The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade

by Aimee Bender

  It has ears.

  Irene’s fingers are wiggly again, but this time they are wiggling faster, with more frenzied jerks. She is trying to avoid the ear cat, but the thing keeps following her around the house. She paces through the kitchen to the dining room to the entry room to the living room back to the kitchen, with the ear cat walking casually behind her. When she stops, the cat stops with her and sits down.

  “Meow,” says the ear cat, looking up at her with all ears raised at once as if to listen carefully to what she has to say.

  “Stop following me,” she says to the ear cat, wiggling her fingers at it.

  “Meow,” says the ear cat.

  “What do you want?” she cries.

  It wags its hairless tail, which ends in a tiny baby ear instead of a point. Irene pinches her tickle until her nerves become smooth.

  The ear cat makes itself at home. It curls up on the top of the pile of stuffed ex-cats, clawing at their fur until they become squishy and comfortable.

  “No!” Irene cries at the ear cat.

  The ear cat snuggles in, smearing earwax all over Irene’s cat collection.

  “You’re ruining them!” she says.

  “Meow,” the ear cat whispers, its face squished against the side of a limp pirate cat.

  Irene goes to her computer and visits the Kitty of the Month Club website. She is going to send them the nastiest email she has ever written in her life. On the contact page she realizes there isn’t an email address. Just a phone number.

  “Just a phone number?” Irene says. “I’m not going to call anyone to make a complaint.”

  She looks at the videophone. She knows she has been practicing phone conversations with Martin for a while, but she isn’t ready to call a complete stranger. She prefers to complain by email.

  During the night, Irene keeps herself locked in her bedroom. The ear cat wanders through the house. It sometimes coughs and sneezes. When it coughs, it sounds like a person coughing. It sounds like there is someone else in the house with her.

  Irene lies in her bed, unable to sleep. Every time she closes her eyes and drifts halfway to sleep, she dreams there is a strange man pressing his ear against her bedroom door, trying to listen to what she is doing, and saying, “Meow.”

  The next day, Irene calls Martin on the videophone. Martin answers with audio only. His screen is black.

  “This is a first,” Martin says with a melancholy voice. “You’re the one calling me.”

  “Turn on the video,” Irene says.

  “And you want me to turn the video on?” he says, trying to be witty through the quivers in his voice. “What’s Dr. Ash done to you?”

  Irene decides not to argue. “I’m having another panic attack.”

  “What is it over this time?” he says. “Did you run out of coffee again? Did one of your lamps’ light bulbs burn out?”

  “No,” she says. “There’s this strange thing in my house.”

  The ear cat rubs earwax against Irene’s black velvet sofa.

  “What kind of thing?”

  “It’s this cat made of ears.”

  “Of course.”

  “It was this month’s kitty. It finally came and turned out to be the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. It looks more like a little deformed baby than a cat.”

  The ear cat scratches at the wrinkles on its forehead.

  “So why are you calling me about it?”

  “I don’t know what to do. It keeps listening to me.”

  “Call Dr. Ash. Ask him.”

  “I can’t get through to him for some reason.”

  “Look, Irene,” he says. “I’m hanging up.”

  “You can’t hang up. You’re my socialization buddy.”

  “I... ” he says. “I don’t think I want us to be socialization buddies.”

  “But Dr. Ash said... ”

  “I don’t care what Dr. Ash said. Ever since I partnered with you I’ve become more anxious than I’ve ever been. I’m not going to do it anymore.”

  “But you can’t quit.”

  Irene’s fingers go wiggly.

  “I don’t care. I’m done.”

  “But I need your help.”

  “Who cares about the stupid cat?” he says. “The thing is going to die in a month anyway. Just put up with it until it dies.”

  “I can’t put up with it,” she says. “The thing is invading my home.”

  “Don’t call me anymore. I’m disconnecting. Don’t bother calling back.”

  The sound cuts off. Irene tries to redial his number, but he doesn’t pick up.

  The French horn Irene ordered arrives a day late, even though she paid for overnight shipping. The delivery machine is smoking twice as much as last time. Sparks are raining out of its abdomen. Its head is on crooked as though some kid was trying to break it off with a bat.

  The box is slightly blackened on the outside, as if it had been cooking for a while within the delivery machine. At least it is not as smashed as the previous package she received.

  Irene pulls out the brass instrument. Once she holds it in her hand, she realizes that it’s not doing anything for her. It’s not making her instantly happy the way she normally feels when she adds something new to one of her collections. It seems like just another horn. Nothing special.

  She takes it into the living room. The ear cat sits down by her feet and says, “Meow.” She inches away from it. It inches toward her, glaring with a frowny little man face.

  Irene turns her back to the cat. She can’t handle the sight of the thing, but it just leaps up onto one of the lamp shelves so that she is forced to look at it.

  “Meow,” says the ear cat.

  Irene looks down at the French horn. It didn’t make her happy to get it in the mail, but if she plays it she’ll at least be able to get that vibrating mouth feeling that relaxes her.

  Sucking in a large breath of air and then blowing into the mouthpiece, Irene hits one of the loudest, most obnoxious notes she has ever played.

  When the ear cat hears the noise, its face cringes up. All of its ears tense up at the same time and its claws dig into the shelf. Then it flees. It charges through Irene’s antique lamp collection, knocking them off the shelves. The shelf collapses, knocking down the shelf below. Like dominoes, all her shelves of rare and unusual lamps come crashing down around her.

  Irene’s eyes bulge open as she sees her precious collection shattering to pieces. In the center of the destruction, the ear cat licks at its wounded ears. Irene tosses her new French horn into the mess. She throws herself back into a chair, exhausted.

  “That’s it,” she says to the ear cat. “All those years of collecting. Gone. It’s ruined. I have no reason to buy another lamp, ever again.”

  The ear cat jumps up onto the coffee table in front of her. It cocks its head and says, “Meow.”

  She shudders at the little black hairs growing out of some of the ears.

  Irene contemplates killing the cat. It has messed up her cat collection, ruined her lamp collection, caused her to lose interest in her horn collection. Without these collections, she has lost all her friends in the universe. The ear cat deserves to die.

  She looks down at the freakish kitten. The kitten stares at her with sad raised eyebrows and pouting lips. She realizes she doesn’t have the heart to kill even the ugliest of cats.

  Irene opens the door a crack, without looking outside. She motions for the ear cat to go out. Although she doesn’t want to kill it, she doesn’t have a problem with getting rid of it.

  “Come on,” Irene says, snapping her fingers. “Get out.”

  The ear cat walks up to the door and sits down at her feet. It looks up at her and says, “Meow.”

  “Go on,” Irene tells the ear cat.

  “Meow,” the ear cat tells Irene.

  Then the ear cat wanders away, toward the kitchen.

  Irene pinches her tickle. Before closing the door, she glances outside and contemplates leav
ing. It would be good to get away from the hideous creature that lives in her home. But then she reminds herself that the ear cat will not be alive for very long. She just has to wait.

  A month passes and the ear cat is still alive. It has been a long month of hiding in the bedroom, cleaning earwax off her clothes, and cringing whenever the cat coughed or cleared its throat.

  She has never had a Gen-cat last so long. Normally they expire after three weeks. Sometimes two. On a couple occasions they last most of the month, but there has never been a cat that has lasted long enough to see the next month’s cat.

  Several days late, the smoking delivery machine crawls like a snail up the muddy street and spits out the Kitty of the Month package onto the faded welcome mat.

  When Irene opens the box, her eyes tremble at the sight of the new kitten. She pulls the introduction card out of the box.

  It says:

  Muscle Cat—He’s got muscles.

  Like the ear cat, the muscle cat has a mostly human face and no fur on its body. However, the muscle cat does have hair on its head, blond hair with a surfer-style haircut. Its four limbs look like small human arms, with human hands instead of paws. These arms are incredibly muscular, as if the cat were a professional bodybuilder. The muscle cat also wears a tiny pair of purple spandex shorts.

  “Meee-ow,” says the muscle cat to Irene, as it flexes its muscles and flicks its blond bangs out of its blue eyes.

  Irene inches away from it.

  The ear cat and the muscle cat become fast friends. They play together in Irene’s living room while Irene hides in her bedroom, watching them through a crack in the door.

  The muscle cat bench-presses a couple of the cracked lamps that had been piled on the floor. The ear cat rocks in a rocking chair, listening to the birds singing in the dead trees outside.

  The muscle cat grunts as it works out.

  The ear cat coughs and clears its throat.

  Irene tries to pinch her tickle to make the stress go away, but it doesn’t seem to work anymore.

  Irene calls Dr. Ash. He answers his videophone with the video off. She wants to see him. She thinks seeing him would make her feel more comfortable, more safe. It is the first time she has needed the company of another person.

  “Irene?” he says as he answers, surprised to hear from her.

  She wants to ask him to turn the video on, but can’t get herself to ask the question. She hopes he will decide to turn it on himself. She waits for him to.

  “Irene, I’m really busy, what do you want?” he asks.

  “I need help,” she says. “I can’t breathe in this house. I’m drowning. I need to get out.”

  “Need to get out?” he says. “I thought it was the outside that made you feel like you were drowning?”

  “Did you get my emails?”

  “You said something about a Gen-cat that disturbed you?” he says. “You said it didn’t die after a month?”

  “No, it didn’t,” she says. “There’s two of them now! The second one makes me even more uncomfortable than the first!”

  “Why don’t you just throw them away or kick them outside?” he asks. “They’re only Gen-cats.”

  “I’m not touching those things,” she says. “You have to come over and take them away.”

  She hears him exhale severely.

  “Irene,” he says. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m no longer able to be your counselor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People are becoming more and more agoraphobic every day,” he says. “Fifteen months ago, 94% of the population was considered severely agoraphobic. Just a few months ago, it jumped by two percent. Last month, it jumped up another two percent. Our civilization can’t function with everyone locked up in their homes. We have to get outside and put the world back together.”

  “Then why are you dumping me as your patient?” she asks. “Especially at a time like this.”

  “Because I’ve been told to dump the hopeless cases and focus only on the ones with the best chance for recovery.”

  “But I’m not a hopeless case,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Ash says. “Unfortunately, I really don’t have time to discuss this anymore. I have to go.”

  “You can’t do this to me,” she says.

  “Good luck, Irene,” he says to her.

  The phone disconnects.

  Her internet stops working. She isn’t sure what’s wrong with it. She doesn’t know what to do. Everything is connected through the internet: her television, her videophone, her job. She has become completely disconnected from the rest of the world. It is just her, the two freakish cat-things, and her wiggly fingers.

  “Meee-ow,” says the muscle cat, flexing its arms as it does pull-ups from a curtain rod.

  She tries to ignore them, but they won’t leave her alone. They follow her, meowing at her, as though they are trying to communicate.

  Sitting at her computer, her twitching fingers tap on the mouse button. If she can’t log online soon she could lose her accounting job. There are so many people who need online jobs and so few jobs available that she could easily be replaced within a day. Her employers have no personal connection to her. They have never met her in person nor have they even heard her voice, so they would feel no guilt in getting rid of her.

  Muscle Cat strikes a pose at Irene, flexing for her. She tries not to make eye contact. Muscle Cat takes the keyboard from her lap and bends it in half, then proudly hands it back to her.

  Irene glares at the mutant animal. She holds the L-shaped keyboard with three fingers, trying not to get earwax on her hand.

  “Meow,” says the muscle cat, striking another pose.

  Irene looks at the door. If she could go to a neighbor’s house, she could see if their internet is working and perhaps order a repairman to come out to help her. She hasn’t met or seen any of her neighbors, but she assumes other people live in the surrounding houses.

  She crosses the room and puts her hand on the door, but she cannot get herself to open it. She convinces herself that the neighbors have surely lost their internet connection as well, so there’s no reason to bother them. She convinces herself that the internet will come back very soon.

  Another month goes by and the internet still hasn’t come back. Every day, Irene looks at her front door and contemplates leaving, but she always finds a reason to keep it closed.

  Both cats are still alive without any sign of expiration. In their final days, Gen-cats usually grow thin and don’t move around so much, but her freakish cats are as frisky as ever.

  One morning, Irene finds the delivery machine collapsed outside her front door. In one of its rubber hands is another package from the Kitty of the Month Club. Irene doesn’t want to open it. She doesn’t want any more creepy cats walking around her house.

  She takes the box inside. The muscle cat and the ear cat sit in front of it, curious about the contents within.

  The box moves.

  “Maybe this one will be different,” she says.

  When she opens it, a tiny man pops out. He is two feet tall and wears a gray business suit, a black bowtie, and a matching derby on his head. Tiny spectacles perch on the end of his nose, as he brushes a dark curly mustache with a tiny mustache comb.

  Irene grabs the introduction card and steps away from the box.

  It reads:

  Gentleman Cat.

  That is all. It is not even accompanied by a tiny description.

  “But it looks like a man,” she says to the card. “It doesn’t look anything like a cat.”

  The gentleman cat walks over to Irene and bows to her. It holds out its little hand. She shakes its hand.

  “Meow,” says the gentleman cat, in a very sophisticated British accent.

  “Meow... ” Irene finds herself saying.

  The gentleman cat sits on her couch, drinking tea and eating orange cranberry scones. After it takes a bite of scone, it wiggles the crumbs
out of its mustache.

  Irene stays far away from him. She is positive that this one isn’t even a cat. It is a man. A very, very small man. She isn’t sure why it is eating. Gen-cats don’t need to eat. They live on protein stored in their flesh cells that lasts them long enough to survive their month-long lifespan.

  She worries about him eating her food. Now that she can’t order groceries, she has to survive on what she has until the internet comes back.

  Gentleman Cat notices Irene glaring at the scones on his plate and tips his hat to her.

  The internet doesn’t come back and the food is running low. Irene tries to conserve her food, but Gentleman Cat does not understand conservation. He likes to make extravagant four-course meals for her, and prepares enough food for a family of seven.

  Every morning, Irene awakes to breakfast in bed. Gentleman Cat places a tray on her nightstand and reveals the delicious meal as if revealing his latest masterpiece. Salmon benedicts, sausages, soft-boiled eggs, dried fruits, a variety of toasts, juices, and jams are all artistically arranged on the serving platter.

  If Irene does not wake before breakfast is served, Gentleman Cat will stare down on her face and wake her with gentle breaths from his miniature nostrils. As soon as she begins her breakfast, Gentleman Cat will bow at her, and say, “Meow.”

  She knows the food isn’t going to last if he keeps up this way, but she does admit to herself that the food is the best she has tasted in years.

  One day, Irene goes into her living room. The muscle cat is doing pushups on the floor. The gentleman cat is playing a miniature violin as the ear cat sways to the romantic melody.

  The cabinets are bare. Irene hasn’t had anything but tap water in a week, and though her intense hunger has faded she has become tired and light-headed from the fast. She doesn’t even know how long she will have tap water to drink. Although a human can live quite a long time without food, they can’t go very long without water.