paradoxical
06-09-2012, 07:29 PM
Little Lions
I
On the day time went sideways and every one was caught in the dreamtime, you were first in the bathroom—almost finished brushing your teeth before your roommate Anne was at the door.
"Gina, I have to go bad."
“I’m almost done.”
“Yea well I gotta get ready.”
You don’t have to be at work until nine. That’s why Anne gets the bathroom. A knock on the front door and she goes to answer. You turn off the water, dry your hands, and open the door to the bathroom. Anne is standing there with her arms folded.
"Now we have religious people knocking on the door at seven in the morning,” she says.
“What did they want?”
“Hell if I know. Said something about everything has changed and we gotta get used to it.”
You step out the bathroom and walk to the kitchen. Through the sliding glass door you notice a small white cat with shiny green eyes sitting on the doormat watching you. That’s strange, you think. You never see cats around here. You step closer, looking into its eyes, but the animal runs away, disappearing under the wooden gate that leads to the sidewalk. When you finish getting ready and step outside, the fog is as bad as you’ve seen it. It’s a quick walk to the corner of 21st to catch the bus and nothing seems peculiar besides the thick fog.
II
The next morning, the fog is even worse and there’s the same white cat outside the door, but this time there is also a large tabby. They’re waiting for you. Maybe they're hungry, you think—opening the door with an open tin of tuna only to have both cats walk away slowly, occasionally glancing back before squeezing through the space under the gate.
The night before, you dreamed of your Aunt Louise—the one who had all the cats. Who knows how many she kept in that house? You never even liked cats, but now you’re standing outside in 40º weather scraping tuna onto a paper plate because you realize you want the cats to stay. The food goes uneaten. Even when you get back from work, it is untouched. Anne is already home and you both discuss the past couple days—how nothing seems real.
“Yea,” she says. “I can’t remember anything.”
“I know. I can remember getting ready for work, and catching the bus. I just don’t remember what happens when I’m there.”
That night you dream again of your Aunt Louise. She is surrounded by cats, and there is something in her hands that she is holding out to you like a gift. The cats start moving toward you, and then you are awake. The next morning when you look outside, there’s the fog again and this time there are over twelve cats on the sidewalk: short haired calico cats, orange cats, black cats, Siamese and long haired Persians, white cats with black faces, small cats and fat cats, some lying alone, and some sleeping. Some rolling over, playing games. Most sitting pensive with closed eyes. When you appear at the door, the cats begin to leave.
Slowly, as though being directed against their will, the cats drag themselves toward the opening at the bottom of the gate. They all glance behind them before making their escape and you have time to bend down and pet some of them. There are now dishes of gourmet cat food that you and Anne have put down and some of the cats have eaten. You decide to get more food and water dishes. Each day, more cats show. You and Anne last counted forty-five before giving up. Where they go when you both leave for work, neither one of you has any idea. And so far, the landlord hasn’t told you anything. You haven’t seen him or any of the neighbors.
Anne has a dream about the pyramids in Egypt. She remembers a long series of symbols and hieroglyphs, none of which she could understand. There was a low, humming sound in the air and when certain symbols were repeated, there was the sound of a tone and a flash of light.
“During the rest of the dream, I seemed to float through the chambers of this pyramid—the big one over there. What is it called?”
“The Great Pyramid,” you say.
“Yea, that’s it. Then I was outside, like traveling backwards really fast. I saw the Sphinx, and Cairo, and finally all of Egypt. It was at a great distance and I heard this loud, clear voice say, ‘It’s time.’”
III
Anne looks at you, still wearing her pajamas and slippers, sitting next to you at the table. The two of you have already bought a separate food bowl for nearly every cat—over a hundred. They are lined up in a long row and the cats sit perfectly still behind each dish, like tame lions. Each cat knows there is plenty to eat and drink. The cats no longer run away but patrol the patio and sidewalk, even climb the trees to gain access to the roof, or else sit and lie around. Who knows how much time has passed? A couple of months? A week? Maybe a whole year. You both quit going to work and you don’t have to go to the store. The things you need just seem to appear, like you’re being cared for. The landlord never asks for rent—you don’t see anyone. No neighbors, no friends. It’s just you and Anne and all the cats.
The two of you wake up at the same time every morning now. You walk out of your separate bedrooms and one of you goes to the cabinet to get the cans of cat food while the other begins to gather the water bowls, each cat sitting perfectly still in front of his food bowl. You know they are here for a reason, and that reason is to obey: to serve. They are waiting for the command and—in time—you will know the command to give. The dreams keep coming on strong, for both you and Anne. In the meantime, it’s nice to sit and watch the cats, each one minding his own business, sitting perfectly still and tame. Waiting. Like little lions.
I
On the day time went sideways and every one was caught in the dreamtime, you were first in the bathroom—almost finished brushing your teeth before your roommate Anne was at the door.
"Gina, I have to go bad."
“I’m almost done.”
“Yea well I gotta get ready.”
You don’t have to be at work until nine. That’s why Anne gets the bathroom. A knock on the front door and she goes to answer. You turn off the water, dry your hands, and open the door to the bathroom. Anne is standing there with her arms folded.
"Now we have religious people knocking on the door at seven in the morning,” she says.
“What did they want?”
“Hell if I know. Said something about everything has changed and we gotta get used to it.”
You step out the bathroom and walk to the kitchen. Through the sliding glass door you notice a small white cat with shiny green eyes sitting on the doormat watching you. That’s strange, you think. You never see cats around here. You step closer, looking into its eyes, but the animal runs away, disappearing under the wooden gate that leads to the sidewalk. When you finish getting ready and step outside, the fog is as bad as you’ve seen it. It’s a quick walk to the corner of 21st to catch the bus and nothing seems peculiar besides the thick fog.
II
The next morning, the fog is even worse and there’s the same white cat outside the door, but this time there is also a large tabby. They’re waiting for you. Maybe they're hungry, you think—opening the door with an open tin of tuna only to have both cats walk away slowly, occasionally glancing back before squeezing through the space under the gate.
The night before, you dreamed of your Aunt Louise—the one who had all the cats. Who knows how many she kept in that house? You never even liked cats, but now you’re standing outside in 40º weather scraping tuna onto a paper plate because you realize you want the cats to stay. The food goes uneaten. Even when you get back from work, it is untouched. Anne is already home and you both discuss the past couple days—how nothing seems real.
“Yea,” she says. “I can’t remember anything.”
“I know. I can remember getting ready for work, and catching the bus. I just don’t remember what happens when I’m there.”
That night you dream again of your Aunt Louise. She is surrounded by cats, and there is something in her hands that she is holding out to you like a gift. The cats start moving toward you, and then you are awake. The next morning when you look outside, there’s the fog again and this time there are over twelve cats on the sidewalk: short haired calico cats, orange cats, black cats, Siamese and long haired Persians, white cats with black faces, small cats and fat cats, some lying alone, and some sleeping. Some rolling over, playing games. Most sitting pensive with closed eyes. When you appear at the door, the cats begin to leave.
Slowly, as though being directed against their will, the cats drag themselves toward the opening at the bottom of the gate. They all glance behind them before making their escape and you have time to bend down and pet some of them. There are now dishes of gourmet cat food that you and Anne have put down and some of the cats have eaten. You decide to get more food and water dishes. Each day, more cats show. You and Anne last counted forty-five before giving up. Where they go when you both leave for work, neither one of you has any idea. And so far, the landlord hasn’t told you anything. You haven’t seen him or any of the neighbors.
Anne has a dream about the pyramids in Egypt. She remembers a long series of symbols and hieroglyphs, none of which she could understand. There was a low, humming sound in the air and when certain symbols were repeated, there was the sound of a tone and a flash of light.
“During the rest of the dream, I seemed to float through the chambers of this pyramid—the big one over there. What is it called?”
“The Great Pyramid,” you say.
“Yea, that’s it. Then I was outside, like traveling backwards really fast. I saw the Sphinx, and Cairo, and finally all of Egypt. It was at a great distance and I heard this loud, clear voice say, ‘It’s time.’”
III
Anne looks at you, still wearing her pajamas and slippers, sitting next to you at the table. The two of you have already bought a separate food bowl for nearly every cat—over a hundred. They are lined up in a long row and the cats sit perfectly still behind each dish, like tame lions. Each cat knows there is plenty to eat and drink. The cats no longer run away but patrol the patio and sidewalk, even climb the trees to gain access to the roof, or else sit and lie around. Who knows how much time has passed? A couple of months? A week? Maybe a whole year. You both quit going to work and you don’t have to go to the store. The things you need just seem to appear, like you’re being cared for. The landlord never asks for rent—you don’t see anyone. No neighbors, no friends. It’s just you and Anne and all the cats.
The two of you wake up at the same time every morning now. You walk out of your separate bedrooms and one of you goes to the cabinet to get the cans of cat food while the other begins to gather the water bowls, each cat sitting perfectly still in front of his food bowl. You know they are here for a reason, and that reason is to obey: to serve. They are waiting for the command and—in time—you will know the command to give. The dreams keep coming on strong, for both you and Anne. In the meantime, it’s nice to sit and watch the cats, each one minding his own business, sitting perfectly still and tame. Waiting. Like little lions.