Left him? Again?
What the hell does that mean?
“You’re such a good kitty, yes you are.” Maynard pets Shitfur, then the cat runs off. “Hey! Where are you going?”
Shitfur runs straight for Roger.
No, god damn it.
No. Don’t come over here.
“Meow.”
“What are you doing over here, anyways? Huh, Rogercat?” Maynard is walking straight toward Roger.
Closer.
Closer.
Maynard still hasn’t seen Roger.
“Here, kitty.” He calls to Shitfur.
The next step Maynard takes is on Roger’s foot.
“Ow! God damn it!”
“AH!!! Holy oh my god!!” Maynard screams. He’s startled so much he jumps back two or three feet, then does some weird scaredy-cat jig.
“Meow.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Maynard tries to slow his fast-paced breathing. “I didn’t realize anyone was-wa, uh, is, is that you, Roger?”
“No, it’s not fucking Roger.”
“It is you! Oh thank goodness. I was really scared there. I didn’t know what to do, I was so scared.”
“You should’ve ran away and never have come back.”
“I almost-”
“Ever.”
“But-”
“Ever!”
There’s silence. Roger thinks Maynard may have just understood just how much Roger hates him. Maynard stands there quietly for a little bit longer.
“But if I did that, I wouldn’t have knew it was you.”
“That’s the point.”
“Look, I said I was sorry. I didn’t realize you were taking a nap. You’re not a morning person, are you?”
“It’s not morning.”
Maynard rolls up his sleeve. “It sure is. My cool new waterproof watch says it’s four thirty AM.”
“It’s time for me to go then.”
“Where to?”
“Away, Maynard.”
“Well I’ll come with you. Me and Rogercat can keep you company.”
“No. And the cat’s name is Shitfur, quit calling it whatever you want.”
“Shi- what?”
“Shit…..fur.”
“Shitfur? That’s what you named it? I don’t really like it. He’s such a good cat. I think he deserves a better name than that one.”
“Shitfur, it’s fucking Shitfur. Don’t like it? Call him Shit, for short.”
Maynard sort of cowers from hearing the tone of Roger’s voice. “Okay…” It sounds like he mutters something under his breath.
Roger gets up and starts walking away.
Maynard grabs his cart and follows.
Shitfur rubs against Maynard until he picks him up and puts him in the front of the cart.
“No, Maynard.”
“No what?”
“Don’t follow me.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Oh…. Wait! Before you tell me, I have something to show you! You won’t be mad for much longer, I bet.” Maynard snaps his fingers then digs around in his cart, mindful not to disturb Shitfur.
Roger walks on.
“Hey, wait a sec, Rog.”
Rog? He keeps walking.
“Meow.”
“Just give me a minute, Roger. You’re really going to like it.”
Still walking.
“Roger! Hang on!”
Roger rounds the block corner.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Maynard panics. He starts yelling and running to catch up. The shopping cart rattles and rolls as he runs.
Winded. “Hey, couldn’t you hear me? I was-” takes a breath, “calling your name.” Breath.
“I couldn’t hear you.”
“Oh. Well, here, take a look at this.” Maynard digs through his cart again.
“No, Maynard. I don’t want to.”
“Pretty please? I know you’ll like it. It’ll cheer you right up for sure.”
“No.”
“Do you want a piece of pizza while you wait?” Maynard pulls a half-slice of pizza from the pizza box and offers it to Roger.
Roger stares at it. He stares at it like he did with the zoot-suit-money-solves-everything bastard from when it was raining and Roger got stuck under that bridge. The night of the fight.
Maynard stands there, one hand offering Roger the pizza, and the other hand dig-searching through his shit for that one particular piece of shit he wants Roger to see.
Maynard peeks up at Roger. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Roger’s just about to scream-yell-beat-the-hell-out-of when Maynard interrupts.
“Ah ha! Here they are!” Maynard carefully extracts two glass bottles of Coca Cola. He holds both bottles proudly in one hand like it’s some neat trick to do so, and the pizza still in the other.
Shitfur purrs.
“Ta da!! The only problem is I don’t have a real bottle opener. I looked all day in the thrift stores too.”
Roger looks at the Coke bottles.
“We can get ‘em open, though. I just use a key I found a while ago. I found a whole six pack of these bottles a few days ago. I couldn’t believe it. Coke is my favorite.”
Roger has nothing to say. Soda is the poison of corporate America. It’s the liquid of love-to-loathe-can’t-do-anything-about-life-drink-to-misery-inside-the-bounds-of-self-pity.
“Do you want one?”
“No, Maynard.”
“You don’t like Coke?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ever stopped to think about what you’re doing? Ever once in your entire life?”
Maynard looks bewildered.
“I don’t care if you didn’t pay for that shit. I wouldn’t even take something like that for free. It represents the beast that preys on you and everyone else who’s too weak, too dumb, too much like a domesticated cow roaming around with nothing more for a brain than what is needed in order to breathe, to piss, to shit, to chew, and to drink the bullshit shit they want you to drink.”
Maynard looks hurt. His hands drop slightly. “But, I’ve seen you eat fast food.”
“You don’t get it. That’s different. You need food, even if it’s shitty food, to survive. You can’t let it go to waste.”
“You can’t let this go to waste, either.”
“It already is waste! Jesus!” Roger roars with discontent.
Maynard looks down and away. It’s quiet.
“There’s nothing good about soda. Sugar and caffeine, you don’t need either.”
Maynard looks back up at Roger. “But it tastes good.”
“Never mind. Just forget it.”
Roger starts walking again. Maynard doesn’t move.
Don’t look back. He’s just going to be standing there all butt-hurt staring down at his pitiful feet with his pitiful eyes.
“Meow.”
Roger isn’t out of earshot yet.
“It’s okay, Rogercat, he just woke up.”
Chapter 99
This can’t be happening.
Not again.
Maynard is here in Roger’s area.
It’s just like before, except it’s worse. It’s worse because unlike before, Roger’s actually had a taste of life without Maynard around. He used to only have to see him occasionally which was bad enough. But now, now it’s much worse. This area is much smaller than where Roger had been before. It’s only a matter of time before Maynard finds all of Roger’s food spots and finally the park where Roger spends most of his time.
He’ll find it too, all of it. Maynard has a nose for annoying the living shit out of people. He’s like a bad song you can’t get out of your head, or like a tickle in your nose but you can’t sneeze. He’s like a cancer that doesn’t kill.
The more Roger thinks about it the more he realizes how
little of a chance there is of escaping the plague of Maynard. And it’s all because of Shitfur that this is happening.
That’s where that idiot cat was going. Every time that little bastard-ball-of-fur left, he went to Maynard. That’s how Maynard came here. Shitfur led him back here.
This is Shitfur’s fault.
This is Maynard’s fault.
This is everyone who partakes in this fantasy world.
This is Dark Alley’s fault.
This is Save-Mart’s fault.
Roger’s trying to find something.
Answers.
Questions.
Roger’s trying to evolve. He’s trying to become a human being, a true human being. He’s trying to be more than another cow for milking. But it’s so god damn hard when there’s shit to swim through and no clues pointing toward the finish line.
The more these thoughts take over, the more Roger begins to panic.
And of course this anxiety pisses him off.
He’s going to have to leave. Two, maybe three days. Maynard’ll be here by then, for sure.
But where to go? There’s no where else in the city Roger can think of that would provide for the basic needs.
And so what if there is? What’s stopping Maynard from finding out about that place? There’s no doubt he’d find it and shit all over it.
Just like before.
Like now.
Roger’s going to have to leave not just this park, not just this river, but the whole city.
He knows this now. He knows he just lost the fight. He knows that if he doesn’t get out here as soon as he can, he’s going to lose not just the fight, but himself.
For the first time in as long as he can remember, Roger feels totally helpless. What needs to be done, he cannot do on his own. He needs to hitchhike, which means he’s going to have to ride in a car, listen to some shit-sob mother fucker talk about how good of a person they are for giving Roger a ride because he’s just a poor, useless, helpless bum.
Roger tries to think of other ways out of this, but this is the only way. It’s not possible for him to walk to another city. He doesn’t even know where he’s going.
This is far worse than going to a homeless shelter to get food. This is going against everything Roger believes in. This is taking part in the slow, destructive decay of humanity. This is either the death of himself, or treason.
And Roger doesn’t want either.
Chapter 100
It’s a week of lingering in this limbo of pathetic indecisive anxiety before Maynard shows up at the park. He’s pushing his cart just like he always is.
Roger did nothing but eat a few cans of food he saved up in his backpack. He was saving them for another trip to Hermit Bridge. That’s another thing Roger’s going to have to give up.
“Hi.”
Roger doesn’t acknowledge Maynard. He just keeps staring at the passing water of the river.
“I’m really sorry about a few nights ago.”
No response.
“I didn’t mean to take away the name you gave to the cat. The more I think about it, the more I think Shitfur is a pretty good name.”
Roger still says nothing. He’s shaking a bit from the fatigue. And maybe the building anger.
“And I’m sorry I offered you a coke when you don’t like them. You’re right, coke isn’t good for you at all. I see what you mean now. I just thought that maybe you would like it because it tastes really good.”
This is when Roger puts his decision into action. That is, it’s time to leave.
Shitfur is sitting comfortably in Maynard’s shopping cart. He’s sitting in some raggy cat comforter Maynard found for him.
“Are you hungry? I brought some pizza.” Maynard is fidgeting a little bit.
“It’s not just the pop that I hate, Maynard, it’s you. I hate everything about you. I hate that you tried to work at Save-Mart. I hate that you have a shopping cart from Save-Mart which you use to carry all of your useless, consumer driven shit in. I hate how ignorant you are, how stupidly childish you are. I hate that you have a watch to tell you the time like you have to be somewhere. I hate how you think it’s okay to be helped with things you should know how to do on your fucking own. I hate how much you try to smell like them, how much you try to eat like them, to dress like them, to walk like them, to talk like them, to be like them. But most of all, Maynard, I just hate you. I fucking hate you more than the Devil hates God.”
Maynard’s chin has started to quiver. His eyes water.
Shitfur isn’t purring.
“This is the end of you and me, Maynard. I’m leaving for good. We’re not friends and we never were. Keep Shitfur. Name it whatever the hell you want. It’s your cat. It was never mine.”
A tear slips from Maynard’s eye. He doesn’t make a sound, though. Maynard doesn’t say anything.
Roger gives one last long, hard look into the broken face of Maynard, then walks off.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t even think about looking back.
Maynard doesn’t call or chase after Roger. He doesn’t even think about it.
Shitfur isn’t purring.
Chapter 101
Clouds hang heavily in the air, but there is no rain.
Roger sits beside a road that leads to the interstate. An on-ramp. His thumb is out and up. A look of pure disgust dominates his face. He would much rather have his middle finger out and up.
After about three hours his arm begins to tire.
Who in their wrong mind is going to want to pick up an angry-smelly-hairy bum? No one. A person that shaves daily? Someone who showers daily? Someone who has a job? Who drives a car? Who has a sunlight in their apartment?
No one’s going to pick Roger up. Not today.
This might take a while.
What Roger needs is a sweet-innocent-can’t-even-spell-corrupt-or-wicked-or-evil little someone to see him and feel an immense, a life-changing amount of pity in order for them to pick him up.
He needs an ignorant do-gooder. Someone who thinks they can change the world by giving a bum a ride. Someone who thinks their smile will change the world.
Someone stupid.
Someone like that Miss Elisabeth from social services.
Chapter 102
Two days of clouds and thumbs.
No ride.
Roger left his post three times to dumpster dive.
It’s night after the second day. Roger’s sleeping underneath of the underpass. It’s louder than hell under here. Cars never stop moving, never stop plaguing, never stop biting the world’s atmosphere.
The constant hum of passing cars is starting to make Roger feel sick, worse than a Save-Mart sick. It’s a depressed sick.
He’s going to have to step in one of those metal-cage-virus machines. He’s going to have to sit in it for at least an hour.
The road in and out of hell is by automobile. A diesel truck, namely.
Chapter 103
It’s on the third day that it happens.
A silver car stops just ahead of where Roger is standing. It’s raining. Roger stares at the car, at the dead-red brake lights, and wonders if he can do this. His heart is pounding, as if it’s trying to pull him away from getting in.
The car honks.
Roger snaps out of his little whatever and picks up his backpack.
It’s time.
Don’t think about the ride.
Don’t think about the smell.
Don’t think about the feel.
Don’t think about the poisonous comfort.
Think about what the ride is for.
Think about the destination.
The freedom.
The quiet that will come.
In the few seconds it takes for Roger to reach the passenger side door, the rain has picked up immensely.
Roger takes a deep breath as he stares down at the fancy car door handle. The window cracks and a voice spurts out through the rain.
“You can get in, but hurry up already, the rain’s coming down pretty hard.” A man’s voice.
Yea, get in, don’t get the nice seats all wet and fucking smelly, that’s what that means.
Roger opens the door and steps in. His backpack at his feet Roger stares forward, overwhelmed with his surroundings.
Holy mother of…
It smells like that rich neighborhood Roger had walked through a while ago. It smells like bleach and insecurity.
“Hello.”
“Hi.” Roger manages.
The car starts moving.
“Where you heading?”
“Anywhere.” Roger thinks for a second about what he’s just said.
“So what’s your name?”
Roger looks over at the man. Fancy suit, ironed white shirt, silk tie, silver watch, clean shaven, balding, but with a buzzed head to try and cover up the fact that he’s balding. “Roger.”
“Nice to meet you, Roger. My name’s Joseph.” And without thinking about it, a force of habit, Joseph reaches right hand over to shake Roger’s hand. Roger doesn’t want to, but he does. Joseph’s hands are so fucking soft and delicate. These hands do not belong to a full grown man.
And really, he’s not. He’s a thirty-five year old middle school boy. Sure his body has matured, but just look at his underdeveloped, restricted, choked mind. The same thoughts everyday; advance in career, find wife, 401k, 401k, 401k. Just do what everyone else is doing.
It’s quiet for a while. The radio pollutes the air just about as much as the car.
“Were you waiting very long for someone to pick you up?”
“Three days.”
“Three days? You had to stand there for three days? Jesus. That right there is what’s wrong with the world today.”
Yea, that’s the big problem with the world today. Idiot.
“People are just too scared to help people anymore. You hear about hitchhikers robbing people or murdering them, you know, which is just a load of bullshit. It really messes with the good nature of people.”
“Yea.”
More silence.
“So did you here Robert Goldsmith got elected?”
God damn Robert ‘Bob’ Goldsmith. “No.”
“Well it’s probably the worst thing that could happen for this state right now.”
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