need none of them sleeping pills when you gots yourself a cat.

“That’s why I took the Katz’s Tobacco job when I heard of it, even though I wasn’t too keen on heights. Course, it bein’ the Depression was a powerful motivator, too, but the name Katz was just too good to pass by… and them not minding when I dickied with their adverts was heaven-made for me, too. Struck me funny, when them television-fellers interviewed me and all, when I was paintin’ the little girls—”

Gurney’s words made me remember the album of Katz’s signs I kept locked in the trunk of the car (not my only set, but a spare album I used for reference, especially when coming across a barn I may have photographed before, under different lighting or seasonal circumstances); too excited to speak, I got out of the backseat and hurried for the trunk, while Gurney kept on talking about the “pup reporter” who’d interviewed him for that three-minute interview.